âTHIS IS KILLING LIKE A GOD.â
A murder-for-hire syndicate rises from the ashes of a scandal-ridden university dream research project. By seizing control of the victimâs autonomic nervous system during a dream, a company called Morpheus Research executes high profile assassinationsâwith a twist. They always appear as death by natural causes. No bullet holes, no stab wounds, no poison.
Sean Hastings is a forty-year-old stock broker whose life has become a sad cocktail of insomnia, boredom, and loneliness. While seeking help from a sleep clinic, he runs into an old colleague. He offers Sean a unique solution: an Amazonian psychotropic compound thatâs guaranteed to help him sleep. It does far more than that.
The chance encounter puts him on a collision course with Morpheus and their powerful global clients. Tangled in a web of shamans, quantum physicists, and foreign intelligence agencies, Sean joins a concerned group of former researchers racing to prevent the assassination of a world leader. To succeed Sean will need to shed his self-imposed doubts and limitations. But for now, he just needs to stay alive.
âTHIS IS KILLING LIKE A GOD.â
A murder-for-hire syndicate rises from the ashes of a scandal-ridden university dream research project. By seizing control of the victimâs autonomic nervous system during a dream, a company called Morpheus Research executes high profile assassinationsâwith a twist. They always appear as death by natural causes. No bullet holes, no stab wounds, no poison.
Sean Hastings is a forty-year-old stock broker whose life has become a sad cocktail of insomnia, boredom, and loneliness. While seeking help from a sleep clinic, he runs into an old colleague. He offers Sean a unique solution: an Amazonian psychotropic compound thatâs guaranteed to help him sleep. It does far more than that.
The chance encounter puts him on a collision course with Morpheus and their powerful global clients. Tangled in a web of shamans, quantum physicists, and foreign intelligence agencies, Sean joins a concerned group of former researchers racing to prevent the assassination of a world leader. To succeed Sean will need to shed his self-imposed doubts and limitations. But for now, he just needs to stay alive.
PROLOGUE
As the wisps of ghost-like fog drifted past his security team, Yeung Ki Lam climbed the dozen or so steps of the private jet. In a few short hours, his life would come to a violent end.Â
The activities of the past week had exacted a heavy toll on the fifty-five-year-old bankerâs circadian rhythm and Ki Lam was exhausted.Â
The elegant Gulfstream passed over the Golden Gate Bridge, and then turned toward the purplish-black gradient of the western evening sky. Moments later, the fabled city lights of San Francisco were reduced to nothing more than distant twinkles. Â
Yeung Ki Lam was a banker by trade and was negotiating a casino project planned for the Malay Peninsula. From the start, he faced a particularly fragile syndicate of businessmen; rich in assets, but scarce in trust. As a consequence, Ki Lam encountered a number of obstaclesâand probably created a few enemies along the way. His employer insisted on the two security men aboard, although Ki Lam dismissed it as foolishness.
While sipping his champagne, he fished a copy of the San Francisco Chronicle from his briefcase. The headline touted the latest polling numbers for Stanford graduate and US presidential candidate Gavin Peakesâs bid for office. Ki Lam rubbed his eyes, sighed, and acknowledged defeat. Reading had become a near Herculean task. Â
âI need to get some sleep, could I eat a little earlier?â
The flight attendant politely nodded and went back to the galley. Shortly after his meal, Ki Lam settled into the bedding and fell asleep within seconds.Â
He entered REM and began to dream. He dreamt about his boyhood days at a Hong Kong beach called Sai Wan. Ki Lam was always a strong swimmer, and enjoyed racing his friends to the buoys marking the inner boundary of the reef. He started out fast and strong, but slowed when he had an ominous feeling. He looked around. The popular beach, completely packed with people only moments ago, was now empty: friends, family, everyone, all inexplicably gone. Confused, he turned back with a strong scissor kick. Nothing happened. He kicked even harder, but his efforts not only failed to propel him forward, they barely kept him afloat. His heart began to pound with feral force. Could this really be happening?Â
Ki Lam was drowning. Â
His fear, so far measured and controlled, was shoved aside by an onset of panic. When a small wave crested and broke across his face, he tilted his head back to keep his nose and mouth free. He started sinking a little deeper. Seconds later, he found himself staring at the sky through the distortion of water. His eyes expressed disbelief. His mind fought for survival. His body continued to fail him.Â
And then, if only for a split second, he felt his willpower falter. Ki Lam took an involuntary gasp for airâan instinct beyond his control. The cool seawater rushed in and burned as it filled his lungs. His tortured body jerked and wrenched, reduced to nothing more than a collection of randomly firing nerves. After a few seconds, the spasms began to slow, and thenâŚthey simply stopped altogether. For what seemed like an eternity, Ki Lamâs motionless body was inalterably suspended in the waterâas if the universe might be having second thoughts. And then, it began its long and slow descent into the tenebrous nothing.
Inside the elegant cabin of the business jet, had either the flight attendant or his security staff paid close enough attention, they would have detected a slight twitch in their clientâs body. But no one noticed.Â
Near the galley, the lone flight attendant was happy to relax and steal a few moments for herself. In the back, his security team rested in comfortâunderstandably confident that their employer, ensconced in this metal tube at forty-three thousand feet, was safe and secure from any and all threats.Â
As the jet cut through the blackness, Yeung Ki Lam lay dead. Drowned in the depths of a nightmareâmurderedâwhile submerged in a dream eight miles above the oceanâs surface.
New York City.
Six Months EarlierâŚ
Sean Hastings rolled his pen from finger to finger and stopped every third pass to click the mechanism, a habit formed in college. It was only mid-morning, but he already felt restless. From the hasty looks he had stolen through the open doors of the executive offices, the morning was worthy of a postcard. Seanâs cubicle had a more limited view, landlocked as it were, in the center of the building. The weather at his desk was a constant seventy-four degrees and brightâalbeit in a cool-white, fluorescent sort of way.Â
Sean exhaled and a faint whistling sound emanated from his nostrils. After slipping on a pair of noise-canceling headphones, he waited for the heavy bass notes of a Dave Matthews song to begin.Â
This was a typical morning for Sean. He was laboring through the financial report of some pharmaceutical company that was rushing its latest drug into production. As far as Sean could tell, it was no different than several other drugs already available on the market. Their lone spark of originality was in the clever use of a butterfly mascot in their advertisements. Fluttering across the TV screen, it implied that patients would experience a metaphorical metamorphosis, emerging into a pastel-colored world of health and well-being. Sean pursed his lips and groaned. Once again, he was fighting his creeping cynicism. Nevertheless, this was Seanâs job; digest all this information into recommendations that his firm, Farber Investments, would use to advise its best clients. Â
He looked up and his eye caught the time. It was just before noon and he had a standing arrangement to meet his best friend, Keenan, every Tuesday, at a nearby Starbucks. He logged out.
âYou look tired," Keenan said, in an unvarnished tone.
âNice to see you, too.â He fought the suggestive yawn. âIâm still having trouble sleeping. Remind me, does espresso have more or less caffeine than drip?â
Keenan laughed. âLess, but only if you compare shot to cup. I think itâs a concentration thing.â
Sean and Keenan became friends during their freshman year at NYU. Late one night, after flopping into one of the deeply worn Naugahyde couches in the student lounge, they discovered they had many common interests: films, books, politics, the arts. Over the next few weeks, they talked about all manner of subjectsâranging from race relations, inequality, geopolitics, to one heated discussion on whether Zeppo had significantly contributed to the overall success of the Marx Brothers. Eventually, they decided to room together, picking out a small, third floor walkup apartment above a lime-green bodega in the East Village.
âEverything okay with Karen?â asked Keenan. âIs that why you canât sleep?â
âStraight to the point,â Sean said, sounding less than appreciative. It seemed too early to dive into the subject of ex-wives. âNot sure. We were working on this new visitation schedule with Abbie, butâŚâ He stopped to collect his thoughts while he stared out the window. Outside, the luncheon crowd pushed their way along State Street, and Keenan, always the patient psychologist, waited for Sean to continue.
âKaren is planning to move to Fort Lauderdale. Her cousin has lined up a new job, and the cost of living is a lot less.âÂ
Keenan gave Sean a sympathetic look before taking a large bite of lemon pound cake. Sean smiled and shook his head. âItâs positively criminal that you can eat like that and still be fit. Have you never heard of macros? Or the glycemic index?â
Keenan laughed. It had become a running joke. Sean enjoyed teasing him, but Keenanâs physique was really the result of an exercise regimen that was unchanged from his years as an Army Ranger.
âKarenâs only part of it,â Sean said, after their laugh. âIâm also falling behind at work. It seems that Wall Street has no problem culling the herd if you lag behind.â He took a quick look around and, in a whisper, said, âI wonder if Iâd be a good candidate for your PTSD group.â
âOh, absolutelyâŚitâd be therapeutic for these veterans to hear from someone so heavily burdened with first-world problems.âÂ
Sean mockingly winced. âFirst-world problems?â He swirled his espresso cup in an attempt to drag the sugar off the bottom, and then pretended to count on his fingers. âLetâs see, white collar work stress, ex-wife problems, trouble sleeping⌠Yup, your average Wall Street stereotype.â
âNah, youâre an exceptional Wall Street stereotype.â Keenan laughed. âListen, why donât you come out to the Hudson River courts on Saturday morning? Thereâs a pickup game that starts around ten, it might give you a chance to clear your mind. Itâs a good groupâlong on competitiveness, short on talentâyour kinda crowd.â
Sean glanced at his watch and cursed under his breath. âSorry Keenan, I have to run,â he said, as he stood. âYeah, um, Saturday sounds good. With any luck, Iâll get some sleep between now and then.â
Seanâs insomnia had begun a few months ago, but the problem was only getting worse. He had tried over-the-counter solutions: melatonin, Chinese medicinal mushrooms, tryptophan, even Siberian ginseng, but nothing helped. His preferred remedy was a glass, or several, of single-malt Scotch whisky. Smooth going down, gently euphoric, and it often provided near instant sleep. The perfect solution, except for feeling like crap several hours later. In any case, it tasted better than Chinese mushroom tea.
Keenan wiped a few remaining crumbs off the table with a paper napkin. âIâve been dating an internist at Lenox Hill. Maybe she can find something to help you sleep.â
They pushed their way through the midday Starbucks crowd. Seanâs office was three blocks east, on Pearl Street. Like many of the streets in the lower part of Manhattan, its origins trace back to the early days of the Dutch colony. Here in downtown, the streets meandered without a discernible pattern. Only the precolonial Native American trail, now known as Broadway, had enough moxie to slash diagonally across the city. A brazen defiance of uptownâs almighty grid system. Manhattanâs map looked like a set of orderly numbered streets and avenues, but none of that carried into downtown. Passing through the financial district, it was all too easy for an unwitting newcomer to become lost and confused.Â
It was an allegorical message to be sure.Â
Walking back from lunch, Sean cut through Farberâs trading floor. This was a viper pit, a forum for the young and ambitious to do battle in a harsh and demanding environment. Sean had once hoped to make his mark here, but after he and Karen unexpectedly found themselves expecting, his career veered toward a more stable and predictable path.
For the remainder of the week, he was stuck in the same basic pattern. Grinding through the motions at work, dwelling on the negative at home, and running up a sizable sleep deficit. For the few who knew him well, Sean became increasingly unrecognizable. He found it just as demoralizing. He had always prided himself on being well balanced, considering it one of his better characteristics. Some days sucked, others were greatâbut it all evened itself out in the end. Lately, he lost that positivity, and here he was, in the grand funk of funks. The lack of sleep was the most likely culprit, its effect being rather insidious. Like a minimum payment on a credit card, each day began a little more in arrears than the day before. Although he tried to catch up on weekends, by Monday, his deficit and its heavy toll inched a little higher.
To no oneâs surprise, Sean skipped the Saturday basketball game on a feeble excuse, but eventually yielded to Keenanâs arm-twisting about meeting up that night. He agreed to join him and his new girlfriend at a local club for drinks.
Keenan shouted, waving his arms from across the room. Sean responded with a mini wave and snaked his way through the bar crowd. Although it was still early, it was busy at the Inquiry, one of several pubs that recently opened in Keenanâs neighborhood. With a nod toward classic film noir, the decor managed to be charming without trying too hard. Best of all, on the weekends, the DJ spun seventies R&B, and that, above all else, suited Keenan just fine.
âSean, Iâd like you to meet Zahra Segales,â said Keenan.
Sean smiled warmly and shook Zahraâs hand. âItâs a pleasure to meet you. Keenan tells me, rather proudly, that youâre a doctor.â
Zahra responded with a slight giggle. âYes, Iâm at Lennox Hill,â she said with a quick glance at Keenan.Â
She made a great first impression. Zahra was tall and slender with fine features, but Sean found himself mesmerized by her remarkable skin. It was simply flawless. The result of either a blessed inheritance from her mixed-race parents, or a gift from God, he assumed.Â
Sean stepped away to order another round of drinks. Always the traditionalist when it came to libations, he was relieved that no one had requested anything trendy or infused with lychee, pomegranate, or cucumber. While he waited for the drinks, he looked back at the couple. Zahra seemed like a good match for his friend. Before long, the thought of Keenanâs new found happiness had caused Sean to dwell upon his own problems. By the time he returned to the table, his smile had faded. Zahra picked up on the change. âKeenan says youâre having trouble sleeping. How long has that been going on?â
âUm, not sure, a few months, maybe more. Itâs not a big deal,â he said with a shrug.
âUtter nonsense, and quite the macho response.âÂ
He flinched at the rebuke. Zahra smiled, before softening her tone.Â
âIt is a big deal, Seanâ she continued. âMore than a third of all Americans arenât getting enough sleep. Itâs contributed to health issues like diabetes and obesity. You might wish to downplay it, but improving sleep has become quite fashionable. People are spending thousands of dollars on self-adjusting beds, pillows that play sleep sounds, or bedsheets that can track sleep patterns. The point Iâm making, is that sleep is really important, and people are willing to pay big money to get it.â
Sean grudgingly agreed. âOkay, it has affected my life, but I donât know what else to do.â He looked down and mindlessly played with his swizzle stick. âIâve tried a few over-the-counter meds, but they didnât really work. Do you think I need something stronger?â
Zahraâs face contorted a bit. âMost of those drugs donât provide the sustained, restful sleep your body needs. They work by binding with a bunch of neurotransmitters and flooding your brainâs synapses.â Zahra paused, perhaps gauging whether to suggest something Sean might find radical. âHave you tried anything else?â
âDoes whisky count?âÂ
âActually,â Zahra laughed, âI was thinking more in terms of a sleep-disorder clinic.â
âSounds like a euphemism for a shrink.â
âIâm not surprised to hear you say that, but no, they just help people get some sleep. The number of sleep clinics in the US has tripled over the past fifteen years, so you canâif youâll pardon the punârest assured that youâre not alone.â
Keenan chimed in. âWhat was the name of that place?â
âThe Maeda Clinic on the Upper West Side. It was founded by a neurologist and board-certified member of the American Board of Sleep Medicine. Do yourself a favor and go. Iâve heard nothing but good things about them.â
If it were up to literature, the pharmaceutical industry wouldnât exist. For so long, classics like Flowers for Algernon and Brave New World have warned against drugs. I suppose in the grand tradition of Mary Shelleyâs Frankenstein and Karl Marxâs The Communist Manifesto, an industry that was both scientific and aggressively capitalistic was never going to find love in the creative world. Gods of Sleep is a book in that tradition although curiously Robert Mix adds Reaganite espionage to what might otherwise be a slick anti-corporate, anti-imperialist thriller. The clash of thematic loyalties might not be so big a problem if it were not for the distant and un-emotionally involving writing. I wanted to feel this book in my bloodstream. Come on. Itâs about pills. Gods of Sleep should be sensual. The book should get into your head. Instead, I was uncomfortably numb.
The concept of this book is fine as poured chardonnay, its surrealist concept of pills-inducing assassinations is a solid idea that somehow manages to be devastatingly original but also bringing to mind authors as diverse as Chuck Palahniuk, Phillip K. Dick, Don DeLillo and Zadie Smith. This book could be high art. And, yes, I would consider Palahniuk â whose short story collection, Guts, about extreme masturbation, lead to fainting spells when it was read in public â high art. Palahniuk gets under your fingernails. He sticks his tongue down your throat. He knows how to get under your skin and really make you feel what heâs writing. Life is viscera, Palahniuk understand. Not visceral. Viscera. As Chekhov said, âshow me the moonlight on the glassâ.
Itâs not Mixâs fault. I hypothesise a big influence on the writing, and plot, was Chris Nolan. Yes, that Nolan. A man whose movies are famously icy and distant. Nolan may be box-office king but us film fans know he is also notorious for the chill he leaves with the audience as pulled off by a style that involves little experimental or flamboyant camera. Robert Mixâs writing is like that. Itâs all wides. Little close-up. But Nolan is one of the most successful filmmakers of all time, so who am I to say? Regardless, I would read more from this author and look forward to whatever comes next.