"Professor Blanes isn't here." Cassimir had taken out two sets of papers, one blue and one white. "But as soon as you read and sign these, you'll be meeting with him. These are the general provisions. Read them carefully because there are some things we weren't able to set up before you got here. If you have any questions, just ask. Can I get you a coffee, a refreshment?"
"No, thanks."
"How do you say it in Spanish? Is it 'refreshment' or 'refreshing'?" Cassimir asked with giddy curiosity. And when Elisa cleared it up for him, he explained agreeably, "I mix those up sometimes."
The papers were all written in perfect Spanish. The white ones bore the notation "work-related," but the blue ones said only "A6." Cassimir clarified what that meant.
"The blue ones are the confidentiality agreement. Why don't you read that first?"
She saw her name in capital letters surrounded by a sea of text and was overcome by another wave of apprehension. She hadn't been expecting her name to be written in the same font as the rest of the document. She'd expected something pro forma with her name handwritten on a dotted line. Upon seeing Elisa Robledo Morande typed out just like the rest of it, she was shocked. It was as if this had been made out expressly for her, as if they'd gone to too much trouble over her.
"All clear?" Cassimir asked solicitously.
"Well, here it says that I can't publish anything..."
"For a time, yes, but that only applies to the research you carry out with Professor Blanes. Read down below, Clause 5c... This prohibition applies only to said research for a period of at least two years, but that doesn't stop you from publishing studies with Professor Blanes or any other professor, as long as it's on a different subject. And then look at the following clause. You have the chance to do your PhD with Professor Blanes as long as it's not directly related to your time here... If you read the white papers, where it says, Amount of Stipend,' you'll see it's very generous. And that doesn't include your housing, which is free. You only pay for food and personal expenses. You get paid every month, like a salary, through December of this year."
The voice speaking to her about the blue papers, which were full of headings she barely understood ("Post-contractual Confidentiality Clause," "Norms of Investigation for EU State Security," "Penal Code for Revealing State Secrets and Classified Information"), was much colder. But it wasn't the legalese that concerned her; it was Cassimir's good-natured insistence, the way he kept trying to smooth things over so she wouldn't worry, his persistent attempts to cut everything into bite-sized chunks for her, so she could swallow it all without complaining.
"If you prefer, I can leave you alone so you can take your time and read everything carefully. Please take your time."
She looked up and blinked at the sun glaring through the window, noticing something she (absurdly) hadn't seen until just then. Cassimir was wearing glasses. When had he put them on? Had he been wearing them the whole time? She became fixated on that detail and other questions, her mind swirling in confusion.
"What exactly does the job consist of?"
"Helping Professor Blanes."
"Helping him do what?"
"Research."
She forced herself not to be sarcastic. From the mirror, the other Elisa scowled back at her.
"What I'm getting at is, what kind of research will I be carrying out with Professor Blanes?"
Cassimir smiled. "Oh, I couldn't tell you anything about that. I'm not a physicist."
"Well, if you don't mind, I'd like to know what I'm going to be doing."
"You'll find out very soon. We'll get things going the same minute you accept the conditions. 'The same minute?' Is that right? No, 'the very minute,'" he corrected himself.
"What conditions?"
"As soon as you sign, I mean."
This is absurd. We're going around in circles. If her mother were there, she thought, she would have pointed out the unmistakable Elisa-Robledo-Pissed-Off-Smile. But Mr. Cassimir wasn't her mother, and he was smiling, too.
"Look. I'm not signing anything until I find out what I'm going to be doing."
Cassimir (and his mirror-reflected image) feigned irritation.
"I told you. You're going to be helping Professor Blanes with his research..."
"What's EG SECURITY?" Elisa decided to change tactics and pointed to a line on one of the white pages. "It's all over the place. What is it?"
"Oh, they're our main financial backers. They're some sort of consortium of different research firms..."
"Does EG stand for Eagle Group?"
"Oh, I don't work for them, and I don't know what the initials stand for."
Oh, you're so clever, Mr. "Oh!" Elisa decided to cut the politeness crap and go for a full-frontal attack on Mr. Oh.
"Are you the ones who've been keeping tabs on me the past few weeks? Who put a transmitter in my cell phone and made me respond to all those questions on the questionnaire?"
She enjoyed watching his smile vanish, seeing the disconcerted look on his face. It was obvious that Cassimir was used to dealing with more passive clients, or maybe he'd just underestimated her, thinking that a young woman would be easier to manipulate.
"Excuse me, but..."
"No, excuse me. I think you already know plenty about lil' old me. Now it's my turn to get some answers."
"Miss..."
"I want to speak to Professor Blanes. After all, I'm going to be working with him."
"I told you, he's not here."
"Well, somebody had better at least tell me what it is I'm going to be doing."
"You're not allowed to know," a different voice said, in perfect English.
A man had just emerged from a door beside the mirror, behind Elisa. He was tall and thin, and wearing an impeccably tailored suit. His blond hair was graying at the temples and his mustache was carefully groomed. Another man, short and stocky, was with him. So they were spying on me. Her heart was pounding.
"You speak English, don't you?" he continued in a mellifluous voice, walking over to her. Unlike Cassimir, he neither offered his hand nor extended any sort of courtesy. His eyes freaked Elisa out a little. They were cold and blue, like cut glass. "I'm Harrison. This is Carter. We're in charge of security. I repeat: you are not allowed to know anything. We ourselves know nothing. This project is considered classified, it's top secret. Professor Blanes needs young scientists on board, and you were chosen as one of them."
He stopped speaking when he stopped walking. He'd reached Elisa, and his blue eyes bore into her like needles. After a short pause, he added, "If you accept, sign. If not, you'll return to Spain and that's that. Any more questions?"
"Yes. Several. Have you been keeping tabs on me?"
"Of course," he replied disinterestedly, as if it were the most mundane thing imaginable. "We've spied on you, we've tracked your movements, we've given you a questionnaire, and delved into your private life ... just like all the other candidates. It's all legal; these practices are upheld by international conventions. This is utterly routine. When you apply for a job, any job, you send your resume, answer questions, have an interview. And none of that seems improper to you, does it? Well, this is what happens when you apply for a job that's been deemed classified matter. Anything else?"
Elisa stopped to think for a moment. Her mind flashed with images of Javier Maldonado and the sound of his voice. "Good journalism is the product of accurate information, patiently compiled." Fucker. But in a second she calmed down. OK, he was just doing his job. And now it's my turn to do mine.
"Can you at least tell me if I'll be staying in Zurich?"
"No, you won't. As soon as you sign, you'll be taken someplace else. Have you read the section titled 'Isolation and Security Filters'?"
"Second page of the blue set," Cassimir piped up, speaking for the first time since Harrison and Carter entered the room.
"You'll be working in complete isolation," Harrison said. "All of your telephone calls, e-mails, all of your contact with the
outside world, will have to go through a security filter. As far as the rest of the world knows, including your friends and family, you'll still be in Zurich. Any unforeseen event that might arise due to this arrangement will be our responsibility. You won't have to worry about anyone trying to visit you unannounced and finding that you're not here; we'll take care of all of that."
"Who's 'we'?"
For the first time, he smiled.
"Mr. Carter and I. Our mission is to ensure that all you have to think about are equations." He looked at his watch. "Question time's over. Are you going to sign, or would you prefer to get on the next flight back to Madrid?"
Elisa stared at the papers on the table.
She was scared. At first she thought her fear was normal, that anyone in her position would feel the same, but then she realized that her fear contained something more, as if a voice inside her were shouting, Don't do it! Don't sign. Leave. Go home.
"Can I read through this more carefully and have a glass of water?"
MYSTERIOUS experiences are often unforgettable, but sometimes, paradoxically, what we remember most about them are the inane, jumbled details. Anxiety and agitation etch certain things in our mind, but those things are rarely the most accurate details used to describe what's happening objectively.
From that first trip, so nervous she was almost sick, Elisa stored up a whole host of trivial scenes. For example, she recalled the argument that Carter, the stocky one (who was the one who accompanied her; she didn't see Harrison again for a long time), had with one of his subordinates as they boarded the little ten-seater plane at Zurich airport that afternoon. It revolved around whether "Abdul was at his post" or whether "Abdul left" (she never found out who Abdul was). And there were Carter's big, hairy, veiny hands as he sat across the aisle from her leafing through a file he'd taken from his briefcase. And the smell of flowers and diesel (if there could be such a mix) at the airport where they landed (which they told her belonged to Yemen). And the exhilarating moment when Carter had to show her how to put on a life jacket and helmet when they boarded the helicopter awaiting them on an out-of-the-way runway. "Don't worry, this is standard procedure for longer trips on military helicopters." And Carter's crew cut and sparse beard, speckled with gray. And his gruff manner, especially when he gave orders over the phone. And how hot it was with the helmet on.
Each and every one of these insignificant details were what made up her experience of the shortest day and longest night (they were traveling east) of her life. This was all she had to cling to over the years, when she tried to reconstruct the five-hour plane and helicopter journey.
But of all the memories that time's acid slowly dissolved, there was one that remained indelible, crisp and vivid, and she thought about it every time she recalled the trip.
It was what she saw written on the file folder that Carter had pulled out of his briefcase.
More than anything else, that was a visual for her; it summed up that day. And the events that followed would never, ever let her forget it.
"Zig Zag."
13
"IMAGINE wanting to understand all that I saw." That strange sentence was written, in English, below a drawing of a man gazing at two circles of light in the sky. She was searching for some clothes to put on when she noticed the sticker on the headboard of her bed, which she hadn't seen until just then. That was when it happened.
It wasn't a rational thought but more of a physical sensation, a sort of heat at her temples. She was naked, which made her panic even more. She turned around and looked at the door.
And that's when she saw the eyes.
IT wasn't that she hadn't been expecting it. She'd been warned about that possible eventuality. She wasn't exactly going to have her beloved privacy there on New Nelson, Mrs. Ross had told her the night before, when she came out to greet her on the sandy ground where the helicopter had landed (or maybe it was that same night, she couldn't keep time straight). Mrs. Ross had been very nice, affectionate even. Her smile, as she stood waiting by the helicopter, was so wide it almost spread to her clover-shaped earrings. She held out both her hands. "Welcome to New Nelson!" she exclaimed in enthusiastic English, once they were far enough away from the deafening roar of the chopper's blades. It was as if this were all a giant celebration and Mrs. Ross were in charge of seeing to the guests and organizing the party games.
But it was no party. It was a very dark, steamy place, an incredibly dark, steamy place, with reflectors lighting up a barbed-wire fence. A sea breeze like none she'd ever felt blew through her hair, and, despite her earplugs, she could make out strange sounds.
"We're about a hundred and fifty kilometers north of the Chagos Archipelago and three hundred kilometers south of the Maldives, smack in the middle of the Indian Ocean," Mrs. Ross continued, striding through the sand. "This island was discovered by a Portuguese man named La Gloria, but when it became a British colony they changed the name to New Nelson. It used to be part of the BIOT—that's the British Indian Ocean Territory—but since 1992 the island has formed part of the land acquired by an EU consortium. It's like heaven, you'll see. A tiny slice of it, anyway. It could practically fit in the palm of your hand; it's barely eleven square kilometers." They'd walked through a gate in the fence that a soldier (not a cop; a soldier armed to the teeth) held open for them. She'd never been so close to someone with that many weapons. Elisa turned to see if Carter was still with them, but all she could see were another couple of soldiers, standing by the helicopter she'd just climbed out of. "You'll be able to explore tomorrow. You must be exhausted."
"Not really." In fact, Elisa couldn't remember what being tired felt like. "Aren't you sleepy?"
"En mi casa—" Elisa stopped short, realizing that she'd responded in Spanish, and quickly switched into English. "At home, I always go to bed late."
"I see. Still, it is four thirty in the morning."
"What?"
Mrs. Ross gave a friendly laugh. And on realizing her mistake, Elisa laughed, too. According to her watch, it wasn't even eleven at night. She made a quick joke, not wanting Mrs.
Ross to think she was an inexperienced traveler (which, in fact, she was not). But her nerves were playing tricks on her.
They walked to the furthest of three barracks, where Mrs. Ross opened a door to let them into a hallway illuminated with the tiny bulbs used in movie theater aisles after the lights are turned down. Immediately, Elisa noticed a marked change in temperature and even atmosphere. Instantly, the climate went from the thick, sticky outdoor air to the climate control of those portable buildings. Mrs. Ross opened another door, stopped again at the first one on the left, turned the handle without using a key, and flipped on the light inside.
"This will be your room. It's hard to see it right now because at night they only leave the bathroom lights on, but..."
"It's great."
She'd thought she would be in a tiny cell, but this was spacious. Later, she'd be able to tell that it was about ten feet long by fifteen feet wide and was neatly furnished with a dresser, a little desk, and a bed and night table in the middle of the room. On the far side of the bed, the room was only half as wide, since the rest of the space was taken up by a wall to another room. "The bathroom," Mrs. Ross said, opening the door.
Elisa nodded and made polite conversation, saying it was all fine, but Mrs. Ross didn't beat around the bush. She launched into an interrogation, "woman to woman": How many changes of clothes had she brought? Did she use any particular shampoo? What kind of sanitary napkins did she want? Did she sleep in pajamas or not? Had she brought a bathing suit? And so on. Then she pointed to the door, and Elisa noticed that it had a rectangular glass peephole, like the kind you see in movies where a dangerous lunatic is locked up in a cell and under observation. It gave her the creeps. There was another, identical one in the bathroom door, which also had no lock.
"Security requirements," Ross said. "They call them 'grade two low-privacy stalls.' In practical terms, what it
means for us is that any old pervert can spy on you, but luckily we're surrounded by decent men."
Elisa smiled, unable to help herself despite the fact that this loss of privacy made her feel a whole host of strange and unpleasant feelings. But it seemed like with Mrs. Ross by her side, nothing bad could happen.
Before her hostess left her, Elisa examined her in the bathroom light: she was plump and matronly, maybe fifty or so, and wore a silver sweat suit and athletic shoes. She was also wearing full makeup, her hair looked as though she'd just come from the beauty salon, and she had on gold rings, bracelets, and earrings. Pinned to her sweat suit was a photo ID that read "Cheryl Ross. Scientific Section."
"I'm sorry to have made you get up in the middle of the night," Elisa said.
"That's what I'm here for. Now, you need to get some rest. Tomorrow at nine thirty (well, in about four hours, actually) there's a meeting in the main room. You can have breakfast in the kitchen before that. And if you need anything at all while you're here, just contact Maintenance."
That last sentence made Elisa suspect that Mrs. Ross was begging a question, and she decided to indulge her.
"Where's Maintenance?"
"You're looking at it," the woman replied, obviously pleased.
"IMAGINE wanting to understand all that I saw," the sticker said. She'd bent over to read it, and that was when she realized she wasn't alone.
The reptilian eyes were staring at her fixedly.
She realized that there was no need to get so ridiculously upset about it, but she couldn't help jumping back to try to cover her breasts and crotch with one hand each as she wondered where the hell she'd left her towel. The indulgent part of her mind was able to understand her reaction. She hadn't slept a wink during those few hours, due to the stressful circumstances (yesterday I was in Madrid saying good-bye to Victor and my mother, and this morning I'm naked on an island in the Indian Ocean, for God's sake). Exhaustion had taken a toll on her nerves.
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