Volterra, Italy

The smell of fresh bread and garlic lured Sophia into the small makeshift kitchen, where Adamicz was attending to the oven. With a dish towel wrapping one hand, he removed a skillet from inside. She could see what looked like a thick, pie-shaped frittata, puffy and golden, with patches of dark green and white.

Sophia had yet to figure out Adamicz's motives. She'd checked her bedroom for surveillance devices. There were none. She'd checked the bed frame, her clothes, even her own body. Nothing. There were no alarm bells going off in her head about him. And that's what disturbed her.

'My family weren't killed in a terrorist attack, were they?' she said.

Adamicz jolted, surprised to see her standing there. 'No.'

'Denton told me they—' She stopped herself. 'The Fifth Column killed them.'

'More or less.' He cut the frittata in half, and half again. 'You are hungry, yes?'

'No,' she said. 'Yes.'

He served her a quarter on a plate, then served himself a slice. 'I made it with spinach, onion, garlic, Parmesan, goat's cheese, sun-dried tomato.'

Sophia picked it up from the pastry end. It was so hot that she immediately dropped it back on her plate.

He handed her a knife and fork. 'We can eat in the Pacciani Room. There is a table and my spare heater is there.'

Sophia reluctantly followed Adamicz down the hall, under a low archway and into another room. The ceiling wasn't as high in here. Sure enough, his little portable heater was humming away quietly. Lining the far wall of the Pacciani Room were glass cabinets. Inside them were centuries-old parchments. In the center of the room, a magnificent antique dining table catered for six. Adamicz sat at one end, so she sat at the other.

He asked if she wanted tea, then left her alone for a moment, returning with two mugs. He gave her one and began sipping from his. She didn't drink hers. It was unlikely to be poisonous, but old habits die hard.

She cut a piece of frittata and shoved it into her mouth. It was ... actually good. She tried not to look like she was enjoying it too much.

'Why did you leave the Fifth Column?' she asked.

Bits of food flew from her mouth as she spoke. She covered it with one hand.

Adamicz sipped his tea and cleared his throat. 'I learned how to make monsters out of children, like you. Children who were trained to kill people, like my family.'

Sophia lowered her fork. 'Who killed them?'

She didn't care how blunt the question sounded. Now was a good time to collect information.

Adamicz put his mug down, but still held it. 'I know of yours, you should know of mine. My father was put to work by the Nazis. Our city, Breslau, was part of Germany. My father refused to work for the Nazis, so they shot him. Then the Soviets attacked,' he said. 'By the time the Nazis allowed us to evacuate, it was a cold winter and most of the city was on fire. My mother froze to death trying to keep me warm.'

Sophia didn't know where to look. She stared at the cracked edges of her mug.

'You didn't have to tell me all that,' she said.

Adamicz opened his mouth, then closed it again, deciding instead to sip his tea.

'Why did you join the Fifth Column?' Sophia asked. 'Did they force you to work for them?'

Adamicz shook his head. 'No, of course not. It is sad, I wanted to work for them. Government grants were scarce, but the Institute for Advanced Study in America had good prospects. Funding was excellent, all they needed was talent. Kurt Gödel, Hermann Weyl, John von Neumann, Albert Einstein.'

She only recognized Einstein's name. 'They wanted you?'

Adamicz nodded. 'For my expertise in hypnosis. It is there I was able to hypnotize someone to pull the trigger.'

'Like me?'

He shook his head. 'Ordinary people. Lee Harvey Oswald, James Earl Ray, Arthur Bremer, Ramírez Sánchez—'

'Carlos the Jackal,' Sophia said. 'I know that one.'

'The Fifth Column teach you some history, it seems,' Adamicz said.

Sophia wrapped her fingers around her mug. 'He was programmed?'

'The Jackal caught the attention of Sidney Denton, the father of the man who recruited you. And he then recruited me. In the early eighties, I begin working on a Fifth Column project that owes its roots to Nazi research. A project that becomes ... how do you say in English ... the precursor to Project GATE, which would not begin until 1991.'

'Project GATE wasn't—we weren't the first?'

Adamicz shook his head.

'Wait, so you had the technology to program people's minds in 1991?'

He chuckled. 'To be accurate, we have had it since the 1930s. But it gets better, and easier, over time.'

'What about the genetic stuff?' she said. 'The pseudogene technology?'

He nodded. 'Yes, this is quite a bit later. In the seventies, I believe. Fifth Column geneticists tested a modified IGF-1—a gene we use to repair the body. The test subject's muscles became thirty percent stronger.'

Sophia blinked. 'The Fifth Column had that technology all this time?'

'The Fifth Column does not need funding; it owns many governments in this world. They can take from anywhere and put it where they want. By the time this breakthrough reaches public science forums, you have to understand it has already been classified for decades.'

'So what I thought was cutting edge—'

'Is outdated by two, three, sometimes four decades,' he said. 'If you have seen the technology that exists in the black world—and indeed you have seen some of it, because you are some of it—it comes from the darkest shadows of the modern-day military–intelligence complex. The very crucible of the Fifth Column.'

Sophia cut another slice of frittata. 'Is the pseudogene tech public?'

'Only in its infancy,' he said. 'In 2005, a university geneticist in America discovered a way to deliver a modified gene through the target's bloodstream using an "adeno-associated virus serotype 8" as the vector. He used it to treat muscular dystrophy in an eight-year-old boy—twenty years after we used the same vector on someone without muscular dystrophy. You,' Adamicz said.

'Maybe they're just protecting the technology,' she said. 'From falling into the wrong hands.'

'Or perhaps they're protecting the technology from falling into the right hands,' he said. 'The Fifth Column only want public science to progress so far, and only in compartmentalized fragments that they can monitored closely.'

'But ... why would they care so much?' Sophia asked.

'They cannot let their power over the human race slip,' he said. 'Any science that could jeopardize this will be quashed. You see, the best scientists will work for the Fifth Column only if they are willing to sell their soul. If they are, then the Fifth Column uses dummy corporations to fund them. To fund the science they want.'

'And what happens to the ones they don't want?' she said.

'They starve those scientists out.'

'Can't they get funding some other way? A private investor?'

Adamicz nodded. She thought he was agreeing with her, at first.

'That money is small change compared to what the Fifth Column can offer,' he said. 'They consolidate and maintain their power, and they have an army of science drones—people like me—to help them. The outsiders, they are routinely insulted, discredited and blacklisted so they never get funding again. While they want to use their gifts to benefit humanity, we use our gifts to deny them.'

'If everything you're saying about the Fifth Column is true, how did they get in power?' Sophia said.

'That question, my friend, is best left for Doctor McLoughlin,' he said. 'You will meet her soon enough. And she can tell you everything.'

Sophia wasn't so sure about that.

'Doctor, if—'

'Please do not call me Doctor,' he said. 'It is much too formal. My American friends call me Leon.'

Sophia drank from her mug. If he wanted to poison her, he'd have done it long ago. As ridiculous as it seemed, the old man appeared to have no interest in harming her.

'What's your full name?' she said.

He blinked, as though he hadn't heard her. Then he finally said, 'Leoncjusz. Only the people I trust call me this. You may use it.'

'It's OK, I can just call you Leon,' she said.

'You may call me Leoncjusz.'

She tried to pronounce his name and he laughed. She smiled, but only for a moment.

'If they find you, they'll kill you too, right?' she said.

'I am the least of their concerns.' He leaned over his plate and met her gaze. 'And I have spent enough time being scared.'

Sophia lowered her mug. 'Me too.'

*

Sophia would play along. For now.

At least until she had her first opportunity to escape. Leoncjusz Adamicz might have good intentions, but she couldn't trust anyone; she knew she was better off by herself.

He had forbidden her from venturing outside because her existence had to remain a secret. For all Denton knew, she was dead. And that was exactly how Leoncjusz wanted it.

It took almost five weeks before he trusted her enough that he would leave her alone in the library. He needed to restock their supplies from the local market, and said he wouldn't be gone for more than an hour.

Now she had her chance.

Sophia waited fifteen minutes before approaching the grand oak door. Did he really think she'd just wait around for him to return? She gripped the door handle and took a deep breath. She couldn't find any motion sensors or triggers that would tell him she was leaving.

She turned the door handle.

Or tried to.

The handle worked fine, it was her hand that was the problem. She was somehow unable to turn it. Despite building up her strength and stamina over the last few weeks, despite the library's confined spaces, she couldn't use the door.

She tried again. But she couldn't turn it. Yet it wasn't locked. And the handle wasn't jammed. It seemed that wasn't the problem. The problem, she realized, was her mind.

The cunning bastard.

She stepped back, then tried once more.

Her hand trembled over the handle.

But she couldn't turn it.

She yelled. Her voice echoed through the library.

Then she kicked the door. Smashed a chair into it. Tried again. Still, she couldn't. Somehow, he'd switched something on inside her mind that kept her here. He didn't need to tie her up with anything.

She was holding herself prisoner.

Pulling her hand away in disgust, she listened to the silence around her. There was nothing else she could do. She touched her right eyebrow, where her stitches had been. Nothing felt right anymore.

She marched into Adamicz's office and began with his desk. It was covered in mountains of papers and books. She rifled through them, one stack at a time, tossing them aside when she was done. Whatever was lying on top would be cover documents, of course, placed there intentionally, possibly to influence her. She gave them a quick look before casting them aside.

Once she was through the layers of distraction, she began searching his desk drawers, his bookcases. She found a stash of banknotes in one of the drawers, twenties and fifties. There had to be at least a thousand euros in there. She ignored the money, and checked for hidden papers and books. Anything he was concealing from her.

But she only found one book. She opened it at the bookmark just shy from its center, revealing half a page of handwritten text, black ink with a hint of blue. The words were Polish, tightly packed and skewed a fraction to the right. It was Leoncjusz's handwriting.

She skimmed through the entry. He seemed to use W instead of V and G instead of H, but other than that she could manage to decipher it without too much trouble.

Strangely enough, one entry was dated in German.

After a week of intense deprogramming, I am able to bring Sophia out of her slave state for the first time to the archeopsyche—the real Sophia. She is calm and composed, but suspicious. She tells me she cannot remember her true childhood. I do not know if the memories will come back in time or will be lost forever.

Her behavior is erratic. On some occasions, she is composed, others she is enraged, others she is silent and does not respond to conversation. Nothing I say appears to comfort or soothe her.

I am in regular contact with Cecilia McLoughlin now. She is with the Akhana. After all this time of uncertainty, now I am sure they are real. Cecilia needs my deprogramming procedure as soon as I have perfected it, and yet I cannot risk traveling to the Akhana until Sophia has fully recovered. This is very important; we are too vulnerable and will be safer in hiding for now. I am hesitant to give Cecilia the deprogramming procedure; I will think on this further before making a decision.

I bring vegetable soup to Sophia's room. She is asleep, so I leave it with her and do not return for the day. The following morning we continue deprogramming. Portion by portion, I dismantle the parapsyches inside Sophia's neopsyche. It is a long and arduous minefield that exhausts both of us.

When I visit her again, she tells me to stop doing this or she will kill herself. I still have some of the trigger phrases in place to protect myself, but I should not need to use them. I tell her I will stop for now, and tomorrow we can talk over lunch. She can ask me as many questions as she likes.

I make us some food from the market, and tea. She asks many questions. About her life. About how she was recruited. About the real world. About families. About love. About vengeance. Sometimes, her hands shake as she listens to me speak. Other times, she is silent and does not ask anything. Once, she even smiles.

If one good thing comes of this, it will be her.

Sophia turned to the next page. It was blank. She flipped back to the previous entry, only to find it written entirely in German. Was he trying to conceal something? She rushed to the shelf of dictionaries and picked out an Italian–German dictionary. It would be nice if there was an English–German one, but she was in Tuscany after all. Instead, she found an Italian–English dictionary. Both dictionaries would have to do.

Sitting at the desk she'd moved into the Pacciani Room, she scanned the German entries for anything that might catch her attention. She didn't know what she was looking for, so she decided to pick a paragraph with her name in it and work through it with the German-Italian dictionary and—if her basic Italian wasn't good enough—Italian to English. It was painfully slow, but she worked as fast as she could, scribbling her translations on a loose sheet of paper.

Sophia has stitches ... right eye and bruises ... arms and face ... unharmed. I ... injuries but ... to see her. I have the Schlüssel.

She checked the Italian–German dictionary for the word Schlüssel. The Italian equivalent was chiave. She checked the Italian–English dictionary: it meant key. Leoncjusz had the key.

This was going to take some time. She'd give anything for Google Translate right now. She skimmed through the rest of the page. Its contents seemed mundane. She turned to the previous page and found a word right after her name that she didn't recognize: defekt. Did it mean to defect, to work for the other side? She checked the Italian–German dictionary. It meant difettoso. She checked for the English translation. Defective.

She continued with the rest of the paragraph. On her sheet of paper, the meaning started to take shape.

Another operative became defective ... field ... night and ... killed. Denton dismisses me ... service. Just as we planned. I am relieved, but I do not show it.

She turned to the previous page. If Leoncjusz had mentioned his true intentions anywhere, it might be in an earlier entry. With both dictionaries open, she got to work translating.

Sophia ... operation ... routine assessment. Precise changes. Sophia's behavior ... normal ... tampered ... neopsyche ... under stress Sophia ... shift to archeopsyche ... performance ... and I ... held responsible. Cecilia McLoughlin stages ... death. And ... part of our plan.

Sophia checked her watch. She had another thirty minutes. It wasn't enough time to translate the whole journal. And it would be a while before she would get another chance. She had to translate what she needed now. She flipped to the previous page.

I am scared ... sleep ... not wake up. Denton ... is he waiting ... us out? Or will ... and torture ... answers? I realize ... belly of the beast ... stay brave.

Trials ... operative ... routine assessment. Possible ... suggest ... Cecilia McLoughlin ... Benito Montoya ... operative ... in mind. She ... six on ...

One string of words caught her interest. Posthypnotischen Suggestibilität Index. The German was close enough to English that she didn't need the dictionary. Instead, she continued translating the rest of the sentence.

Easier to deprogram ... our cause due to ... betrayal ... violation ... Fifth Column.

She licked her finger, then thought again and wiped her saliva away before turning to the previous page, where she saw Chimäre Vektors written three times.

McLoughlin ... confident. I fear ... get caught ... thought everything ... well. Benito Montoya ... Chimera vectors ... impossible ... circumstance ... high security and of course Denton's ... Chimera vectors. McLoughlin ... lock it up for now ... back later ... lower security. Encrypt the Chimera vectors ... encryption key.

Sophia froze on the word Schlüssel. She checked the dictionary, then translated the complete sentence.

If she was getting this right, McLoughlin had planned to encrypt the Chimera vectors and use part of her DNA as the encryption key.

But ... Cecilia McLoughlin ... back to the facility ... very risky. I cannot ... how we do this. Cecilia McLoughlin ... of this too. She asked me ... operative as the key instead.

That seemed important. Backtracking, she translated every missing word.

She asked me today if we could use an operative as the key instead.

Sophia leaned back in her chair. Now it made sense.

'I am the key,' she said.

Back another page. She needed to translate faster.

My ... offering ... to me. I suggest to Cecilia McLoughlin ... destroy the Chimera vectors. But she ... idea. She wants to ... against the Fifth Column. She ... resistance called the Akhana ...

There was no entry for Akhana in the dictionary. She continued reading.

... nothing about. This ... more complicated. Does ... really exist ... Belize mountain. If there ... need the Chimera vectors ... destroy the Fifth Column.

She checked her watch. Fifteen minutes to go.

If she was, somehow, the key to these Chimera vectors, then the first thing she needed to figure out was what these vectors actually were and what Leoncjusz and his resistance pals were planning on doing with them.

She continued reading.

I do not ... Cecilia McLoughlin for many days. Our next ... rushed. She tells ... the Chimera vectors out ... Fifth Column ... safe. Before ... I want to help. McLoughlin ... and leaves. I have purpose again. Yet ... burn these