Robert Ludlum's The Utopia Experiment - By Kyle Mills Page 0,123

blameless victims who he had sacrificed so that others could live and prosper.

General Park stopped next to a heavy steel door and turned toward Dresner. His skin hung loosely, contrasting with the heavily starched uniform weighted down with meaningless medals and a polished sidearm. He didn’t speak, but his dull eyes flicked toward the door, making it clear that they had reached their destination.

Dresner’s anger intensified as the bolt was thrown back and he entered. The cell was probably no more than three meters square with an open toilet, a cot, and a single chair where Gerhard Eichmann sat. Park had undoubtedly gone out of his way to defy his wishes that his friend be made as comfortable as possible until he arrived.

When Eichmann looked up, the fear in his eyes was replaced by relief, hope, and even joy. All illusions spun by the computer in his head, of course, but no less powerful for not being real. And neither was the deep sense of melancholy he himself felt.

“I’m so sorry, Gerd. They weren’t supposed to put you here. I came as soon as I could.”

He crossed the tiny room to help his friend overcome the cast on his leg and rise to his feet. When Eichmann looked into his face, though, some of the fear had returned.

“You tried to kill me, Christian.”

“In Morocco?” Dresner smiled sadly. “No. It was Smith and Russell. They did it to turn you against me. To trick you into bringing them here.”

Eichmann broke away and stumbled backward, trying to think through what he was hearing. By the time Dresner reached out to steady him, it was clear from his face that he realized it was the truth.

“I…I’m sorry, Christian.”

“I know.”

“They found the data for the study. And they know what was done here. Everything except Division D.”

Dresner retrieved a set of crutches leaning against the wall and held them out. “Let’s go, Gerd.”

“Go? We’re leaving?”

“Of course. My jet is waiting. We’ll be home soon.”

“Home,” Eichmann repeated. “But that’s where they found me. I can’t go back unless they’re gone. Are they? Do you know what’s happened to them?”

In fact, Dresner didn’t. They’d escaped into the mountains and the military had mounted a massive—and thus far fruitless—hunt for them. While it seemed impossible that they would be able to avoid capture, both had proved their resourcefulness too many times to make any other assumption. And that left him relying on Castilla’s anxiousness to end their investigation. Far from certain, but more likely than Smith and Russell allowing themselves to be caught. Powerful men were easy to predict and even easier to manipulate. Castilla would protect his beloved country. And he would protect himself.

“Not Morocco,” Dresner said, opening the door to the cell and standing aside so Eichmann could hobble through. “Somewhere else. Somewhere no one will be able to bother you again.”

Dresner watched his oldest—only—friend struggle up the hallway, unable to keep the memories from intruding on his mind: Their first meeting at East Germany’s Olympic training facility. The delicate beginnings of trust as they tested each other with increasingly unequivocal admissions of their disillusionment. And finally their escape.

The corridor was so long it seemed to stretch into infinity. No guards were present and the only sound came from the confused rhythm of their footsteps and breathing. Dresner put a hand on Park’s shoulder and then pointed to his holster. Understanding came quickly, as would be expected for a man like him.

The Korean pulled his sidearm and held it out as they walked. Dresner took it with no outward demonstration of the hesitation he felt, no acknowledgment of the terrifying weight of it in his hand.

He had done so many horrible things and there were so many more to come. None had touched him personally, though. And that was hypocrisy.

Dresner raised the gun to the back of his friend’s head. He wouldn’t feel any pain. None of them would. The computer that made him who he was would just turn off. Forever.

The sound echoed through the confines of the concrete passage, and blood splashed hot across Dresner’s face. He let the gun fall next to his friend’s body as he once again told himself that there had been no choice. That Eichmann was a weak link in the chain he’d spent the better part of half a century forging. And while it was all true, it did nothing to diminish the profound sense of emptiness he felt. For the first time since he’d been dropped