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

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PARRY'S PROTOCOL
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A.R.Yngve
PARRY'S PROTOCOL
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Prologue:
WESTMOREHAM INSTITUTE FOR TREATMENT OF THE CRIMINALLY
INSANE
WASHINGTON STATE, SOUTHEAST REGION, USA
SEPTEMBER 8
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'clock and all's well," he mumbled almost inaudibly -- and immediately
shook his head, as if reproaching himself for saying so.
The night-watchman eased his fat, uniformed body into a swivel-chair made of
pale wood. He switched on a tiny color TV set on the desk before him; one that
had earlier been used for the surveillance cameras, before the institution replaced
them with infra-red sensors. Perkins's favorite show came on, and the comedian
on the screen was going through his end monologue:
"...and my Prozacs 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 of Sherpas 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 a looong moment... and he said:
'Beats me, I don't understand French at all.'"
The roars of laughter from the TV set mixed with the night-watchman's chuckles.
An imaginary listener 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.
l
Chapter 1
WESTMOREHAM COUNTY
WASHINGTON STATE, SOUTHEAST REGION
SEPTEMBER 8
Dr. Abram Lemercier leaned forward over the steering-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. That didn'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. Classic Seattle 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 in Westmoreham? 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 Coming To 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-voice answered: "Incoming call from Langley. 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's Wilson!
How's the weather up there?"
Abram smiled briefly and relaxed a little.
"Hi, Ned! Unfortunately it's too foggy for me to see what kinda weather it is
outside. Will you request a report?"
"Ha ha... nah, that can wait until you've reached Westmoreham. 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."

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