Yes.

“Sure—you jogged with me while I used my chair, right? Or maybe it was a fast walk.”

“Definitely a jog,” said the scientist. “If not a run.”

“You’ve gained a little weight, Jersey,” said Zen, suddenly remembering Rodriguez’s nickname. “You’re not running anymore, I’m guessing.”

“I do, but a lot less than I should. And, uh, a hernia operation a couple of years ago slowed me down.” He gently patted his stomach. “Put on about twenty pounds I haven’t been able to get rid of.”

More like thirty or forty, thought Zen, but now that he knew who Rodriguez was, he felt more comfortable. “So what have you been up to?”

“Well, I left Nevada for a few years, to work at Stanford. Then I came back with the Spinal Cell Clinic. I, uh, well, I helped start it. I’m one of the partners.” Rodriguez shifted in the chair. “I—we’ve been doing very interesting, very important work over the past few years. I guess, well maybe you saw the piece on 60 Minutes the other night on Mark Huntington.” Rodriguez sat.

“He was one of your cases?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. As you saw, he can walk now.”

“I met him,” said Zen. “I met him right after his accident at the bowl game. And I saw him again a few weeks ago. You’re right. He can walk. It’s a phenomenal story.”

“There’s a lot of hope for the procedure.”

Zen glanced quickly at his watch. It wasn’t a dodge; the Iranian “earthquake” had greatly complicated his schedule. “Doc, I have a lot of things I have to do today, including getting down to the floor in ten minutes. You’ve sold me. You have my backing. Tell Cheryl what you need. To the extent that I can help—”

“I’m not looking for backing. Or money. We’re funded through the next decade. And, to be honest, the patents—we may actually, um, stand to make a considerable amount of money.”

“Well, why are you here?”

“We want to try the process on someone who was injured at least ten years ago. Someone in good shape, willing to put the time in. Someone we already had a lot of baseline information on. You’d be the perfect candidate.”

5

Washington, D.C.

ONCE UPON A TIME, MARK STONER HAD BEEN A CIA paramilitary officer. He had been a good one. Even exceptional. Paras, as they were often called, were all highly accomplished, but Stoner stood out as a man of great skill, courage, and flexibility. He had worked with some of the best operators in the Agency’s clandestine service, and in other agencies as well, including the secret Air Force units that operated out of Dreamland.

Stoner had no memory of any of that. He had seen all of the records of his missions, scant as they were; none were familiar. On the bad days he could feel the echo of long-ago wounds he’d suffered. But he could make no link between the aches and pains and whatever had caused them.

His mind was a blank when it came to his past. He had no retained memory of anything beyond the past few months. He couldn’t remember his elementary school days, his high school years, college. He didn’t know the names of his teachers or the faces of his best friends. He could close his eyes and think of his childhood home and it wouldn’t be there. He couldn’t remember the faces of his mother and father—long dead, he was told—not even with the help of photographs.

The doctors who treated him sometimes said it would be better that way.

Stoner had been through an extremely rough time. Captured after a horrendous crash in Eastern Europe, he had become a human experiment. Designer drugs and steroids were pumped into his body to rebuild his muscles and erase his will. He’d been made into an assassin, controlled by a criminal organization in the dark recesses of the old Soviet empire.

Better not to know, said the doctors. Even his friend Zen Stockard agreed.

Stoner didn’t have an opinion, particularly. Opinions belonged to a realm beyond him, housed in a metaphysical building some towns away. The only thing he cared about now were his present surroundings—a gym on a quiet campus of a federal prison. Stoner wasn’t a prisoner, exactly; he just had no other place to go, at least not where the government could keep an eye on him.

For his own protection, the doctors said.

Stoner looked at the boxing gloves on his hands, checking the tape. Then he began hitting the weighted bag. It gave slightly with each punch, though never so much that he felt as if he were a superman.

Jab-jab-punch. He danced left, jabbed some more, then moved right. He wasn’t a boxer. He could box, but he wasn’t a boxer. He just hit the bag for something to do.

“Hey, Mark. How’s it going?”

Stoner stopped in mid-jab and looked behind him. Danny Freah was standing near the door next to two of Stoner’s doctors—Dr. Peralso and Dr. Rosen. Rosen was the case doctor; Peralso was the head of the psychiatric section responsible for him.

Both men were afraid of Stoner. It was obvious from the way their eyes darted when he approached.

Danny wasn’t afraid. He was a friend. But his eyes betrayed a different emotion: pity.

Stoner greatly preferred fear.

“Danny, hi.” He turned back and began pounding the bag again.

As he continued to wail away, he heard the three men walking across the large gymnasium floor toward him. His senses of hearing and sight were greatly improved, thanks to the ordeal he couldn’t remember. Or so the doctors said.

Stoner slammed his fists against the thick canvas. It didn’t really feel good, but it didn’t feel bad. It just was.

Finally, he turned toward Danny.

“Business?” he asked.

“Yeah.” Danny nodded. “A couple of weeks ago you told me you wanted something to do. Well I have something. It’s not easy. Actually, the odds are against success.”

Stoner shrugged. “Sounds good.”

DANNY FOLLOWED STONER AND THE DOCTORS DOWN the long hallway. His friend’s reaction was exactly what he had expected. There’d be no joy or disappointment, no excitement, and no fear. He wondered if Stoner really understood.

The doctors, though they didn’t know the actual outlines of the mission, clearly suspected it was suicidal, because they began peppering Stoner with objections from the moment he agreed. They were still at it now, talking about “treatment modalities” and “long-term rest.”

Stoner ignored them, continuing to his room. He pressed his index finger against the reader at the lock, then raised his head so the laser reader embedded above the door could measure his face. The biometric check took only a few seconds. The door snapped open as the security system recognized him.

The room was as spare as a Buddhist monk’s. A bed covered with a single sheet sat in the middle of the room. There were no blankets, no pillows. An orange vinyl chair sat in the corner. Stoner’s clothes, the few he had, were closeted behind a set of folding doors opposite the bed. Having removed his gloves while walking down the hall, he pulled the last bit of tape from them and dropped it in a nearby wastepaper basket. He put the gloves on one of the shelves, then started to change.

“Do you want privacy?” Danny asked.

“Why?”

Danny backed out of the room anyway. The doctors stayed. He guessed they were continuing to argue with Stoner about not going.

Danny didn’t mind. Part of him agreed with them.

Stoner emerged from the room, dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt.

“Is that all you’re taking?” Danny asked.

“Do I need anything else?”

“No. I guess not.”

Stoner glanced at the two doctors, who had fallen silent.

“I don’t know when I’ll be back,” he told them.

They walked together to Danny’s car, neither man talking. Danny got in, but hesitated before turning the key to the ignition.