_______________________
A.R.Yngve
PARRY'S PROTOCOL
_______________________
Chapter 44
Joyce was in the large corridor on the entrance floor.
Abram came up from the basement stairs, accompanied by two nurses. Joyce took her cell-phone from her ear, turned toward the nurses, and gave them each a telling glance. They responded with slight nods. Abram walked up to her where she stood by the sentry booth.
He looked her in the eye with concern; she met his eyes with her usual calm.
"Bad news?" she asked.
"Yes. I'm afraid I'll have to abort my interviews with Par... with Patrick. His condition's worsened quickly, he's as inaccessible as when we first met -- or worse."
"I'm sorry, I really am," Joyce said.
She stretched out her arm and touched his shoulder; Abram straightened up and looked mildly surprised. Joyce gave him a sad smile with her eyes half-shut.
"For a while, you made me hope again; that's not too common around here. Thanks for trying."
Abram gave the short, brown woman a faint smile, and replied: "Thanks yourself, for putting up with a pompous upper-class psychoanalyst. Do you want me to fill in the usual forms now, or could it wait? I promise the Institute will be compensated for its expenses."
Joyce turned away, looking out through one of the tall, barred windows. Out there, one could see soft hills and fields; telephone poles along the road that stretched eastward away from the town; the bright, late morning sky; a couple of farmhouses by the horizon...
"There's a few men outside the gates, who've been asking for you while you were talking to Parry," she said without moving.
"What?" Abram did not seem to understand.
"The guard at the gate said that they're from the FBI and their papers seem to be in order."
Slowly, quietly, the two nurses stepped closer to Abram, hands resting on the night-sticks hanging by their belts. Abram saw it; his forehead began to glisten. A shrill little laugh escaped him.
"I-I don't understand what you mean... let me make an important phonecall!" He spun around, holding up his hands. The nurses stopped, giving Joyce questioning looks. Abram spun around again to meet her expressionless gaze.
He pleaded: "Just one call! Alone! Okay?"
Joyce shrugged, her hands in her pocket, and said: "Okay. Go to the end of the hall."
She nodded in the suggested direction. He half-ran to it. At the end of the corridor was a door to the chapel-like annex. He felt at the handle; it was locked.
Abram pressed his shoulder against the door and got out his phone, punched in the number to Langley with clumsy fingers, and waited for an answer.
There came three dial-up signals. Then another three. And three more. And three more.
After fifteen signals he cut off the call, and glanced anxiously toward the other end of the corridor. Joyce was talking to the nurses and the door-guard, but so low that only a wordless murmur could be heard from where Abram stood. He punched up the phone list onto the phone's display window, let addresses and numbers scroll past, and stopped by the name GIORDANO BRUNO.
He frantically punched in the number. After three signals, a recorded voice answered: "The number has recently expired. For further information on the addressee, please contact the Los Angeles Police Department. The number has recently expired. For further inf --"
Abram disconnected, but kept the phone to his ear; Joyce was moving, over by the entrance, looking at her watch.
"Shit!" he mumbled, then: "Kip! Good ol' Kip..."
Abram dialed the number to Washington, muttering: "Come on... answer me, you fat bastard..."
After ten signals and no response he gave up. He started, as Joyce's voice echoed across the floor.
"One call! They're losing their patience!"
The heavy nurses began to move in on him.
"Annie," he mumbled, then "No".
Abram took a deep breath, wiped his brow, held up the phone's control panel to his face. He punched in the command: ERASE ALL FILES
On the display came the reply question: ARE YOU SURE Y/N?
He punched in a confirmation.
The computer wrote: ALL ERASED; WHAT NOW?
Seeing the question, Abram suppressed a laugh, snorting. He put away his phone and turned to face the approaching wardens; their soft shoes made almost no sounds. When they were less than five meters away, Abram pulled the gun out of his jacket.