False Memory

to remove someone who obstructs important public policy. Or to control someone who can advance it. And sometimes... a bombing by some right-wing fanatic, or next week by a left-wing fanatic, or a dramatic mass murder by a lone gunman, or a spectacular train wreck or a disastrous oil spill... these things can generate enormous media coverage, focus the national attention on a particular issue, and drive legislation that will ensure a more stable society, that will allow us to avoid the extremes of the political spectrum.”
    “People like you are going to save us from extremists?”
    Ignoring her taunt, he said, “As for that advice I mentioned.
    From now on, don’t sleep at the same time. Don’t be apart. Cover each other’s back. And remember that anyone on the street, anyone in a crowd, could belong to me.”
    He could see they were loath to leave. Their hearts were racing, their minds in a tumult of anger and grief and shock, and they wanted a resolution right now, right here, as their kind always did, because they had no appreciation for long-term strategy. They were unable to reconcile their desperate need for immediate emotional catharsis with the cold fact of their powerless position.
    “Go,” Ahriman said, gesturing to the door with the Beretta.
    They went, because they had no other options.
    Through the security-camera display on the computer screen, the doctor watched them cross the reception lounge and leave by the door to the public corridor.
    Putting the Beretta on the desk rather than returning it to his shoulder holster, keeping it within easy reach, he sat down to brood over this latest development.
    The doctor needed to know much more about how this pair of rubes discovered they were programmed and how they deprogrammed themselves. Their astounding self-liberation seemed to be less of an achievement than a flat-out miracle.
    Unfortunately, he wasn’t likely to learn anything further unless he could drug them again, rebuild their mind chapels, and reload the program, which meant taking them through the tedious three-session process that he had gone through with each of them before. They were too wary now, alert to the thin line between reality and fantasy in the modern world, and unlikely to give him that chance, no matter how clever he was.
    He would have to live with this mystery.
    Stopping them from doing further damage was more important than learning the truth of how they had rescued themselves.
    He had no great respect for truth, anyway. Truth was a squishy thing, amorphous, changing shape before your eyes. Ahriman had spent his entire life shaping truth as easily as a potter shapes a wad of clay into a vase of any desired form.
    Power trumped truth any day. He couldn’t kill these people with the truth, but power properly applied could crush them and sweep them from the game board forever.
    From his briefcase, he extracted the blue bag. He placed it in the center of his desk and stared at it for a minute or two.
    The game could be played to its end within the next few hours. He knew where Martie and Dusty would go from here. All the principal figures would be in the same place, vulnerable to a strategist as nimble as the doctor.
    We’re going to find out what you have against Derek Lampton. And when we’ve figured out your motivation, that’ll be another nail in your coffin.
    What hopeless naIfs they were. After all that they had endured, they still believed in a world as ordered as any in a mystery novel. Clues, evidence, proof, and truth wouldn’t avail them in this matter. This game was driven by more fundamental powers.
    Hoping the Keanuphobe wouldn’t call during his brief absence, the doctor holstered the .380 Beretta, took the elevator down to the ground floor, left the building, crossed Newport Center Drive to one of the restaurants in the nearby shopping-and-entertainment complex, and used a public telephone to place a call to the same number that he had used on Wednesday night, when he’d needed to arrange a fire.
    The number was busy. He had to try it four times before at last it rang.
    “Hello?”
    “Ed Mavole,” said the doctor.
    “I’m listening.”
    After proceeding through the lines of the enabling haiku, the doctor said, “Tell me whether or not you’re alone.”
    “I’m alone.”
    “Leave home. Take plenty of pocket change with you. Go directly to a pay phone where you’ll have at least a little privacy. Fifteen minutes from now, call this number.” He recited the direct line in his