Another strange inhaling sound as he gathered more air to continue speaking. His voice was high, loud, and pedantic; the voice of the lecture hall.
“How does it do this? That was the question!” He raised a tiny finger. “When I arrived, I redirected the research program and we were soon able to discover a suite of complex neurotropic compounds released by the parasite. These compounds attached to certain lipoproteins in the brain and altered the firing of specific neurons. This in turn caused a range of bizarre human behaviors, mostly in the obsessive-compulsive realm. Endless handwashing, for example, or hoarding, or the sudden appearance of phobias. It even triggered, in some subjects, a compulsive nibbling or eating of the body, or violent sexual behaviors. Heady days indeed!”
His voice had climbed in pitch and excitement until it was almost squeaking. He halted and took another long, snuffling breath.
“One exploration of these compounds produced an especially strange reaction. It triggered a bizarre psychiatric condition known as body integrity identity disorder, or BIID. We called this drug H12K, after the batch number of its production.”
The general spoke. “Mr. Pendergast, are you familiar with BIID?”
“No.”
“I’m not surprised, since it has yet to receive diagnostic criteria in psychiatric circles. It’s an extremely rare and perplexing psychological condition—so strange as to be scarcely believable. I’ll never forget the first time I saw a test subject in the grips of it. At first we didn’t know what was happening to him. He claimed that his left leg, from the knee down, was foreign. An alien thing, is what he called it. He loudly exclaimed to all within hearing that it was evil and had to be removed. This despite the fact that the limb was normal and apparently healthy. For days he was tormented by this hideous attachment, literally begging for help. We didn’t understand at first how this was going to work out—until we found him later in his cell, bleeding copiously. He had sharpened a piece of metal he’d unscrewed from his bedframe and had tried to hack off his own leg.”
A long sniff of triumph and another chuckle from the doctor. “And that was when I understood this drug was special—truly special!”
The chuckle, Gladstone realized, was a nervous tic, not an actual laugh. The sound of it made her blood run cold.
“Here is the most amazing part,” the doctor continued. “Amputation is, in fact, the only cure for BIID. Nothing else works. There are doctors out there who quietly perform these amputations—and psychiatrists who sanction them. The feeling of bodily alienation is so strong, the individuals who get the amputations are relieved, even ecstatic, that the limb is gone. They are cured completely.”
“How interesting,” said Pendergast. The agent’s voice was so calm, so neutral, that Gladstone wondered what he was thinking.
“Interesting indeed!” the doctor said excitedly, his voice high and piercing. “We refined H12K to make it faster acting and more powerful. Best of all—it can be aerosolized!”
He grasped his hands together and made that same wet chuckling sound.
The general took over. “One can only imagine the effects of dispersing H12K over an enemy’s battlefield or city. Within an hour it would produce a scene of chaos, with hospitals and medical workers overwhelmed, inhabitants bleeding to death, utter bedlam. This is far better than a nuclear weapon, because it leaves infrastructure intact. It’s far more reliable than nerve gas, which remains in the region for a long time and can drift in the wrong direction when the wind shifts. H12K degrades within two hours in the environment. You simply administer it, wait half a day, and enter the area unopposed. Admittedly, our own refinement, the drug that brings on the dysphoria, does not replicate a subject’s long-term need to be rid of a hated, alien limb—the need is relatively brief, but more than sufficient to do the trick. Nor have we progressed to a point where we can specify which limb is considered alien: for now, all subjects present with the same symptoms. In a war situation, of course, these aren’t concerns. Just think of how we might have deployed this in Vietnam or the Middle East! It is truly the ideal weapon.”
“Ideal,” echoed Pendergast.
“I’m glad you see it our way.”
“I understand you’ve been collecting your test subjects from among undocumented people arriving at the southern border.”
“Undocumented people.” The general frowned. “You mean illegal aliens? They suit our purposes very well. No one is likely to come looking for them. They’re a self-selected group, if you think about it—deserving of no consideration.”
“You’re a sick fuck,” said Gladstone, straining at her bonds.
“Another unsolicited outburst. Please gag her.”
Gladstone did her best to resist, but the waiting soldiers stepped forward and, holding her head immobile, stuffed a cloth in her mouth and wrapped duct tape around it.
The general kept his gaze on Pendergast. “Perhaps my explanation has persuaded you to cooperate?”
Pendergast said nothing.
“You seemed interested.”
“I am interested—interested in the profoundly psychotic pathology I see on display in both you and the doctor.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It’s remarkable you’ve managed to brainwash so many soldiers with this folie à deux. Or perhaps they don’t know the extent of the atrocities committed here?”
“I warned you,” said Alves-Vettoretto. “He’s a snake.”
“We didn’t need to brainwash anyone. When we first established this operation, we were careful to identify soldiers disaffected with the transformation of the U.S. Army—disgusted with the loosening of discipline, the admittance of homosexuals, the placing of women in combat roles, and the indiscriminate mixing of races.” His voice rose in volume. “We selected patriotic, tough, God-fearing boys who obey orders without question, not the sniveling, politically correct enlisted men you see in today’s—” He caught himself, took a deep breath, exhaled. “I’m getting off subject. Our soldiers are well aware of what we’re doing—and support it one hundred percent.”
“It seems you and your men were born seventy-five years too late, and in the wrong country,” said Pendergast.
The general ignored this. “We’re on a schedule here, and all this is wasting precious time. You will now answer my questions or the good doctor will inject your associate with the drug. Dr. Smith? Reinsert the needle, but hold off the injection until I give the command.”
Smith picked up the needle again, examined it, then stepped forward. He slid it into the IV port and looked up at the general with anticipation.
“I will ask again: who knows about this facility?”
Gladstone stared pleadingly at Pendergast. But he didn’t answer.
“You know what’s going to happen, of course. Surely you aren’t going to put her through this? It will be on your shoulders.”
Silence.
“We normally just let them bleed to death. And you will be watching.”
“I can only ask you: please, do not do this,” said Pendergast.
“Then answer my question.”
A long silence. Son of a bitch, answer him! Gladstone thought, moaning and squirming.