Who was opening the door? A big man was straining till he was pink in the face, and pinker through the sharply combed gray hair. He wore a uniform that was too tight and, as he shifted around to drag the gate farther back, both children gulped. It was Inspector Cuthbertson.
They tried to back away, but the ceiling flexed under them as if it might collapse. A cluster of men were entering the surgery. They were dressed in dark clothes—funeral suits and raincoats—no, one man wore a white coat, and he was ushering the others in. They carried briefcases and one was talking into a cell phone or radio set, mumbling quietly. The man in the white coat was moving from wall to wall, pressing switches. Here and there monitors flashed into life, at first black and white, then panels of static. There was a flurry of squeals and chirps.
“Who are they?” whispered Millie. She was holding Sanchez’s arm, and she all but crushed the bone. “That was Cuthbertson. Can you see Worthington?”
“Shh! I’ve no idea!”
“He was opening the door. Who’s that? I can’t see . . .” The man in the white coat had moved to the model’s head, talking quietly. Everyone else gathered around him, just under the children. He had a bird’s nest of white hair dragged over a skull that seemed too big for the shoulders. He was thin and leaned forward, rubbing his hands thoughtfully, playing with his fingers—a surgeon’s elegant hands, pale and slender.
Everyone was staring at the model.
“We’ll see a result,” he said. “If we hold our nerve, I guarantee it. I want to show you the results of the serotonin, you’ll be—”
“We’ve heard this before,” said somebody.
“And I still don’t think we’ll ever get past its reputation,” said somebody else.
The white-coated man put a hand on the model’s shoulder and picked up a long needle. “You’ve asked me to demonstrate,” he said. He sounded just a little nervous. “And this is the best I can do at present. You have to inject deep. In a rabbit, for example, you’ve got the possibility of twelve different reactions. I will be in a position to demonstrate if you give me time.”
He peered up at one of the monitors, and the children could see his eyes. Such a wrinkled face, the skin of old fruit. Little black eyes, sharp as stones. His voice was rasping, as if he’d been talking all day and all night.
“People are dubious—and for the right reasons,” said a man in gray. “It’s never been properly tested, and that’s why your work was so important. You’ve documented the dangers frankly and faithfully, and I feel we’ve had value for money.”
“Mr. Jarman,” said another voice. The children couldn’t see his face, but the man’s tone was sharp. He stood close to the model with his hands clasped behind his back. He wore a bowler hat and black gloves. “How much longer do you actually need? The school seems to be in chaos. You don’t seem to be getting anywhere . . .”
“I’m nearly there. Christmas, at the outside. The end of the term.”
Inspector Cuthbertson said, “There’s been a lot of interference, sir. Some of the English kids have made things complicated.”
There was a woman’s voice: “Talk me through the process again. I’m impatient, like everyone else. But assuming you do have an opportunity, let’s say before Christmas—talk us through the procedure. You’re still with myelin?”
“I’m still with the myelin, ma’am, yes. It’s dangerous, I acknowledge that. But parts of the brain have to be neutralized first and that’s what we developed it for. It’s a far sharper tool than serotonin, for example, and we still have a great deal stockpiled here.”
Millie and Sanchez could see perfectly: as he spoke, he was feeding the needle into the doll’s brain. A screen above the chair lit up. Everyone gazed at it and colors appeared, composing themselves into spheres and hemispheres. A whole galaxy of what looked like transparent planets started to break open. The man in the white coat inserted a second needle and more images scrolled quickly. “The myelin neutralizes and the surgery removes. Drugs and surgery—you can’t have one without the other, because I’m killing parts of the brain that the knife won’t reach. This is the uniqueness—this is the art. I’ve said all along, you won’t get what you want by drugs alone; you have to intervene, boldly, with corrosives. I’m referring not just to the amygdala, which you can see just there.”
Millie counted the needles. There were five in all, deep in the brain, and the surgeon’s voice had taken on a strange confidence and passion.
“It’s a shorthand, of course it is—we’re penetrating the interdependent cortexes, because it’s in this part of the brain that we find desire. The need—if you will—the instinct, to challenge and question.”
“It’s late, Jarman—keep it simple.”
“I’m talking about the very thing you asked me to investigate: ego, if you will. The desire to rebel. The chemistry used to unpick and eradicate that sense of self—well, it’s going to vary from child to child, of course it is. Heavy doses of stimulants are required alongside every injection.”
“Let’s go,” whispered Sanchez. He was inching backward. “I’ve got to get out, Millie!”
The bowler hat spoke. “We’re actually no further forward. We’ve all seen the paperwork but what we need is the demonstration, and I think Christmas is unreasonable. The money’s run out and there’s still nothing to show—my chairman’s going to laugh at me.”
“Can I ask a question, old boy?”
The voice was new and it was followed by total silence. Millie and Sanchez went rigid again. They hadn’t noticed him at first. He had remained at the end of the laboratory. His raincoat was buttoned up and belted tightly. He carried an umbrella and a briefcase, and he had the worst mustache Millie had ever seen. It was thick and dark and made her think of caterpillars. His voice was refined and friendly—even apologetic. “My committee feels—unreasonable as it may seem—that it pulled a few strings on this. Considerable risks were taken, some would say. Against the advice of several officers!”
“I understand that, Sir Peter.”
“Some of us feel it’s now or never, and the delays we’ve had—”
“The delay was caused simply by a small injury I sustained . . .”
“Well, we seem to have had one delay after another, don’t we? Not pointing a finger, old boy, not a bit of it. But we have to move to phase two, or the whole project founders and leaves egg on our faces. There’s similar stuff being trialed in Thailand at half the price—you know that. You’ve got access. You’ve had the green light. Let’s do it.”
Everyone started talking at once. A cell phone was ringing and there was a squeal of hydraulics. Over it all, the man in the white coat was calling. “Listen!” he cried. He plucked the needles from the brain, one by one. The chair was tilting under his hands and now it was rising; the model was leaning backward in the chair, its empty eyes fixed on Millie and Sanchez. Its head was opening. The brain was rising and unfolding like a flower, revealing honeycombs of purple, orange, and red. “Everything is ready!” said the man in the white coat. “We’re ready to try! We drill the skull in five places. There, and there—those are the first points, that’s the nerve center. The marks will be invisible, it will take eight hours and we’ll have him back in his bed before dawn. He’s ready, and you’re right—we can’t keep putting it off.”
“Please . . .” whispered Sanchez. “I’m going to be sick, really.”
Sanchez had seen a gap a few meters to his left and was pulling at Millie, pointing. The air conditioning opened up to a funnel, and from the top of the funnel ran a shaft, at least the width of his shoulders. There was a narrow ladder bolted to the side and he moved toward it. Millie squirmed after him, as the voices below got louder, arguments flaring. It took the children a few minutes only. The disk of light shrank below them; the sound finally faded. They climbed steadily, hoping for daylight. Hand over hand in darkness.
After some time, they found themselves on a narrow maintenance platform. In front of them was a deep shaft, and in the shaft a cluster of cables. Millie recognized it at once: it was a lift, and the lift car sat just a few meters below them. She went first and helped Sanchez onto its roof.
Millie spoke softly, with absolute conviction. “They were talking about Tomaz. ‘Back in bed before dawn . . . invisible marks.’ They’re talking about Tomaz!—they’ve got him, haven’t they?”
“No,” said Sanchez. “He got home.”
“He’s their prisoner! They’re going to do something—”
“No, Millie! Don’t say it.”