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Authors: John Case

The Syndrome

BOOK: The Syndrome
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“[A] TAUT,

The dialogue is especially realistic—as if caught by a hidden tape recorder…. [Case is] first in line to succeed Ludlum.”

—The Advocate
(Baton Rouge, La.)

“Chilling … Terrifying … [A] well-written, carefully plotted thriller … Great character development and a gripping story that is amply stocked with mystery and suspense.”

—The Roanoke Times

“A good old-fashioned page-turner … It’s clear, engaging storytelling; the kind that makes you race through the book.”

—The Baltimore Sun

“The pages are filled with characters rich in detail and nuance forced to swim the murky waters of silence and secrecy. The plot zooms along at Formula One speed, leaping through countries and cities, in an endless and desperate search for a truth that just may never be found…. Just sit back, grab hold, and let [Case] lead you down his dangerous trail.”


“Harrowing in its implications,
The Syndrome
is an intense novel that will keep you riveted from first page to last…. [Case] has done a magnificent job of creating a realistic, nail-biter of a thriller.”

—Romantic Times

Also by John Case


Books published by The Random House Publishing Group are available at quantity discounts on bulk purchases for premium, educational, fund-raising, and special sales use. For details, please call 1-800-733-3000.

(S)ome other power, some third class of individuals aside
from the leaders and the scholars must exist, and this third
class must have the task of thwarting mistakes, and nipping
the causes of potential disturbances in the bud. There must
be a body of men whose task it is to throw out the rotten
apples as soon as the first spots of decay appear …

A body of this nature must exist undercover. It must either
be a power unto itself, or be given the broadest
discretionary powers by the highest human authorities …

From “The Invisible Empire,” an after-Action report of Carleton Coon to OSS Chief William Donovan, quoted

in The Last Hero by Anthony Cave Brown.



June 16, 1996

It wasn’t the Grande Jatte. Not exactly. It wasn’t even the afternoon. Not quite. But it felt that way—just like the picture—as if nothing could ever go wrong. The placid park. The bright and dozy day. The neon-blue lake, shimmering in the breeze.

Lew McBride was on a long run through the narrow park that follows the shoreline of the Zurichsee from busy Bellevueplatz out to the suburbs. He’d already gone about three miles, and was on his way back, jogging through the dappled shade, thinking idly of Seurat.

The pointillist’s great canvas was peopled with respectable-looking men in top hats, docile children, and women in bustles carrying parasols. But the age it captured was two world wars ago, before
, the Internet, and “ethnic cleansing.” People were different now, and so were Sunday afternoons (even, or especially, when they were the same).

To begin with, it seemed as if half the girls he saw were on cell phones, Rollerblades, or both. They had pierced navels and mischievous eyes, and cruised, giggling, past kids with soccer balls, dozing “guest-workers,” and lovers making out in the lush grass. The air was fresh from the Alps, sunny, cool and sweet, its soft edge tainted now and then with whiffs of marijuana.

He liked Zurich. Being there gave him a chance to practice his German. It was the first language he’d studied, chosen in high school because he’d had a crush on an exchange student. Later, he’d acquired Spanish, picked up a little French, and
even some Creole, but German was first—thanks to Ingrid. He smiled at the thought of her—Ingrid of the amazing body—cruising past a marina where sailboats rocked at their moorings, halyards clanking.

He could barely hear them. He had the volume turned up on his Walkman, listening to Margo Timmons sing an old Lou Reed song about someone called

“… Jane …
Sweet Jane …”

Music, books, and running were McBride’s secret nicotine and, without them, he became restless and unhappy. They were the reason he did not own (could not afford) a sailboat—which he wanted very much. His apartment in San Francisco was a testament to these obsessions. Near the windows, the stereo and the oversized sofa, stacks of books and CDs stood like dolmens: blues,
, DeLillo, and opera.
, rock, and gospel. Chatwin on Patagonia, Ogburn on Shakespeare. And a dozen books on chess, which McBride would rather read about than play (except, perhaps, in Haiti, where he and Petit Pierre sometimes sat for hours in the Oloffson, hunched over a battered chessboard, sipping rum).

Thinking about it made him miss it—the place, the chess, his friends …

As he ran, he glanced at his wristwatch and, seeing the time, picked up the pace. He had about an hour and twenty minutes until his appointment at the Institute, and he didn’t like to be late. (In fact, being late drove him crazy.)

Headquartered in Küssnacht, about twenty minutes from McBride’s hotel, the Institute of Global Studies was a small, but venerable, think tank funded by old money flowing from tributaries on both sides of the Atlantic. Like so many foundations established in the aftermath of the Second World War, the Institute was dedicated to the idea—the vague and elusive idea—of world peace. Toward that end, it hosted conferences and awarded fellowships each year to a handful of brilliant
youths whose research interests coincided with the Foundation’s own.

These included topics as diverse as “the rise of paramilitary formations in Central Africa,” “Islam and the Internet,” “Deforestation in Nepal,” and McBride’s own study—which concerned the therapeutic components of animist religions. With the Cold War a thing of the past, the Foundation’s directors had formed the opinion that future conflicts would be “low-intensity” struggles fueled, in most cases, by ethnic and religious differences.

With advanced degrees in clinical psychology and modern history, McBride had been traveling for nearly two years. During that time, he’d produced reports on, among other things, the mass-conversion techniques of faith healers in Brazil, the induction of trance states in Haitian voodoo ceremonies, and the role of “forest herbs” in the rites of Candomblé.

Two of these reports had been published in the
New York Times Magazine
, and this had led to a book contract. In three months, his fellowship would be up for renewal and, after thinking it over, he’d decided to take a pass. He was a little tired of living out of suitcases, and ready to focus on writing a book. And since the Foundation had summoned him to Zurich for their annual “chat,” it was the perfect opportunity to let them know of his decision in advance.

All of which was just another way of saying that life was good—and getting better. If McBride’s meeting went as planned, he could catch the six o’clock flight to London, arriving in time for dinner with Jane herself—the real Jane, whom he hadn’t seen in months.

Sweet Jane, Sweet Jane

It was this prospect that spurred his pace, so that he got back to his hotel—the Florida—nearly ten minutes earlier than he’d expected. This gave him plenty of time to shower,
shave, and dress, as well as to pack his only bag—a canvas duffel that had seen better days.

His meeting was with the Foundation’s Director, Gunnar Opdahl, a wealthy and cosmopolitan Norwegian surgeon who had given up medicine for philanthropy. Having spoken with Opdahl by telephone from California, McBride knew that the director wanted him to re-up for a third year. He was glad that he had this opportunity to meet with Opdahl face-to-face. It would give him the chance to discuss the reasons behind his decision to leave, while at the same time expressing his gratitude to the Institute.

And, while he was at it, he could visit Jane on the way home.

The Institute was headquartered in a turn-of-the-century townhouse, a brooding pile of granite built by a Swiss industrialist who had later hanged himself from a chandelier in the foyer (damaging it in the process). The building was three stories tall, with mullioned windows and wavy antique glass. There were copper gutters with gargoyles at the downspouts, a trio of chimneys poking through the tiled roof, and half a dozen window boxes, dripping with flowers.

A small brass plaque beside the massive front door declared the Foundation’s identity in German, French, and English. Above the leaded glass transom, a closed-circuit television camera stared down as he rang the doorbell once, twice, and—

“Lew!” The door swung open, and Gunnar Opdahl surged into view, eclipsing the room behind him. Taller even than the six foot one McBride, the Institute’s director was impeccably dressed in an expensive business suit that had a hand-tailored look, and a Hermes tie that McBride recognized from the duty free shops at Heathrow.

Rangy yet solidly built, the fiftyish Opdahl moved with the grace and languor of an aging athlete—which, in fact, he was, having won a bronze medal in the downhill decades earlier. It came up in conversation one time—the strange coincidence that McBride’s father had medalled in the same
Games (Sapporo, 1972), taking a silver in the biathlon (the first American ever to place in the event). Opdahl had winced good-naturedly, complaining that “Norway
the biathlon—at least, we’re supposed to!”

Now, Opdahl shook his hand and clapped a friendly arm around McBride’s shoulder. “So how was your trip?” he asked. “No problems?” The older man ushered McBride inside, then pushed the door shut behind them.

“A little jet lag,” McBride replied. “But, no. The flight was fine.”

“And the Florida?” Opdahl asked, looking bemused as he took McBride’s duffel and set it beside the door.

“The Florida’s great!”

Opdahl chuckled. “Large rooms, yes. But, great? I don’t think so.”

McBride laughed. “Well, it’s cheap, anyway.”

Opdahl shook his head, and clucked. “Next time, stay at the Zum Storchen, and let the Foundation worry about the money. I’ve told you: that’s what we

McBride made a gesture that was something between a shrug and a nod, and glanced around. The Institute’s quarters were more or less as he remembered them, with Persian carpets scattered across the marble floors, coffered ceilings and oak wainscotting, oil paintings of flowers and landscapes, and a scattering of blond PCs on antique wooden desks.

Though he’d only been to the Institute twice before, he was surprised to find its headquarters so quiet. Noticing that surprise, Opdahl clapped him on the shoulder, and gestured toward the stairs. “There’s just us!” he exclaimed, leading the way.


“Of course. It’s Saturday! No one comes to work on Saturday—except the boss. And that’s only because I don’t have a choice!”

“Why not?” McBride asked, as they began to mount the steps. “If you’re ‘the boss’—”

“Because I live here,” Opdahl told him.

They ascended the stairs in tandem, heading toward the third floor. “I always assumed you lived in the city,” McBride remarked.

Opdahl shook his head, and winced. “No. This is … what do you say? ‘My home-
-from-home.’” He paused on the landing, and turned to explain. “My wife lives in Oslo—hates Switzerland. Says it’s too bourgeois.”

“Well,” McBride said, “that’s its charm.”

“Of course, but—one can’t argue these things.”

“And your children?”

“All over the place. One boy’s at Harvard, another’s in Dubai. Daughter’s in Rolle.”


“Mmmnn. I spend half my life on airplanes, rocketing through the void.”

“And the rest of the time?”

Opdahl flashed a grin, and resumed climbing. “The rest of the time I’m raising money for the Foundation, or sticking pins in maps, trying to keep track of people
like you.”

It was McBride’s turn to smile and, as they climbed, he made a joke about being breathless. “I thought there was an elevator,” he remarked.

“There is, but I don’t like to use it on weekends,” Opdahl replied. “If there were a power failure … well, you can imagine.”

On his previous visits, McBride had met with Opdahl and his assistants in a conference room on the second floor—so he was at least mildly curious about the living quarters overhead. Arriving on the third floor, they came to a door that seemed entirely out of keeping with the building they were in. Made of steel rather than wood, it was unusually thick and sported a brushed aluminum keypad that governed its opening.

Opdahl punched three or four numbers, and the door sprung open with a metallic click. The foundation director rolled his eyes. “Ugly, isn’t it?”

“Well, it’s … big,” McBride remarked.

Opdahl chuckled. “The previous tenants were a private bank,” he explained. “From what I’ve heard about their clientele, a big door was probably well advised.”

The office itself was large and comfortable, brightly lighted and furnished in a modern style—unlike the rooms below. There was a wall of books and a leather sofa. A Plexiglas coffee table was laden with a silver tray that held a steaming pot of tea, two cups and saucers, milk and sugar, and a little pile of madeleines.

“Tea?” Opdahl asked.

McBride nodded—“Please”—and walked to the windows behind the desk, where he marveled at the view. Seen through the trees, the lake was the color of Windex, and glittered like broken glass. “Spectacular,” he said.

Opdahl acknowledged the compliment with a tilt of his head, pouring the while. “Sugar?”

“Just a little milk,” McBride replied. And, then, noticing the computer on the director’s desk, he cocked his head and frowned.

“Where’s the A-drive?” he asked.

“What’s an ‘A-drive’?”

“For your floppies.”

“Oh, that!” Opdahl replied. “There isn’t one.”

McBride was genuinely puzzled. “How come?”

Opdahl shrugged. “We like to keep our data confidential and, this way, we can be sure it stays in-house.” He handed McBride a cup of tea and, sitting down behind the desk, gestured for the young American to take a seat on the couch. Then he sipped, and exclaimed, “So!” A pause. “You’ve been doing a wonderful job!”

“Well … thanks,” McBride replied.

“I mean it, Lewis. I know how difficult it can be to work in places like Haiti. They’re filthy, and if you don’t know what you’re doing, they can be dangerous.”

“I got my shots.”

“Still …” Opdahl leaned forward, and cleared his throat. “You must be wondering what this is all about….”

McBride shifted in his seat, and smiled. “Not really,” he said. “I just
. The fellowship ends in a couple of months….”

Opdahl nodded in a way that confirmed the observation even as he dismissed its relevance. “Well, yes, you’re right—of course, but … that’s not the reason you’re here.”

“No?” McBride gave him a puzzled look.

“No.” A whirring sound came from the hall outside the office and, hearing it, the two men looked in its direction.

“Is that the elevator?” McBride asked.

The director nodded, his brow creasing in a frown.


“It’s one of the staff,” Opdahl supposed. “He probably forgot something.” Then the whirring stopped, and they could hear the doors rolling back. A moment later, there was a knock. “Would you mind?” the director asked, gesturing toward the door.

McBride frowned. Hadn’t Opdahl said, “There’s just us”? And something about not using the elevator. But he did as he was asked. “No problem,” he said, and, getting to his feet, stepped to the door and opened it.

There was only a fraction of a second to take things in, and no time at all to make sense of it. What he saw was this: a man in surgical scrubs with a gas mask over his face. Then a cloud of spray, and the floor rising toward him. A shower of lights. Darkness.

He was in an ambulance. He was sure that he was in an ambulance because he could see the lights on the ceiling, reflected red lights, going around and around. Nearby, a man in surgical scrubs watched him with a look of mild curiosity.

McBride wanted to ask what was wrong with him, but it was difficult to speak. His mouth was dry, his tongue like wood. When he tried to talk, his voice was slurred, as if he were drunk. After a while, he gave up trying to talk, and tried to concentrate on what had happened.
There was a man in a
mask. An emergency worker of some kind. Which meant a gas leak, or something like it

BOOK: The Syndrome
9.24Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

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