PRISONER #1

New York, September 14, 2015

How much do we know about the universe? Are we even prepared if we were to stumble upon an undeniable proof of the existence of another life identical to ours? What will be our reaction if we discover there is another earth? I am not talking about an earthlike planet. Neither am I talking about the possibility that life, as we know it on Earth, exists somewhere in our universe. What I mean is; what would be our reaction if someone presented us with material proof of the existence of a parallel life to ours.

Such a discovery will not be totally strange for the men and women who already work on projects related to such possibilities and eventualities. Have we thought about the 7 billion or more people who consider themselves to be the unique creations of a god?

I am an old man. Very soon, I will be seventy-five. Almost 58 years ago, I wrote and presented an article in front of my fellow mates of the Harvard Department of Anthropology. I immediately became the laughing stock of the department and the university. Although my mates made a mockery of me, and my professors rebuked me, I knew my theory was right. I just couldn’t prove it then. At least not the type of proof they all needed from me. I will never forget that particular day of the presentation. When Professor Johnson Black called my name and asked me to come up and do my presentation, I couldn’t have imagined the title of my article in itself will be an instant controversy. I stood up, went in front of the auditorium, and told my classmates that the subject of my presentation was none other than ’Psychic archaeology: Edgar Cayce didn’t lie.’

I can never forget the roar that broke. It took Professor Johnson Black over twenty minutes to bring calm and order to his class. When I thought everything was settling down, and I could begin my presentation, Professor Johnson Black told me he was calling off the session for that day. It’s been 58 years now, I’ve never proven my point regarding this particular topic. Now a retired clinical psychologist and psychiatrist, I still hold to the same conviction. My articles and publications have always resulted in fierce criticisms from my peers. Although I have the unofficial title of ‘controversy king,’ it has never been my goal to attract such publicity to myself. Notwithstanding, I am convinced my findings are genuine and my theories correct.

Should I say I have proof that there is a parallel world to ours? No, I don’t have any tangible proof. Do I have any reason to think there is? Yes, tons of reasons. I have traveled around the world and collected testimonies, seen artifacts, and observed archaeological sites. My findings are explicit and unequivocal; there are parallel worlds to ours. Not only that, some times, these parallel worlds also lose their parallelity and interact. I haven’t published some of my findings, because I don’t have explanations for some of the things I find.

Some time ago, I realized the more I wrote articles and brought forth theories that tried to explain my findings on this subject, the more I became victim to verbal assaults. These verbal assaults weren’t mere scientific confrontations; they were attacks on my person.

At first, I didn’t realize all these assaults had a common trend. Not until Susan, my dear wife, for forty-five years called my attention to the fact that the verbal attacks had the marks of a subtle media campaign against my person. And she was right. All the attacks had a common origin, the press, and this wasn’t even the scientific press. I wondered why the press would do all to discredit me. One day, having had enough, I decided it was time I stop publishing my findings. I thought that would be it; I’ll finally live the life of a failed scientist, lonely in my bungalow with my wife and dog. That didn’t happen. Those who did all to destroy my career weren’t finish yet.

One year after I stopped publishing my findings, the break-ins started. The first time, I thought I had been the victim of a mere home break-in. But when my house was broken into the second time after my 2013 trip to Scotland, where I was leading a team of archaeologists in a ‘dig’ in Dundee, I decided to have my private detective friend have a look at my house first before calling the cops. My friend’s conclusion was without appeal; it wasn’t a spontaneous burglary; it had the marks of a covert search operation by federal agents or any of the government agencies. It was a difficult pill for me to swallow. What were federal agents searching for in my house? Why will the government have an interest in me, a failed archaeological theorist?

Six months after the break-in, two men in black knocked at my door and asked me to follow them. These men were FBI agents. Four hours after that knock on my door, the FBI made me sign a non-disclosure paper on all my findings on the Dundee, Scotland ‘dig.’ I wondered why the FBI would care about my research activities in Europe. It was an archaeological excavation site for that matter. My research had approval from the authorities in Scotland and the University of Scotland. No aspect of it posed any security risk to the United States of America. I wanted to call my lawyer, but the agent under whose supervision I was told me I couldn’t. He was categorical. He said, even talking about it with my wife will put me in a federal jail for the rest of my life. The look at the man’s face when he said this told me he wasn’t kidding.

I was an ordinary citizen when I got to the FBI premises that day, but things changed from the very minute I signed the tons of security papers that were handed to me. It wasn’t clear what the FBI wanted me to do. To be exact, the FBI didn’t ask me to do anything. The Senior Special Agent I spoke with only said I had to continue with my research on the ‘dig’ in Dundee, Scotland, but I had to stay mute about it. Although the Senior Special Agent wasn’t explicit, something he said during our brief discussion painted the exact picture of what the FBI wanted.

From what I understood, the FBI wanted me to mislead my group from whatever direction our research had to take. In simple terms, I had to misinterpret our findings. Before leaving the FBI building that day, I asked this Senior Special Agent if all these meant I now work for the FBI. He looked at me, smiled, and said, “no, you now work for something different.”

I was surprised when the Senior Special Agent told me the agency I work for is more secretive and powerful than all the known and unknown agencies in the United States and the rest of the world put together. I don’t need to say here that all these sounded more like a big joke to me. Then I prayed it was, but it was nothing but the truth. Until date, I still ask myself why the FBI was involved in my ‘recruitment’ if they have no link with the secretive agency as the Specia Agent claimed. When I think about it now, I regret not asking this question to the Senior Special Agent.

Since that day, although I have never received any request of any sort from the FBI or any government agency, I know they have been watching me. Every single displacement and communication I make is scrutinized, although they have been very discreet. I guess they are staying their distance because of Susan. They know they wouldn’t be able to keep her silent and docile as they have with me. I suspect they have wired my house, and my telephone calls tapped. What I still don’t understand is why they think my Dundee ‘dig’ will reveal something worth the resources they are spending on me. What exactly do they expect me to find? Why me? Who are these people?

****

I received a call the other day from someone asking me to report myself to the FBI. I immediately made out the voice, although it is almost three years since I last heard it. There is no other word to describe their request apart from that it is an illegal summons. Unfortunately, I don’t even have the strength and will to decline it. It’s been three years that I was last in contact with them. I still haven’t received any requests neither have they ordered me to do anything other than my daily job of a consultant in archaeological excavation sites.

As I descend from the plane this morning at JFK from Dundee, I can’t stop but ask myself why today. Why has the FBI requested I report myself to them today? I have been to the Dundee ‘dig’ more than fifteen separate times in the last three years, and there haven’t been any significant findings. What do they want this time?

The call came four days ago. Exactly two days after I submitted a report of the recent findings to the Scottish Bureau of Archaeology. I hope this summons from the FBI has nothing to do with this report? Except for a couple of old clay vases and wooden tools, we found nothing worth such an invitation from the US authorities.

By the way, why is the US Federal Bureau of Investigation interested in an archaeological site in Scotland? I keep asking myself this question. I have not shared this secret with Susan, my wife, because I don’t want her life to be worried. The FBI should have its reasons for keeping this top-secret, but why haven’t they explained to me what is going on? I am no one. I am not even among the top twenty in my field.

Well, I guess as I meet them today, I’ll be able to shed light on this mystery. The JFK passenger lounge looks different today. I have this impression everyone is staring at me. I am scared. The second person I had on the phone the other day wasn’t even polite enough to tell me who I will be meeting at the airport. He only said someone would pick me at the airport. Susan knows I have to return to the country only in five days, but here I am.

****

“Professor Silvester Meyer, over here!”

I hear a coarse voice shout my name. When I turn and look towards the direction where the voice is coming from, I see this chubby blonde man of about 5’5” waving at me. To me, he doesn’t look FBI. I wave back at him. The man waves one more time and walks swiftly towards me. Before I can ask who he is, he sents forth his right hand and shakes mine.

“Do we know ourselves, please?” I hesitantly ask him, pulling my hand off his.

“No, we don’t. But that isn’t important for now.”

He is putting on a pair of jeans and a white polo T-shirt. We are merely one minute into meeting each other, and he has adjusted his glasses more than ten times. As I turn to leave, the man calls my name, accompanied by my full credentials. In a flat and inaudible tone, he says he comes in peace. What does that even mean?

“FBI, Special Agent Mathew Reeves. Can we please get out of this lounge.”

“Not until you tell me where you are taking me.”

“Please, listen to me.” Special Agent Mathew Reeves says in a soft tone. “I am new to all these; I am begging you to cooperate.”

As we slowly walk out of the passenger lounge, I turn my head towards him and say, “how come you are new to all these, and yet, you are already an FBI special agent?”

“Oh, sorry, I wasn’t clear.” The chubby Special Agen fixes his glasses again.

“Clear about what Mr. Special Agent?”

“I am new to the art of politely asking people to execute my orders.”

As he says this, he shifts closer to me and, in a gentle manner, pads my shoulder and tells me how lucky I am. I don’t understand what he means, but I prefer leaving the discussion at that.

I am happy to breathe the familiar New York air as we get outside the lounge. I see there is a parked shiny black Cadillac sedan waiting for us. The driver walks towards me and collects my luggage and carefully places it into the trunk, and before I can say another word, we are speeding to 26 Federal Plaza. The driver of the Cadillac, visibly of Mexican descent, keeps staring at me through his rear mirror. I can’t bear it, having him stare at me the way he does, so I ask him if my face is a GPS.

I am not a rude person, and I have never spoken to anyone the way I am now talking to this guy, but he leaves me no choice—both of them.

“You are one lucky fellow.” Special Agent Mathew Reeves continues with his rhetoric.

“How is being kidnapped lucky?” I murmur to myself but do it loud enough to the hearing of the other occupants of the car.

“How did you do it?” The Special Agent can no more hold his tongue. “I worked my ass for the last fifteen years, but here you are being given a ride to the Plaza as a king.”

“And what the hell are you talking about?” I can’t stand hearing this man’s voice any longer. At my age, I should be thinking about my blood pressure, but here I am, talking harshly to two strangers claiming to work for the FBI. They don’t even look FBI.

Ten minutes after asking Special Agent Reeves what he means by me being lucky, the atmosphere in the car suddenly becomes serene. As we drive into the FBI building premises, I can only pray I get out without an official accusation of any wrongdoing. The car comes to a halt, and I hear the sound of the door unlock. I put out my right foot to step out of the car only to hear the Special Agent tell me, “Sir, it is the first time in my 20-year career with the bureau that I see a civilian with no prior history being given such access and priority.”

“I don’t understand,” I tell him as I put back my right foot into the car.

“Well, me too.” Special Agent Mathew Reeves is surprisingly very respectful now. “Someone extremely well placed must have recommended you.”

I look at this man one more time and then step out of the car. Another federal agent, this time, a lady, meets me at the entrance and asks me to come with her. Four minutes later, here we are on the 27th floor of the Plaza. As I walk behind the lady agent, I can’t ignore the stares. They are all staring at me as if I were a lamb being led to the slaughter. Silvester, what have you done? I think within me. I now regret never telling Susan all these. She will never forgive me if she came to be aware I have been hiding such a secret from her. We have always shared every detail of our lives. I can’t even imagine how I have been able to keep all these to myself for four years.