“Oh, what an intuition, Goedhart! He’s an agent of ours. Even if he’s not an operative, he knows the procedures.”
He’s put on a few kilos since the last time.
“I think I have something interesting, but I’ll have to make you a proposal. Budget limit?”
“Basically, none.”
The man will wink, smiling. “It’s always a pleasure to do business with you, Robert. Today is Monday. Is it okay for you if I see you on Friday night in the lobby of the Hotel Plaza Athénée in Paris, say at 8:00 p.m.?”
“How do I know if you’ve found someone in the meantime?”
The last students will be leaving the classroom.
“Sign up for my course under the usual name, Robert Holden, Brooklyn student. Then, write to me tomorrow, ask to take the next exam appeal, and wait twenty-four hours. If the answer is positive, the meeting is confirmed,” the professor will reply.
The classroom will be deserted, melancholy and silent.
“Book a room overlooking the tower,” Holden will say, leaving the university classroom. Kevin Palmer will take off his helmet, open the window, and inhale the scent of cherry blossoms, dazzled for a moment.
Chief Commissioner Cervetti will look at the large desk, the gilded mirrors on the walls, the solid gold candlestick. Next to him, in the office of the Minister of the Interior, the Chief Commissioner and the CEO of the NOCS will sit in the red velvet armchairs. The ancient pendulum clock on the wall will tick loudly, then ring twice. Seven thirty, and night will be falling outside.
“As I told you, Minister, we have reason to believe that the movement of money is in some way connected, unfortunately, to funds allocated by the Italian government to our services,” the Chief Commissioner will say, pushing forward his aquiline face and bending his back more.
“Are you sure of this information?” the Minister, his sparse hair still dark despite his advanced age, will ask in a strong Neapolitan accent, joining his hands and resting his chin on his fingers.
The Chief Commissioner and the CEO will look at each other.
“Evidently, even though we have treated him as such,” the woman will add, growling into his face “he is not a fool.”
The blond man will quickly move his hands in the three-dimensional city on the desk, pulling roads and bridges towards himself, turning buildings and skyscrapers, until he enlarges the image of a street, to then enter a van that runs on the magnetic suspension, in which several plainclothes men are checking the weapons.
“The bar is located on a one-way street near a pedestrian area; traffic has slowed down at that point,” the muscular man will comment, “and there aren’t even parking silos for the flying car. We’ll get the van from the ground first.”
In the meeting room, the four men and the woman will look at the scene, without breath.
A large white van will stop, approaching the sidewalk next to the bar, remaining magnetically suspended at about two feet. The driver will remain in his seat with the engine running, while four plainclothes men will exit from the side door, withdrawing pulse machine guns from under their jackets, instantly breaking into the room. On the oval table, three-dimensional images of the bar will be scrolling; images taken from moving cameras, focusing on weapons, men running, booths being thrown wide open, a woman screaming. Confusion. One of the four men, replacing the weapon under his jacket, will walk on the meeting table, exiting the bar, and returning to the sixth man standing in front of the stationary van on the street.
“Sir, he’s not here,” the gunman will communicate to Daft from in front of the van.
“Fuck!” the thin woman will exclaim, running her hands through her hair. “We managed to get him to escape. We might as well sound the charge. Nice operation.”
The other man standing on the meeting table in front of the van will put his hand in his pocket, surprised.
“Sir, an unknown number is calling Daft!” the blond man will say, “a portable communicator.”
“On two!” the manager will order in the meeting room.
“Minister” the grizzled, curly-haired man to Cervetti’s right will speak. “Our surveillance unit has checked the records several times. There seems to be no doubt. They were very good, and the tracks get lost in a computer black hole, so we don’t know where they ended up, but we know beyond any reasonable doubt where they started, before traveling the four corners of the globe, from the funds of our services.”
The Minister will not comment and will look almost absent-mindedly at a small static holographic image that portrays him smiling with two little girls, probably granddaughters, in a bathing area.
“We have a duty to inform you that we felt it necessary to ask for Interpol’s cooperation” the Chief Commissioner will resume. “I had an interview at their headquarters in Rome, and I was informed that a notice was issued directly from the Lyon office to all the member countries’ offices to be alerted to seemingly irrelevant episodes that may nevertheless have a connection to our investigations.”
“And what would be the state of the investigation?”
“Sincerely, Minister,” the Chief Commissioner will say, spreading his arms, “at the moment we’re groping in the dark, as they say. We don’t have a lead. However, we believe that if someone is planning another attack, it would be useful to be promptly informed of any theft or violation of computer networks, or purchases of material potentially usable in an attack, anything. We have made a list of possible scenarios of interest to us, and issued the notice.”
“And what do we expect to happen from this?” the Minister will ask absent-mindedly. “I wish I could give the prime Minister some more reassuring information. Our relations with the Holy See are very delicate, as, of course, we all know.”
“It was our duty to inform you of the state of affairs,” the Chief Commissioner will reply, “so that you could assess which actions were most appropriate. In any case, if something in the world happens even potentially attributable to our investigation, we’ll be informed, and perhaps we’ll have a crime or names to look for. Our Chief Commissioner Cervetti, who is here, is coordinating an operational unit ready for twenty-four hour intervention.”
Whiley’s voice will invade the meeting room without images. Evidently, he will not have turned on the holographic projection.
“You told me twenty minutes. You’re early.”
On the meeting table, Daft’s hologram will rotate around the white van.
“Why the hell didn’t you wait for me? You said you were staying there.”
“And you said you were alone. Nice shoes, by the way.”
In the meeting room, you will clearly hear the interruption of the signal.
“Nice shoes. Did he say nice shoes?” the CEO will ask.
“What the fuck does that mean?” the muscular man will echo.
The thin woman will shake her head. “He’s communicating with us,” she will say tiredly, sitting down. “He wants us to understand that he’s watching Daft right now, that he sees him. He wouldn’t see his shoes in the van. He’s telling us to stop treating him like an idiot. He knows the game.”
“Damn it!” the CEO will look at the blond man. “Where could he have gone in just minutes? What’s around there?”
“Start a search of the last phone call on the communicator,” the elegant man will suggest, “and we’ll know.”
Whiley will stand on the mall’s glass walkway, record Daft’s image in his binoculars, then close communication and run to the escalators. He will head to the subway trains, mingling in the crowd and trying to confuse the security camera recordings.
He will find himself stuck on the escalator in the crowd. Behind him, a couple of kids will be laughing. In front of him, two tourists will be talking about shopping, holding several gift bags. One of the two women, decidedly fat, will obstruct the passage and the view with a monumental faux fur coat and a showy fur hat.
The descent will seem interminable, then finally h
e will see the branching accesses to the trains.
The Minister will not seem particularly pleased with the debate. “I believe, gentlemen,” he will say after a pause, “that we’ll have to consider setting up a crisis unit as soon as possible. It will certainly be a joint forces unit, and we’ll of course have to ensure that all governments that have informed of the attack, particularly those with a broad Catholic base, and especially those in the American euro area, will cooperate.”
“But this will make it difficult, not to mention almost impossible, to maintain the secrecy of the operation,” the CEO will object.
“You just worry about the investigation, gentlemen, and tell me what resources the Chief Commissioner needs for his crisis unit. I’ll deal with the political implications and international relations, if you don’t mind. Politics, as you know, is the art of mediating opposing interests.”
Cervetti will look at the Italian and Euro-American flags behind the Minister, wondering what interests should ever be mediated in saving the life of an old man who represents, for millions of people, hope in the land of humanity. However, he will refrain from speaking, merely observing the hands swinging with a monotonous ticking in the pendulum clock.
The blond European with the sideburns, dressed in short shorts and a green military t-shirt, will run along the cliff of Onna Son, just before dawn. Far out on the sea, he will see a hydrofoil gliding fast along the coast, raising foamy white waves. Spring on the island will be pleasant that year, and the man will run with commitment, rhythmically blowing the air out of his lungs. A job like his will require a good level of physical performance, along with adequate mental preparation. The man will run, keeping a good pace. Soles beating on hard earth, the green t-shirt soaked on the chest and back.
Mens sana in corpore sano.
He will try to empty his mind, but he will have had a recurring thought for a couple of days.
Those lips.
“Sir!” the blond man will shout, “we’ve tracked down the communicator. The mall. The third sector, east wing. He’s heading toward the trains.”
“Received,” Daft’s hologram will run along the meeting table. “To the trains, right away!”
Holograms of the team posted in the bar will spread across the park gardens and left around the mall, running alongside the man.
“Too late, sir,” the blond man will say, looking at the blue dot running in the three-dimensional map on the table. “He has now boarded a train. We’re receiving a fast-moving signal.”
“Which train?” the CEO will ask.
The blond man will open more sheets in the space in front of them, overlapping the dot image on the map with the Chicago subway line.
“He took this line, sir!” he will yell emphatically.
“Transmit the data to the aircraft in the area. Order all available flying cars to get off at subsequent stops. I want all exits of that line to be guarded!” the CEO will order.
“Where is he heading?” the muscular man will ask.
Everyone will look at the flashing dot on the line, until it halts at the third stop.
“Sir, he’s coming out!” the blond man will shout. “He got off the train. Speed of a person walking now.”
“Where is he?” the CEO will ask.
The blond man will examine the metro map, then confirm, “He got off at the Magnificent Mile stop, sir.”
“He wants to mingle with the crowd in downtown shops,” the elegant man will state, standing up and walking nervously.
“Who do we have on site?” the manager will ask.
“Team three, two agents. Special Agent Jester in command,” the blond man will reply, opening a road, finding two men in the crowd, and selecting them as holograms.
“I don’t want shooting in a crowded place. Grab him, if possible, without using force. Converge on the site and call for immediate reinforcements.”
The fleshy lips of the girl, basically ugly, that imposing nose and that unappealing face of a grown up child, always sulky, as if ready to throw a tantrum at any moment.
But that handshake.
Palmer will smile, despite the physical effort of the cliff climb, as he looks out of the corner of his eye through the blooming trees at the bay, about two hundred meters below him.
That’s a bitch’s face.
It will be important to have a well-trained heart, and knowing how to control the breathing will be useful, to continue holding your breath for the right time, before pulling the trigger. The day will be magnificent, and the breeze will make the run pleasant as he takes one of the last curves before arriving at the hotel, thinking back to what the woman said about the girl.
She’d do anything to get one.
The man will feel a painful discomfort in his calves, his usual slight problem of tightness over long distances. The man will think that in the coming weeks he will have to intensify the sessions of athletic preparation. He will never leave anything to chance, being accustomed to meticulously planning all his work. At the next-to-last turn, the communicator will sound several times, a simple message.
The man will slow down, grit his teeth as he faces the last natural steps in the rock, among the reddish shrubs on the sides of the path, until he gets to a loop practically overlooking the sea, under a large tree full of white flowers. The man, panting, will take a few steps in the flat area to slow down the run, gradually stopping, then press a button on his left wrist, looking towards the sea.
From the wrist, the phrase will be projected in mid-air, at the height of his gaze. Mr. Holden, we are pleased to inform you that your application to register for the next exam appeal has been granted.
The two lines will be projected in white backlight over the shiny blue of the sea, illuminated by the rays of the morning sun.
In the meeting room, team three holograms will run into the subway, placing themselves in front of the exit. The colored dot in the three-dimensional map will slowly approach team three’s control point.
“Pretty smart for a non-operative,” the elegant man will comment, raking his fingers through his gray hair. “He knows that in the crowd we may have difficulty framing him in the security cameras.”
On another holographic panel in the meeting room, a flying car will land in a parking silo, and two other men will run to the elevators to get off the subway floor at the Magnificent Mile stop. On the central monitor, the crowd will get off the train. Confusing images will fluctuate due to the running recording of the two team three men.
“They’re there, sir, eighty meters to the target,” the blond man will confirm. The confusion will increase in the crowd, and the noise will not allow understanding of what the two officers are shouting. Woman’s cries will come distinctly into the meeting room.
“Sir, Special Agent Jester on one. I’m on target now.”
“Pass it, quick!” the director will order.
The hologram of a muscular, black man with large braids woven over his shoulders will enter the meeting room.
“Agent Jester, sir, we found him,” the man in the crowd will say.
“At last! Do you have Whiley?”
The black man’s voice will barely be heard in the confusion.
“No, sir. We have the communicator. But he’s not here.”
The image of a fat woman in faux fur, with a large fur hat, will unexpectedly enter the meeting room, ranting and protesting animatedly against the two men who put their hands in her shopping bags.
The thin woman’s expression will be worth a thousand words.
The man will put his hands on his hips, breathing frantically, walk slightly bent, until he rests his back on a tree, then will slowly let himself slip down the trunk, finally sitting, exhausted, on the ground. Listening to the surf in the distance, the man will feel his breath gradually return to normal, stare at the horizon, and then, rereading the phrase in transparency on the sea, he will close the communicator.
He will smile.
Wednesday, 1:12 p.m
.
The bus stop will be packed with people, mostly students and commuters, and the shelters will still drip with some remnants of the morning showers in that mild but rainy autumn. The man in sports clothes, white sweater around his neck, and wide velvet trousers will try to blend with the crowd. After taking the ticket costing a few cents at the vending machine, he will board the airborne bus. He will make his way to the center of the vehicle, which will soon be filled with people occupying almost all of the eighty places available. As he straps up, and the vehicle rises vertically for takeoff, he will check on the holographic panel to see which stop to get off at. He will relax, watching the city move away from the window, while the jet, moved by the two large engines gradually into a horizontal thrust position, will head towards the suburbs in the northeast. After a few minutes, the airborne bus will have climbed the sliding fast lane to the third level of traffic, and from the window, the man will watch the tallest skyscrapers slip alongside in the distance, several hundred meters high, while the autumn sun of the early afternoon will illuminate the large windows.
There will be some confusion in the meeting room; men and women will enter, giving the blond and the muscular man reports of the surveillance teams, both on flying cars and earthbound vehicles.
“I want to get a picture of the situation. Give me a summary. What the hell happened?” the CEO will ask.
“That son of a good woman played us,” the stout man with thin gray hair will answer. “He never got on that line, and now he may have taken any other direction.”
“How many lines cross that mall?” the director will ask.
The blond man will move cubes into holographic space, corresponding to pieces of three-dimensional subway maps.
Futura: Parallel Universes. Book 1 Page 14
