Black Jack

  ‘Like Cinderella?’ Dakota’s voice was barely a whisper.

  ‘Like Cinderella,’ Miss Monroe repeated. ‘Call me when you’re dressed and I’ll help with your hair.’

  Dakota finished her toilette and changed as calmly as possible. But the rustle of silk against her skin was undeniably exciting. She looked at herself in the bathroom mirror. Her eyes were sparkling. Like Cinderella.

  ‘I’m ready, Miss Monroe,’ she called.

  ‘Very pretty,’ Miss Monroe complimented from the door.

  ‘Thank you,’ Dakota said shyly. Never before had Miss Monroe offered such a personal remark.

  Miss Monroe came into the small space. From her evening purse she pulled a semi-transparent, blue sash. Its ends were decorated with tassels of glass beads. She tied it around the catheter in Dakota’s arm. With a comb she gathered a small section of hair from above Dakota’s forehead, then expertly braided and secured it with an elastic band. From her evening purse she fetched a butterfly clip to adorn Dakota’s hair.

  ‘Miss Monroe?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why do I always have to have butterflies on me?’

  The question was so unexpected that Miss Monroe could not prevent her unguarded eyes from rushing to meet Dakota’s in the mirror. There she found not the empty, doll-like expression she had come to associate with the girl, but something so naked and defenseless she had to struggle to extricate herself from its appeal. She dropped her gaze to the girl’s hair. There was a metallic buzzing somewhere inside her head. She felt the blood rushing to her face. Butterflies. They lived in her own quarters too, and on her underclothing, unseen by others but ever present… Why? She turned her face away from the girl. Upset. She was upset. Pretend; pretend the girl has not touched you. She snapped her purse shut. The sound was loud in the tiled room.

  ‘You know, you are never to make eye contact with me. It is against the rules. Take this as your last warning. Don’t do it again, or I will report you. Have I made myself clear?’

  ‘Yes, Miss Monroe.’

  ‘Come. If we don’t leave now we will be late.’

  It was night when they landed on someone’s private helipad.

  ‘Ready?’ Miss Monroe shouted above the noise. She appeared very distant.

  Dakota nodded.

  A uniformed chauffeur drove them down a road that wound in a leisurely manner through lamp-lit woods. Their journey ended at the steps of a Gothic mansion guarded by stone gargoyles. One of the doormen showed them through a marble hallway and into a grand room with a mahogany split staircase that had once stood in a Scottish castle. A silent butler appeared to relieve them of their coats and lead them into a massive ballroom full of music and elegantly dressed people. Dakota gazed at the glittering chandeliers in amazement.

  ‘Champagne, ladies?’ offered a silky voice behind them.

  Thorns will overrun her citadels, nettles and brambles her strongholds. She will become a haunt for jackals, a home for owls.

  - Isaiah 34:13

  Dakota smelled him before she saw him - lavender. A child sang a rhyme in her head.

  Lavender’s blue, diddle, diddle,

  Lavender’s green;

  When I am king, diddle, diddle,

  You shall be queen.

  Hooked in the mouth she turned toward the scent. A bald stranger was standing a foot away. He smiled suddenly, an indescribably wonderful smile - it lit up his entire face - and Dakota experienced such an incredible rush of fear and hatred for him that every cell in her body screamed, ‘RUN’. But the lavender had had the same effect on her that the roar of a tiger has on a man - the sound reverberates in his chest and paralyzes him. Dakota stood frozen.

  ‘Schooner Klaus,’ he said, extending a hand toward her. With his other hand he made a quick gesture, thumb, middle finger and pinkie touching lightly and the other two fingers extended - the horned hand - a hypnotic induction symbol for slaves. Instantly, Dakota’s mind dissociated. Her moment of utter terror and loathing became an insignificant incident, a distant memory. Willingly, she put her hand into the one he proffered. His clasp was cool, very brief, and somehow familiar, even though she was certain she had never met him before.

  ‘Hello, Dr. Klaus,’ Miss Monroe said.

  Dakota looked at Miss Monroe. She was a transformed woman, gazing adoringly up at the stranger. A waiter appeared with a tray. It held a single glass. Completely ignoring Miss Monroe, Schooner Klaus took the glass by its tall stem and put it into Dakota’s unresisting hand.

  ‘Our host told me,’ he said, ‘your name, but he didn’t tell me what a pretty butterfly you are.’ He smiled again.

  Dakota looked blankly at the quickly rising bubbles. ‘I don’t know who our host is.’

  ‘Come, I’ll take you to him,’ he offered, and led her away from Miss Monroe.

  They went through the crowd and down a short, carpeted passageway. It ended in front of a set of tall double doors. He opened them, and she stood at the threshold of a cavernous, dimly lit study, decorated sumptuously in green and gold. The floor was highly polished, antique dark wood and the air smelled of cigars, leather, and burning wood. There was no host to be seen. Schooner Klaus motioned for her to enter. She stepped into the room. Behind her the heavy doors closed and the sounds of the party died. Schooner Klaus gestured toward a large, green leather chair. He himself moved away from it and leaned against a nearby desk. He sipped his drink and surveyed her over the rim of his glass.

  ‘Do you know that the name Dakota, in occult Kabala, carries significance?’

  The green leather was cold against her skin. She shook her head.

  ‘It’s an uncanny system where each alphabet has been assigned a numerical value, and when the alphabets in a word are added up they act as a method of divination. Your name, for example, suggests a fate rich with certain demonic qualities or the raising or creating of something, or my favorite, a door…’ He trailed off.

  Demonic qualities? Door? To where? Shhh… Remain uncurious. Only troublemakers ask questions. She was silent and so was he, but he was watching her carefully. The fire crackled. The champagne glass was cold in her hand.

  ‘Does the name Shekina have a meaning?’ she asked suddenly.

  But for a slight narrowing of his eyes, Schooner Klaus did not show how deeply shaken he was by her question. ‘Shekina?’ he repeated softly. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘In my dreams a woman comes to tell me I must find Shekina. Twice now she has come.’

  ‘A woman? What does she look like, this woman?’

  ‘She is brown-skinned and has long, black hair that she coils at the nape of her neck.’

  Schooner Klaus stared at the girl. This was utterly without precedent. The breaking of amnesic barriers and the leaking of alters into the consciousness of the dominant personality never manifested until the age of thirty or thereabouts, when most mind-controlled slaves were ‘disposed of’. She was only fifteen. He wondered if it was because she had gone through the process too late. Historically, the key of David had to be given to slaves between the ages of two and four, and the mind shattered and rebuilt before the age of seven.

  Whatever the reason, it was a terrible prospect. No time could be allocated for reprogramming her while they stood at the cusp of something the world had never seen before. The prospect that she could gain access to her own powers and become dangerous to an unpredictable degree loomed before him. He could only hope that it would happen at the end of her usefulness. When disposing of her would be of no consequence.

  ‘How interesting. Shekina is the name given to the soul of the Ark of the Covenant. Ancient accounts describe her as glowing energy that confers illumination to the prepared initiates, but who can also bring destruction and waste to hundreds of opponents in one single act of concentrated violence.’ He smiled pleasantly.

  No help there, but something familiar about that smile. ‘Have we met before?’

  His expression did not change. ‘No,’ he
said, and brought the lip of his glass to his mouth.

  He was lying, but only troublemakers pursue that which is hiding. No curiosity, no pain. She turned her eyes away from him. Her gaze latched upon a painting. A fluorescent green, inverted pentagram painted onto a matt, black background. The five-pointed star was missing an arm, but it radiated a presence, a violence, that was palpable.

  ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘No.’ She had seen such a symbol before. Somewhere. Where? She tried to remember and felt a headache coming on. She stopped trying to recall the memory.

  ‘That’s an inverted pentagram. Some call it the mark of the beast – a symbol that demons cannot resist. When they see it they must congregate around it.’ Schooner Klaus’s voice was melodious, persuasive; inviting her to see beauty where she had found none. ‘They know the space inside is the void, a pit where they will be fêted and enticed to contract by those in the know. Blood sacrifices in exchange for a sorcerer’s bidding. You make deals with them. A goat, a child, a million soldiers wearing an agreed-upon symbol.’

  She stood and walked toward it. Up close, it was hideous. ‘Why is one of its arms broken?’

  ‘It was deliberately left that way. It represents a pact not yet fulfilled, a job unfinished. They have already had their blood... Does it frighten you, Dakota?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good. I like courageous little girls. Come over here,’ he called. Placing his glass down he walked toward a nest of low couches facing the stone fireplace.

  Obediently, she turned and followed him. He went around a low table, and, putting it between them, stopped and smiled. She could see their reflections in the large, ornate mirror hanging over the fireplace. She seemed very small and pale. And the thought-I shouldn’t be here.

  ‘Drink,’ he ordered.

  The bubbles hit the back of her throat and made her catch her breath. She did not care for the taste either, but she drained it to its last drop. He took the empty glass from her slack hand and set it on the low table.

  ‘Sit.’

  The Seconal in her drink worked very fast. She sank back into the sofa behind her, her head dropping slowly onto her shoulder. The tips of her hair touched her knees and shone golden in the firelight. Her eyelids fluttered. The last thing she heard was the sound of the glass beads at the end of the blue tassels crunching underneath Schooner Klaus’s shoes. He had come around to stand over her.

  He sat on the low table in front of her slumped figure and, reaching forward, touched her behind both ears. ‘I call awake Timu, who is unaffected by Seconal. Bring to the forefront Shekina. Shekina, I command you to take the body now.’

  The girl’s eyes opened. Bright and alert. ‘Hello, Commandant,’ she greeted quietly.

  ‘Hello, Shekina.’

  “Who Killed Cock Robin?”

  “I,” said the Sparrow,

  “With my bow and arrow,

  I killed Cock Robin.”

  - ‘Who killed Cock Robin?’,

  Tommy Thumb’s Pretty Song Book (1744)

  ‘There are hidden eyes watching us, Commandant,’ she warned.

  ‘Don’t concern yourself. It’s only Kite, Rook and Fish.’

  She looked into his cruel face. A voice in her head said, beware nursery rhymes - they aren’t what they seem.

  ‘You bury things. Are you Owl, Commandant?’

  One corner of Schooner Klaus’s mouth lifted in admiration. He had taught her well.

  ‘If I have been brought into a room with Owl, Kite, Rook, and Fish, who am I?’

  His lips twisted. ‘Don’t disappoint me now. There is only ever one role for you.’

  ‘Sparrow?’

  ‘But of course.’

  ‘And Cock Robin, who is he?’

  ‘It does not matter who or what Cock Robin is. What matters is that you will come face to face with him. He could be a life form so terrifying and malevolent that even the sight of him will kill or drive insane ordinary human beings. However, your exhaustive training has seen to it that even in a situation of direct conflict you will display nothing but valor in the performance of your job. Can I count on you?’

  ‘Always.’

  ‘Good. Now, about the being from your data collection trip yesterday. If, as you inferred, it needs humans to do something for it, then it must require contact with one.’

  ‘It does.’

  ‘So why not you?’

  ‘Incompatible vibrational frequency.’

  ‘Are you not able to change your frequency?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘The frequency bridge to him is a purified heart.’

  ‘A pure heart?’ He frowned. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Absolutely. The human, whoever he or she is, must possess a very high vibration. Like a monk, a priest, or a holy man. Perhaps even a nun.’

  ‘Understood. When the being gets in contact with that someone, will you be able to identify that person?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I can only remote view those that are of similar or lower responsibility than me. Unless he or she gives me permission I cannot go there or I will self-destruct.’

  Schooner Klaus thought for a moment. ‘Will you be able to contact someone connected to this person, if he or she is of a lower vibration?’

  ‘If significantly lower, yes.’

  Schooner Klaus smiled. ‘Good. Then, that is exactly what you will do. You will find the bad apple. Tomorrow you will begin to look for this worm-infested fruit and you will not stop until you find him or her. Is that understood?’

  ‘Yes, Commandant.’

  ‘Anything else you want to tell me?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Can you tell what I am thinking, Shekina?’

  She stared into the orbs of gray - they were like wet glass, so easy to slip on - and saw a brick wall as long as it was high. Immediately, as she had been hypnotically instructed to do, she gave up and turned her back on the wall. ‘No.’

  ‘Good,’ he said, and yet he regarded her critically. She had been programmed to be too morally and socially superior. The project needed a different approach, a softer alter. ‘When you do find the holy person, I don’t want you to interact with that person. I want you to slip away and let Winter take the body. Winter, and Winter alone, must deal with that person. Are your instructions clear?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You understand, of course, that Dakota must be protected from all this. She is weak and not as clever as you. It would only upset and confuse her. You know how much she has already suffered. No need for more.’

  Shekina nodded in agreement.

  ‘Good, now go back into the mind,’ he said, and made the keying gesture to send her away. He let a moment pass, and then he touched the girl in the hollow of her throat. ‘I call Winter to come to the front.’

  The first thing Winter did was cross her legs and fluff her hair, her movements those of a woman supremely conscious of her sexuality. Smoothly, as if she had done so hundreds of times, she reached forward and lightly rested her hand on Schooner Klaus’s knee.

  Ignoring the small white hand on his person, Schooner Klaus looked at her sternly. ‘Listen carefully to your instructions.’

  Winter took her hand away from his knee and put it primly in her lap.

  ‘When Shekina instructs you to hold the body your job is to make the man or the woman you find before you fall deeply and hopelessly in love with you. Be outwardly shy and innocent, but do whatever is necessary to achieve your objective. If you fail all the sand will fall into the bottom bulb of the hourglass and you know what that means. The end of Dakota. And when it is the end for Dakota it is the end for all of you. Do you understand what is expected of you?’ he asked sternly.

  ‘Yes, Daddy.’

  ‘Remember also that your contribution is a matter of national security not just for any one country, but for the survival of the entire human race. Your role i
s a holy mission, a crusade of utmost importance. Are you ready to give up everything, even your life, in the performance of this duty?’

  ‘You know I’d do anything for you, Daddy.’

  ‘Good girl. When I pull your strings, you will speak my words. There is no room for error.’ He stroked her forehead gently. ‘Now go back into the mind.’

  Next Schooner Klaus used his finger to write on the forehead of the sleeping girl, a code - so secret it used the Enochian alphabet.

  ‘Key, come forth,’ he invited softly.

  Key came. Her eyes were a void, for she was not human. Key was a stage three reporting alter, created through such terrible torture that she had left the body to hover over it like a mist. Totally invisible to all the other alters, she played a very important role. She was the watcher of the entire system. There was nothing that she did not know. Created to have excellent rapid recall, she alone knew every alter and kept a record of everything that had happened to Dakota’s body. In the unlikely event that Key was compromised there were six back-up alters who could be accessed by more secret codes known only to Schooner Klaus.

  The procedure was very strict. ‘Hello,’ said Key, and waited for the standard response format, which was ‘Hello, Princess’. If ever that did not come, she would instantly disappear.

  ‘Hello, Princess,’ said Schooner Klaus. ‘Who is the brown-skinned woman from Dakota’s dreams?’

  ‘She comes when Dakota is asleep so I am unable to monitor.’

  ‘You are certain she is not a previously unknown alter Dakota might have created while in the sensory deprivation tank?’

  ‘No such alter exists.’

  ‘Thank you for your help. Return the body to Dakota now.’

  Schooner Klaus took a syringe from his pocket and placed it on the low table. Then he took a few steps toward the one-way mirror over the fireplace, bowed deferentially, and left the room. Outside the door Miss Monroe was waiting.

  ‘Her medication is on the table. Take her back as soon as she wakes up,’ he said. Always, his voice reminded Miss Monroe of ink being poured into a glass tank, of elegant swirls and coils. ‘Good night, Dr Klaus.’