"Yes," Mrs. Prentice replied.

      Pamela could tell immediately that the wife of the dead American reporter was apprehensive.

      "I'm afraid I have bad news, Mr. Prentice; your husband has been killed."

      "Oh my God!"

      "I'm dreadfully sorry to phone this way. But it's my grim responsibility to inform American families when there's been a death in my area of responsibility."

      "Well what can you tell us about Sydney's death?"

      "I can only say that your husband's death is presently under investigation by the Luxembourg authorities and there's been a preliminary report to Interpol as well. Your husband's body was identified through fingerprints in Washington."

      "Why would anyone want to kill Sydney?"

      "We want to know the same thing. Do you know what your husband was doing in Luxembourg?"

      "I didn't know much about what Sydney did when he was away on investigative trips." She paused. "Oh, what's going to happen to my husband's body? Will it be sent back here?"

      "Yes, the papers are being finalized now. Your husband's body should be returned to you in no more than two days. And Mrs. Prentice, I want to express my sincere condolences. I know what a terrible shock this must be."

      "Look, Mrs. Emerson, I don't know you from Adam, but at least you're an American. Just before you called I had a visit from two F.B.I. agents. They wanted to know what Sydney was doing in Luxembourg. They didn't tell me he'd been murdered."

      "Yes, that's understandable they would want to know about your husband's activities."

      "Well, it's also understandable that I don't feel like talking to just anybody about my husband." Mrs. Prentice paused. "Can you promise to keep something confidential if I tell you?"

      "I can't promise I'll be able to, if it's germane to the investigation concerning your husband's death. But," she quickly added, "I'll keep it confidential if at all possible."

      "I guess that's the best I can hope for," Mrs. Prentice replied. "Sydney was too nosy for his own good. He's gotten into trouble before, trying to dig up a story that someone didn't want him to." She paused.

      "Yes, I've seen a report on some of your husband's stories. He was a very brave young man from what I can tell."

      "Brave I'm not so sure. Foolhardy, yes. My husband made me swear I wouldn't tell anyone what he was working on. Said it could get him into big trouble." Again the pause.

      "Yes, I can understand his asking you to keep something in confidence."

      "Sydney's been scared before. He did a story on a strange group called the Bilderbergs last year. I thought he was going to have a nervous breakdown. He tracked them to some mountain hideaway in Switzerland, some place called Burgenhauten. Boy was he terrified. I'd never seen him that scared before. Well, this story he was working on in Luxembourg was even worse, if you can believe it."

      "Yes, I understand."

      She hesitated before continuing. "Sydney said he was tracking some group called the World Geopolitical Council. Some doctor by the name of Gorgon was the head of it, along with an American moneybags named Warfield. Ever heard of them?"

      "I know Mr. Warfield by reputation only. A very wealthy man. The other name I've never heard before."

      "Sydney said they were planning to take over the United States and the world."

      "That sounds rather farfetched," Pamela said. "Where did your husband say this Council was meeting?"

      "In a place called Rakinhard."

      "Oh yes, Reichenhardt, I know the town well. But I can't imagine any American group meeting there without my knowing about it. Luxembourg is a very small country, smaller than Rhode Island. As ambassador I'm supposed to know about any American nationals that come into the country."

      "Yeah, well I don't know about all that. I just know that Sydney said that's who he was investigating and where he said they were meeting. And he was more scared than I've ever seen him before. But he went for a story whatever the consequences. He was very political. I'm not very interested in politics, myself. He was always writing stories for little magazines and newspapers and Internet blog sites. He sure didn't make much money at it, that's why I have to work. But he felt it was something he had to do, and I could never talk him out of it."

      Pamela allowed the long pause to continue until Mrs. Prentice resumed. "I guess this World Geopolitical Council and this Dr. Gorgon, or whatever his name, killed Sydney."

      "Oh, I wouldn't jump to that conclusion, Mrs. Prentice," Pamela said quickly.

      "I've been honest with you, Mrs. Emerson, tell me one thing. Was my husband murdered?"

      The question took Pamela by surprise. "Mrs. Prentice, I'm probably not supposed to tell you this, but you've been very forthright with me. From what I can tell, your husband's death may not have been accidental or suicide. It appears there was something irregular about it. It might have been murder." She paused to think. "And that's really all I should say about your husband's death. But I want to thank you very much for the information about what your husband told you. I'll follow up. And I'll keep it confidential if at all possible."

      "Uh, one more thing," Mrs. Prentice said. She paused so long that Pamela wondered if she had changed her mind. "I hope I can trust you." Another pause. "I received something in the mail today from my husband, evidently mailed just before he was killed. It looks to me like dangerous information, though I don't understand any of it. What should I do with it."

      "Would you feel okay about mailing me a copy?" Pamela asked.

      "I guess so, sure."

      "Keep the original there, but mail me a copy by overnight express. Give the original to the F.B.I. as soon as you've sent me the copy. Make a copy for yourself if you feel you want to. I'll pay the overnight shipping charges."

      "Oh it won't be that much," Mrs. Prentice replied. "I hope you'll know what to do with it."

      "I'll do my best." She gave Mrs. Prentice the address.

      "Thanks, Mrs. Emerson. I appreciate being able to talk to a woman, an American. I can't talk to these macho male cops, they get on my nerves. Will you let me know if you find out something?"

      "I promise to let you know if I can."

      "That's good enough for me. Thanks again."




      "But you have real democracy here," Gorgon exclaimed. He smiled broadly at his twelve group therapy patients. Dr. Gorgon spent one evening a week with his clinic therapy group in New Reston, Virginia.

      "No, we only have the pretext of democracy in this group! You manipulate us with your psychological profiles." Angela spoke with calm determination, no hint of anger. The other group members looked at Angela questioningly. She was daring to say what many of them felt.

      The therapy group was composed of patients from the clinic, all of whom were diagnosed as merely neurotic, not psychotic. They met in the living room of Dr. Gorgon's penthouse which was perched on the thirty-seventh floor of the Parallax headquarters building.

     On one wall of the room stood a huge stone fireplace in which mesquite logs were burning brightly, roaring and snapping, giving the room a pleasant, faint wood-smoke odor. The fireplace mantle was dominated by a large painting of a strange bare-breasted woman with snakes for hair.

     The group sat in a circle on expensive sofas and armchairs or on the thick royal blue carpet. They were drinking wine and assorted sodas, munching on chips and guacamole dip that Gorgon specially ordered from the company kitchen. The other three sides of the finely decorated room were glass panels overlooking a sprawling lawn thirty-seven stories below that ran into a deep Maryland wood. From the penthouse they could see the floodlights below casting foreboding black shadows into the forest.

      Dr. Gorgon was casually dressed in black trousers and a heavy knit navy blue turtleneck sweater. His slender frame made his six feet two inches seem considerably taller. Gorgon held himself with an air of confidence he had learned to affect when he was in his early twenties.

      "What do you mean, I manipulate you, Ms. Wilson?" Gorgon asked Angela. He had found her in a county detox unit, drying out from several months of progressive alcoholism and a small overdose of heroin. He had liked her feistiness from the moment he saw her kick an immense black male orderly in the groin, sending him sprawling on the floor holding his injured gonads. Angela had a natural beauty--blonde hair, shapely body, high cheek bones--which she used with abandon, in whatever way best suited her momentary whim. At the moment she was cozying up to Dr. Gorgon with her eyes, while challenging him in an animated verbal battle.

     Gorgon liked Angela because of her spirited impudence. And it had intrigued him when he discovered that she was the sister of a military expert on mind control and the ex-wife of a specialist in personality profiling. An ideal choice for his therapy group--and as his personal playmate.

     Each member of the group had been carefully chosen by Gorgon for what he privately called his experiment in New-Democracy. He had instructed his staff to develop a full psychological profile on each client at the Parallax clinic to decide which would become candidates for his therapy group. He'd then selected group members to represent precisely the demographics of the U.S. population: education, income, gender, ethnic origin, and political and religious ideology. Several of the lower-income members were subsidized by the Parallax Corporation. Beyond the demographics, Gorgon had selected just the desired blend of psychological problems and quirks so that certain mannerisms would exacerbate or complement others.

     Gorgon was very critical of what he called "witch doctors"-- psychiatrists or psychologists who worked with indiscriminate groupings of patients. Of course, most therapists lacked Dr. Gorgon's clear image of the outcomes he desired from his patients. He wanted his work with the therapy group to give him hard evidence on how a new conception of democracy could be imposed on Americans.

      "You play us like puppets on a string," Angela continued. "You know what we feel, what we like, our fears, our weaknesses. Pretty much everything. You allow us the right to vote on what we discuss in our group sessions--all the trappings of sham democracy. But behind the scenes you twist us to suit your purposes." She was warming up to the dispute.

      "How do I twist you to my evil design, Angela?" He was playing with her now.

      "You've hinted that you might make me your personal research assistant, if I master the books and movies you recommend for me. You know I'm grateful to you for helping me beat my habit--and you know I'd do pretty much anything to be your assistant."

      "That hardly seems like manipulation, securing you a job. After all, you did major in psychology at Bryn Mawr. I get many of my ex-patients jobs. Nothing unusual about that. The group decides what you want to talk about, what direction the group sessions take, you elect your group leaders, you vote on issues."

     Gorgon was careful to speak in a non-threatening tone, looking at each of the group members in turn. "You've elected Angela as your president, who isn't hesitating to challenge me right at this moment. How can you suppose that you don't have real democracy in this group?"

      "Because you practice mind-control on us." Angela said hastily. "Your psychological profiles on us tell you just how to manipulate us to do what you want."

      "Mind control?" Gorgon replied harshly. "You'll have to excuse Angela. She was previously married to a mind-control specialist, Dr. Ben Emerson. And Angela's brother is a mind-control expert for the Army. She's got mind-control on the brain." Gorgon's smile gave his face a bizarre cast.

      "You leave Ben and Frank out of this!" Angela spoke with irritation.

      "I'm afraid I can't leave your ex-husband out of this!" The group members could feel Gorgon's sudden fury. The entire atmosphere of the therapy session had instantly changed.

     "You see," Gorgon said, an icy quality to his voice, "poor Ben couldn't control Angela's mind, even though he wanted to desperately. Angela had started doing drugs even before she married Ben--she said it was because of her father sexually abusing her as a child."

      "Wait a minute," Kathryn challenged Gorgon. "Our rule is that we talk about ourselves, let Angela talk about herself."

      "You wait a minute, my air-head Kate," Gorgon said with hostile disdain. "Angela's made an abusive charge against me--that I'm controlling your minds. I won't let that insult go unchallenged."

     He turned to face Angela. "So your poor, weak-livered husband, Ben the impotent, couldn't control your mind enough to get you out of being a stupid drug addict. It took me, with what you call mind-control, to get you out of your habit."

      The group was shocked that Gorgon had lost his composure.

      Angela was furious with Gorgon, but she was determined not to react with hostility. "Dr. Gorgon, I agree with Kathryn," Angela said. "We're supposed to speak about ourselves in this group, not have you talk about us."

      Gorgon suddenly realized that the group was in psychological disarray and that he needed to regain the control he maintained. "You're right. I shouldn't reveal things about you patients that you haven't already revealed to the group."

      Angela saw a way to retaliate. "Your saying that brings up a very important point. I think the group should vote on what to call us!"

      "What do you mean?" Kathryn asked quickly. As the elected vice-president of the therapy group she was in constant competition with Angela for supremacy. Kathryn was a tall, shapely, black beauty whom Gorgon often called his bonny Kate. He pitted Angela and Kathryn against each other in the group sessions.

      "He always calls us patients," Angela replied. "I think we ought to call ourselves clients, something more neutral. The word 'patients' implies that he's somehow the superior medical doctor and we're the poor sick creeps he has to cure. Besides, mental illness is merely society's definition of behavior it finds unacceptable."

      "So you want to call yourselves 'clients'?" Gorgon asked, looking at each of the patients.

      "Yes, let's take a vote on it," Kathryn suggested.

      The vote was taken and it passed unanimously.

      "Now, to the next item of business for us clients," Angela continued. She was decidedly enjoying the battle. "Ever since I joined this group," she stared at Gorgon, "you've come in here each week with a private set of notes on your fancy clipboard. Like you had a script or something. Well, I vote we clients look at your notes this evening."

      "But these are private clinical notes, Ms. Wilson," Gorgon objected, but without any real force.

      "You've said we can decide on everything, right?" Angela brushed aside his objection.

      "Well, yes . . ."

      "Okay, let's vote."

      It was decided that the group would examine Dr. Gorgon's notes. Angela looked sternly at Wendell, a wimpy young man sitting across from her. "You read the notes aloud, Wendell."

      Wendell somewhat sheepishly stood up and walked over to Dr. Gorgon, holding out his hand. Gorgon handed him the clipboard immediately, then sat back in his large plush leather chair.

      Wendell walked back to his chair but remained standing. He cleared his throat as he faced the group, reading from the clipboard.

"Uh, it says: Angela will control the group to call themselves clients instead of patients. The group members are now largely under her indirect control. She may even advocate that the group look at these notes. Very fond of rum pots, crackpots, and how are you Ms. Wilson?"

      Wendell, looked quizzically at the notes and repeated, "And how are you Ms. Wilson? What does that mean?"

      "You see!" Angela shouted. "He knew precisely what I would do; he knew I would encourage us to call ourselves clients."

      "But how did he know?" Kathryn asked.

      "He gave me an article to read this week, entitled The Myth of Mental Illness. And he's got me so pegged that he knew I'd fight to have us called patients instead of clients."

      The group was confused; Angela didn't seem to be making sense.

      "Well what about this 'Ms. Wilson' bit?" Wendell asked.

      Angela replied. "I watched a movie this week that Dr. Gorgon recommended. It's called Harvey. A scene in the movie takes place at a psychiatric clinic. An orderly, named Mr. Wilson, is alone in a room. He reads aloud from a dictionary, about Pookas, large fairy spirits in animal form. The pooka in the movie is a seven-foot tall white rabbit named Harvey which only certain people can see. As the psychiatric orderly reads aloud, he comes to these words printed in the dictionary: 'A benign but mischievous creature, very fond of rum pots, crackpots, and how are you, Mr. Wilson?'"

      The group puzzled over Angela's words, making no sense of what she was saying..

      "But how could the words, 'How are you, Mr. Wilson?' have been printed in the dictionary," Wendell asked. "The dictionary would have been printed years before Mr. Wilson read it."

      Angela responded quickly. "That's the metaphysical trick Harvey, the invisible seven foot white rabbit, was playing on Mr. Wilson. And now our own pooka, Dr. Gorgon, is playing tricks on us. Welcome to the world of mind-control!"