Game Changer (17 page)

Rachel smiled. “Not so much,” she said. “So our efficient
systems let our inefficient consciousness believe it’s always in control,” she
continued, “when the reverse is more often the case. The unconscious controls our
bodies and the random thoughts we have, and far more of our lives than we’d ever
imagine. I’ve studied the mind for many years and I still can’t truly believe
how little the conscious
me
controls
my thoughts and actions. That’s the genius of the unconscious. It helps us
survive, secretly running much of the show, but graciously letting us take most
of the credit. Take taste in women, for example. Some men are hopelessly
attracted to tall blondes. Some to women who are overweight. Some to big rear
ends, some to small. And some are even attracted to one-legged aborigines, for
all I know.”

Quinn laughed. “Wouldn’t surprise me at all.”

“Most would agree that we don’t choose who we are attracted
to. This is somehow decided by brain circuitry that we can’t access. We don’t
consciously decide we’re going to have the hots for one-legged aborigines.”

Rachel was intent on keeping the discussion G-rated, but an
even more interesting example was the catalog of what certain people liked in
bed, an assortment of sexual preferences across the species that was
exceedingly varied and sometimes disturbing. This made the point also—people
often had no idea why they liked what they liked, why their bodies responded to
what they responded to—but she had decided that discussing unusual sexual
preferences with a stranger who had accosted her was a very bad idea.

“In 1965 a guy named Hess did an experiment,” she continued.
“He showed men various photos of women. But in half of the photos, he
artificially dilated their eyes, which is a biological sign of sexual arousal.
The men ranked women whose eyes were dilated as being more attractive than these
same women when their eyes were not.
When
asked why, not one noticed this difference in the eyes, minor as it was. At
least not consciously. When asked specifically if their ratings were due to
levels of dilation, the men shrugged this off as being ridiculous. They weren’t
even aware that this was a sign of female arousal. Their unconscious not only
detected this difference, but managed to get their conscious to respond to it.
None had any idea that genetic programming stitched into their brains from the earliest
days of evolution was secretly dictating this response.”

“Doesn’t this imply that
intuition is a real thing, then?” asked Quinn. “My instincts, my intuition,
have saved my life on more than one occasion. But I was always under the
impression that scientists thought this was a load of garbage.”

“Just the opposite. Your
unconscious systems can be brilliant, far smarter and more observant than you
are. Like directing your mouth to form words, your unconscious understands body
language better than you do, for example. And it picks up on patterns faster
than you do. There are endless examples from real life and the lab.”

“This explains a lot,” said
Quinn. “So I might not be all that talented, but I’m lucky enough to have some
gifted subroutines helping me out behind the curtain.”

“Give your conscious some
credit. You’re smart enough to trust these subroutines. They aren’t always
right, of course, but more often than you would be. When you first appeared, I
had to decide what to do. I could run, scream for help, be defiant, cooperate,
and so on. And yes, I consciously thought through the logic of the different
actions. But what were my data points? Feelings? Intuition? My hidden mental
wiring tried to read your body language, estimate risks based on limited
information. If you asked me why I decided to cooperate, what could I tell you?
Could I lay out an algebraic equation? No, my inner self weighed all of the
options and came to a decision, which I immediately took credit for.”

“You made the right one,
Professor,” said Quinn. “I promise you.”

Rachel sighed. That remained to
be seen.

She noticed that Quinn was
scanning her mirrors whenever there was the slightest break in the
conversation, studying the cars behind them.
 
 

“All of this is not to say that
the conscious mind still doesn’t have a huge role,” she continued. “For one,
it’s there to handle surprises, the unexpected. Right now, my consciousness is
absorbed in our conversation. So I’m driving on autopilot, using subroutines
etched into my unconscious. But if a kid suddenly runs into the road in front
of me, my conscious mind will immediately take over, ignoring you completely.”
She paused. “And, of course, it sets goals and makes decisions.”

“But you’re saying that even
these goals and decisions are heavily influenced by the unconscious. Which we
can’t reach or influence.”

“Yes,” said Rachel, unable to
keep a smile from creeping across her face. Quinn made an excellent student.
“Think of your conscious as the mayor of a major city. An immense amount of
activity and politicking go on in the city, and you can’t possibly be aware of
the vast majority of it. The city mostly runs itself, although as mayor, you
take credit when things go smoothly and get blamed when they fall apart
—
although many times you have nothing
to do with either outcome. Your unconscious subsystems are what have been
called a team of rivals, each lobbying you in a different direction whenever
you have to make a decision, winner take all. But again, even when they drive
you to a behavior for reasons unknown to you, your conscious self will make up
a story to rationalize this behavior and take full credit for it.”

“What role do our emotions play
in all of this?” asked Quinn.

“They’re important drivers of
behavior also, with fear and love being obvious examples, causing us to drop
everything and attend to whatever caused these emotions. But there are people with
damage to their prefrontal cortex such that their emotions can no longer influence
their behavior. When this happens, the simplest decisions become difficult or
impossible for them. What to make for dinner? Which movie to see? Some days
they never leave the couch, almost entirely paralyzed, unable to decide on
anything. They feel overwhelmed by information they can’t seem to prioritize. They
often can’t make themselves care about one decision over another. So emotions
are a weighting system for our choices. To make a decision, we have to value
one choice over another.”

“You really are doing an amazing
job of this,” said Quinn. “Even under duress, your knowledge and passion really
shine through.”

“Thank you.”

“I’d like to take a pause right
now, though,” said Quinn. “Please drive home. I’m convinced no one is following
us, which is good. So now I’d like to check out your house, and make sure it’s
safe. But I need to focus all of my attention on watching for possible tails
until we arrive.”

“Sure,” said Rachel, pulling
into the left lane so she could take the next U-turn. Since she had been
traveling in random circles, they were only five or ten minutes from their
destination.

They drove in silence while
Quinn’s eyes bored holes in the Acura’s mirrors. When they neared her house, he
had her complete several concentric circles around the neighborhood before
declaring that the coast was clear.

“Outstanding,” he said. “No tail
and no stake out. I expected you to be safe and unwatched for another day or
so, but under the circumstances I wanted to be extra cautious.”

Rachel pulled the car into the
driveway and turned off the engine.

“I’d like to pick up where we
left off,” said Quinn. “And I promise you, I will explain everything. Soon.” He
paused. “But one last precaution. When we get inside, stay with me and don’t
say anything.” He nodded at the rucksack by his feet. “I just want to do a
quick scan. My understanding is that your house isn’t bugged, but better safe
than sorry.”

Rachel nodded, but couldn’t help
frowning. Because the truth was, this further display of paranoia was alarming.
The more cautious Quinn was, the more likely he was delusional and dangerous,
and the
less
safe she felt.

“Sure,” she said, swallowing
hard. “You can never be too careful.”

26

Quinn shoved his doctored hat
and oversized sunglasses into a side pocket of the rucksack and entered Rachel
Howard’s small home with the owner leading the way. Her research might be
leading edge, but the house was many decades old and the furnishings and decor were
anything but modern. On the other hand, they were tasteful and attractive. He
knew the joke in real estate was that a home was never
cramped
and
old
, it was
cozy
and
quaint
, but in the case of Rachel’s home these more complimentary adjectives
were accurate.
 

Quinn’s plan had been to build
rapport with the professor, and he knew that this was exactly what was
happening. She had turned out to be extraordinary, and not in the ways he had
expected. Of course she was brilliant, but he hadn’t counted on her charm, her
approachability. He had no idea that he would find her personality appealing,
that she could make neuroscience so damned fascinating.

He still needed to keep her
calm, to win her trust, knowing that even then it would take a miracle for her
to believe him when he finally told her his story. He imagined the conversation
they would soon have.
Here is why you
should believe me when I tell you you’re on a hit list
, he would say.
Turns out
I’m a Secret Service agent being hunted for trying to kill the
president. But I did have a good reason. You see, he tortured and killed a wife
I never had. In front of me. While we were both at a retreat I never attended
.

Nothing alarming in that story.

He had been procrastinating, but
he knew he needed to share his side of the story with her soon, before it hit
the media. Once they set the narrative, she was even less likely to believe
what he told her.

Before admitting to having false
memories, Quinn intended to discuss the subject of memory in general with a
woman who was a world leading expert on this subject. Learn how often something
like this might happen. What could cause it. Was it always a sign of insanity,
or did this kind of memory malfunction sometimes occur in the sane?

He removed the small electronic
surveillance detection device from where he had left it on top of the weapons
and other equipment in the mercenaries’ bag and casually switched it on.

Quinn’s body visibly stiffened,
transforming from relaxed to tense in an instant. His eyes widened as he stared
at the device in his right hand.

“What’s wrong?” said Rachel anxiously.

He brought a finger briskly to
his lips, reminding her she was supposed to remain silent until he was finished.
Three bugs detected
, he mouthed.

Quinn’s mind raced. How could
this be? He had seen the Russian’s instructions himself, and no bugs should
have been present. Had the mercs escaped already, or had 302 decided to change
gears and send in someone else while they had been babysitting him on the
mountain?

And even if he had decided to
accelerate the timetable, why the need for bugs? They wanted her dead, not a recording
of her singing in the shower.

Regardless of the answer to
these questions, they were in trouble. He had been seen with the professor the
moment they had entered, which meant a clock was ticking. They could have a day
before alarms were sounded and the walls closed in, or hostiles could be
converging on her home in minutes. It all depended on who was at the other end
of the bugs, and how closely they were being monitored.

He considered having Rachel
watch the outside for possible unwanted visitors while he removed the bugs, but
decided against it. If he let her that far out of his sight, she’d be a fool
not to run at this point, and she was anything but a fool.
 

He motioned for her to follow
him while he located the first bug, which jutted out just a few millimeters
from a spindle on the stairs that faced the front door. It had been painted white
to match the wood and cemented nearly flush with it, making it almost
impossible for a casual observer to detect. Quinn carved it free with a combat
knife while Rachel looked on in dismay. He pried the tiny device open with the
tip of the knife and then used the edge to sever three wires that were the
diameter of angel hair pasta.

Quinn handed the disabled device
to Rachel so she could see for herself that it was tiny, sophisticated, and
camouflaged. He took satisfaction from the play of emotions that ran across her
face, and a mind that was factoring in this new data at a furious pace. She had
humored him, but had never taken his warnings seriously. For the first time she
was beginning to appreciate that he might not be the most dangerous threat she
faced, after all.

Ironically, these bugs and what
they represented could be a godsend. Not only did their presence here imply
that Quinn really did still have a grip on reality—if one didn’t count his imaginary
wife—it gave him much-needed credibility with Rachel.

“Audio and video,” he
half-mouthed, half-whispered, placing his face inches from her ear. “Military
grade,” he finished, motioning her to follow him.
 

During the next several minutes
he found and disabled the remaining devices planted on the premises.

“Okay, we can talk now,” he announced
when he had killed the last bug. He shook his head. “I have to say, I’m at a
loss to explain this.”
 

“You did say someone was after
me, right?”

“Yes. But you weren’t supposed
to be under surveillance. Why bother? You advertise your whereabouts and you’re
as easy a target as it gets.”

Rachel swallowed hard. “Thanks,”
she muttered.

Quinn winced. Nothing like
reminding a woman who suddenly discovers her life really is on the line that
she’s a sitting duck.

“What now?” asked Rachel.

“We need to get the hell out of
here. But I need to think for a few seconds.”

The room fell silent. A moment
later something within Quinn caused the hairs to rise on the back of his neck.
Had he heard something? He didn’t think so, but he wasn’t about to ignore
attempts by his unconscious to contact headquarters.

He rushed to the wide,
rectangular front window in the family room, which was completely obscured by a
pleated teal curtain. He pulled an edge of the curtain away and peered out.
Sure enough, a car was slowly approaching from the north.

Rachel had taken his lead and
was peering through the window on the other side when the car turned into her driveway
and parked beside the Acura. While darkness had fallen, there was sufficient
light inside the car for Quinn to see it contained only the driver, a handsome,
athletic-looking man with black hair and a dark complexion.

Rachel’s eyes widened. “I know
this guy,” she whispered in astonishment. “Just met him this morning in my
class. He’s an Israeli grad student named Eyal Regev. Very talented guy.”

Her initial relief that the
driver had turned out to be a student and not an assassin was short-lived as her
expression turned grim. “What are the chances this is just a coincidence?”

“Slim to none,” replied Quinn
ominously as a gun appeared in his hand, almost as if by magic. “And that might
be optimistic.”