A. R. Yngve - Parry's Protocol.pdf

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A.R.Yngve
PARRY'S PROTOCOL
______________________
AUTHOR'S ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
The hallmark of a lousy writer is that hewrites about subjects he knows nothing about ; In PARRY'S
PROTOCOL I have been trying to stay within my range of competence. The following reference works
made this book possible:
"The Shadow Warriors: O.S.S. and the Origins of the C.I.A." , by Bradley F. Smith;
"The Smithsonian Guide to HistoricAmerica:Virginiaand the Capital region", with text by Henry
Wiencek ;
"CIA: a History" by JohnRanelagh , plus various other literature covering the same fields.
Special thanks to Swanson's travel agency and the Tourist Department of Washington State, for their
illustrated brochures; and to myneighbors , who endured the noise of my typewriter for such a long time.
A. R.Yngve
1993, 1999
Prologue:
WESTMOREHAM INSTITUTE FOR TREATMENT OF THE CRIMINALLY INSANE
WASHINGTONSTATE, SOUTHEAST REGION,USA
SEPTEMBER8
Perkins, the night-watchman, strolled into his narrow booth. He had been walking his first round through
the worn, whitewashed corridors of the institution.
"One o'clockand all's well," he mumbled almost inaudibly -- and immediately shook his head, as if
reproachinghimself for saying so.
Thenight-watchman eased his fat, uniformed body into a swivel-chair made of pale wood. He switched
on a tinycolor TV set on the desk before him; one that had earlier been used for the surveillance cameras,
before the institution replaced them withinfra-red sensors. Perkins'sfavorite show came on, and the
comedian on the screen was going through his end monologue:
"...and myProzacs wouldn't understand me, and my girlfriend failed to comfort me -- or was it the other
way around?"
(Laughter from the audience)
 
"And it was then, when my lawyer said: 'Eddie, your overdraft facility is sending me telepathic messages',
and I asked him 'What's the shit, man?', and he said: 'Eddie, get your life in order; you should seek out
some wise man and find the meaning of your life', it was then I flew to see this guru in Nepal, who lived in
a little hut by the foot of the Himalayas.
"I entered, said hello, and asked him -- no, begged him: 'Talk to me, Master! My life has lost its meaning.
And the world seems to be falling apart around me; why does nothing make sense anymore?!'
"And the guru stroked his long, stripy beard -- he looked like a hundred years, could easily have been
that guy in 'The Golden Child' -- and answered: 'At the top of this mountain lies a cave. In that cave lives
a holy man, who has beheld the secret of Creation. The last time I heard from him was fifty years ago. If
you hurry, you might get to meet him before he leaves this world.'
"So I hired a couple ofSherpas who took me all the way up that high, snowy mountain. The wind blew
like hell all the way.But after walking for two days across slippery, icy paths, we reached the holy man's
cave. It was all covered with snow; we had to dig out the opening; and I staggered inside,dead beat .
"In there was a tiny little furnished rock shelter, lit by candles, and almost all of them had burned out.
Man, it was freezing in there.And at the very end of the shelter there was an extremely old, bald man,
lying in a small bed, shivering with cold. I covered the holy man with my jacket, and an interpreter
translated my question to him: 'What is the secret of Creation?' The ancient, toothless man whispered
something in the ear of the interpreter -- and then he died.
"I shouted: 'What'd he say ?! What'd he say?! ', shaking the interpreter's shoulders. And the interpreter
looked gravely at me for alooong moment... and he said: 'Beats me, I don't understand French at all.'"
The roars of laughter from the TV set mixed with thenight-watchman's chuckles. An imaginarylistener
who wouldn't have known Perkins, might have believed he was sobbing. From the corridors of the
institution came no sounds, except the occasional ticking of the strip-lights, and a faint whisper of wind
from the old ventilators. The patients in their cells slept: the deep, dreamless sleep brought only by large
drug doses.
Chapter 1
WESTMOREHAMCOUNTY
WASHINGTONSTATE , SOUTHEAST REGION
SEPTEMBER 8
Dr. AbramLemercier leaned forward over thesteering-wheel , squinting. His thick glasses did not
improve his view much in the compact haze that wrapped over the billowing fields ahead of him. He
glanced at the satellite-linked roadmap on the tiny dashboard screen; a blinking cursor, representing the
car, assured him of an absolute position in the world.
Lemercier , a man of fifty-three years with a worried face and beginning baldness, stroked his pointed,
droopy white moustaches with his left hand and looked up at the rear-view mirror. His hand habitually
drew across the short,graying beard and adjusted the bow tie of his brown tweed costume. Thatdidn't
make him look less tired -- his shoulder-long white back-hair suggested a considerably wilder life, which
 
this middle-aged man in a rented car had left behind him long ago.
Abram sighed lightly and switched on the radio. "Urban" country music -- he switched to another station.
ClassicSeattle grunge rock -- he switched again. At the third switching came some obscure local station.
"...out for the fog, okay?You're listening to WRBC, reaching five thousand listeners twenty-four hours a
day! The joke of the week: Where can you find the dumbest people inWestmoreham ?In City Hall.And
where can you find the smartest ones? When they found out who sat in City Hall, they ended up in the
Institute!"
(Canned laughter)
"For our dear nutcases we will now play "They're ComingTo Take Me Away, Ha-Ha!"
A monotonous, bizarre tune followed; the refrain was sung by a hysteric falsetto backed up by a
stomping, tambourine-clapping beat, and a siren wailed in the background:
"They're coming to take me away, ha-ha
They're coming to take me away, ho-ho, hi-hi, ha-ha..."
In the middle of the song,Lemercier's cell-phone started to beep inside his jacket; he switched off the
radio. He pulled out the handset-shaped box and held it to his right ear, pressing the receiving button.
"Hello?"
A soft female computer-voiceanswered: "Incoming call fromLangley . Use de-scrambling program
number four."
Abram got a tauter, more alert expression around his mouth and eyes. With his eyes still on the road
ahead, he pressed a button on the phone with his right hand middle finger.
A nasal, but deep Southern drawl came from the receiver: "Eh-bram?It'sWilson ! How's the weather up
there?"
Abram smiled briefly and relaxed a little.
"Hi, Ned!Unfortunately it's too foggy for me to see whatkinda weather it is outside. Will you request a
report?"
"Haha ... nah, that can wait until you've reachedWestmoreham .Y'know , it's the new policy of the
Company to create a spirit of mutual understanding and easy communication between chiefs and
employees, by scheduling time for more informal exchange... like, letting off steam."
The words sounded rehearsed, or ironically read from a script. Ned's tone went to the painstakingly
casual.
"So, how is it, Abram? Is everything okay?"
Abram's face went taut again, and his brow wrinkled up to his scalp.
"I'm fine," he said mutely. "Last health check was in August, and the doctors found no problems."
 
"Ehxcellent,ehxcellent . No outbreaks of middle-agecrah -sis, ah hope?"
His tone was joking, disarming. Abram replied in the same tone, obviously used to chatting with Ned
Wilson.
"I'm an educated psychologist, Ned.I've been into self-analysis since I had my first pimples, so don't
worry.How about you, Ned? Do you still hit your wife in the face very often?"
Ned's voice choked a laugh.
"But seriously, Abram, I'm sure you feel fine, and I'm sure that if there'd be anything, you wouldn't think
twihce about telling me. Seeya !"
"Yeah. Bye."
Abram put the phone back into his inside pocket, still looking straight ahead of him. He was now driving
into the outskirts of the southern edge of the small town, a broad street lined with low buildings and a few
people on the sidewalks. The mist had cleared somewhat -- or he had left it behind -- and the sharp blue
sky was starting to appear above.
He saw the sign saying WESTMOREHAM INSTITUTE 1.5 MILES and made a right turn. He took off
from the short, uninteresting main street and drove into the soft, undulating farmlandscape which abruptly
succeeded the low, flat houses. Tractors wereplowing up the earth on both sides of the road; a few
farmhouses lay half-hidden between the dune-like hills. The mist was now reduced to steaming pools in
the shadows between the dunes, and far ahead Abram was able to see the distantblue mountains rise
above the landscape.
From a distance, theWestmoreham Institute stood out from the horizon, sharply outlined against the clear,
late morning sky: a dark-brown brick building with whitewashed cornerstones, a pointed tile roof, and
chimneys like steeplechases. The rounded chapel and the arched front portal with the fan-shaped steps
increased its vague church-like appearance.But in contrast, metal bars blocked each of the two-story
building's tall windows - and a high barbed-wire fence surrounded the spacious lawn of the estate.
Abram made a left turn into theparking-lot before the fence, and slid in next to the sentry-booth at the
steel-bar gates. A security guard's head popped out through the glass booth, condensed air steaming
from his mouth. Hewas heavily muffled up, with earmuffs outside his uniform cap.
"Good morning, sir," he called out with a clenched smile. "Do you have an appointment?"
Abram lowered the power-window and squinted at the raw, cold air. Keeping his head inside the car, he
handed over a bundle of papers. A sudden gust almost tore them from his grip, but the guard quickly
snatched them with his hand. Abram gave the guard a sheepish smile. He grinned back.
"Not the first time that happens, sir. If we'd had any trees or flags around here, people would be
prepared for those squalls."
He pulled his hand into the booth and studied the papers.
"I'm AbramLemercier , psychologist fromVirginia ," Abram said a little awkwardly. "Here to study a
patient."
 
The guard looked up from the clearance papers and examined Abram's face with measured eyes,
compared it with something on his table, and talked into the intercom next to him -- still with his eyes on
Abram.
Then he said, in a more formal tone: "Dr.Oregon is awaiting you, sir. You may walk in now."
Abram frowned in mild amazement.Walk? The guard shrugged.
"Those are the rules, sir. All vehicles, including bicycles,must be left outside the fence. If you have a lot of
baggage, I could ask a warden to help you carry..."
"No, that won't be necessary," Abram said quickly. "Thank you."
He backed the car into an empty VISITOR space, put on his coat and hat, grabbed his briefcase and
stepped out, locking the car. Holding his hat with one hand on his head, Abram walked toward the gates.
The guard gavethe go-ahead and the gates rolled apart with a whirring sound.
Abram hesitated for a moment, turned in the wind and called out at the guard: "Tell me, whyhaven't you
got a flag here?"
The guard shouted back: "We had to take it away, because the sight of it made our patients restless!"
Abram stared in disbelief at the guard for a second, then spun around and walked briskly through the
gates. They immediately clanged shut behind him.
Chapter 2
WhenLemercier was about ten meters from the entrance, it opened: a steel door, fitted into the portal.
A short black woman in a doctor's white coat, dark blue trousers, and soft shoes stepped outside. The
door shut heavily behind her. Atonce she saw Abram and paced down the steps toward him. They met
at the foot of the steps. He stretched out his hand, and the woman shook it formally.Lemercier , who was
of medium height, would have stood one head higher thanher , unless she had been standing on the first
step. She had a small, round face, and her hairwas drawn back into a neck bun. Her age appeared to be
about thirty-five.
"Dr.Lemercier ?" The woman gave him a cool smile. "I'm Dr. Joyce Oregon, medical superintendent and
director of theWestmoreham Institute. Did you enjoy your travel?"
Lemercier smiled, clasping her hand an instant longer than usual,then released it. "Just fine, thank you.
Are these sudden fogs common around here?"
Joyce looked briefly confused, then brightened up and gave out a laugh.
"Oh, that!" she said. "No, they don't come very often.It's the proximity to theRockies that's causing them,
I've been told. Come in, and I'll see that you get a pass-card."
 

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