A Dark Perfection

by James, Mark

  They would soon enter the tunnel. Jack took out the laptop.

  “What’s up?” she asked. It was a strange time to be researching the patterns again.

  He continued typing. “Hold on, one second. We need to get this done. We’ll hit the tunnel soon.”

  Once inside the tunnel, they would be in the dark and out of range for over an hour.

  After he finished the message to Mac, he looked up and saw Lani looking back, still waiting.

  “We’re going to need help, Lani. When we come out of the tunnel, they’ll be waiting for us.”

  26

  “The French Prime Minister is on line two,” Margaret Spencer said into her headset. “They tracked him down in Lucerne.”

  President Walker hit the intercom, “Thanks, Margaret. Can you do me a favor? Act like I’m down the hall, say I’ll just be a minute. By the way, what’s he doing in Switzerland? Just curious.”

  “Skiing. It seems he and his family goes every year. Did you get the packet?”

  The French Prime Minister and former Member of Parliament, Francois Guilland, had been elected five weeks before in a grueling election and Spencer was referring to the intelligence packet on his background, both personal and professional, routinely forwarded to the president.

  President Walker looked down at his desk and the files, “Right here, haven’t gotten to it yet. Thanks, Margaret.”

  He turned back towards Mac, sitting on the couch and re-familiarizing himself with the latest Surveillance-Net deployment materials.

  “I can’t believe we’re going to do this,” Walker said. “Guilland is going to think we’re nuts. We practically bust their kneecaps getting the Surveillance-Net up and operational and now we’re calling back to ask them to turn it off. How long did Jack say he needed, thirty-six hours?”

  Mac nodded.

  “Any last minute suggestions before we embarrass the entire U.S. government?”

  Mac shook his head.

  “Okay, here we go,” the president said, picking up the line.

  “Bonjour, Mr. Prime Minister. Yes, good to talk to you again too. And, again, sorry for breaking into your much needed vacation.”

  Upon assuming office, Guilland had landed in a firestorm surrounding the Surveillance-Net deployment and had taken the brunt of the last minute U.S.-applied pressure. It was Walker’s opinion that he’d handled it well.

  “No problem, of course, Mr. President. But I’m somewhat confused. Am I correct in what my aides tell me, that you want a thirty-six hour shut down, or rather, a perceived break down?”

  Guilland didn’t need to mention the ludicrousness of the request.

  “I know, Francois,” Walker said, switching to the personal. “And, I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

  There was a pause, “This wouldn’t have anything to do with Mr. Osborne’s friend, this lawyer, O’Neill, would it?”

  Guilland’s instincts were keen and the president made note of it, storing the information away for the next time they would meet across a table.

  However, as Walker was the President of the United States, the most powerful nation that history had ever known, he lowered his tone, “Francois, do you remember those photos we intercepted last year and handed over to you? You said – and I think I have this right – no questions, please. You were still an MP. Another ski trip, if I remember. This is a little like that.”

  Guilland remembered it quite well. The year before, it had not only been his wife that he’d taken to the Swiss chalet and the resultant photo chip, intercepted by the CIA in Tripoli, had shown then-MP Guilland in some rather compromising and uncompromising positions.

  “No problems, Mr. President,” Guilland laughed, never understanding how the Americans could be such prudes about such slight indiscretions, yet were apparently immune to a rape of the soul such as the Surveillance-Net. “Let’s see, let me think this one over…would I prefer a final, extended reprieve from having my every move recorded by who-knows-who, orbs looking down at my daughters and myself as we walk to the park tomorrow? And, at the same time, I get to tell those GMA morons that I’m busy when, invariably, they start to call? Hmm, why yes, Mr. President, I will of course join you in this little game. Thirty-six, you said? Tell me though, what if afterwards we can’t find the on/off lever?”

  “Francois, you and I have talked about this and you know I feel the same. Right now, however, the dye is cast. On my last day in office maybe we’ll have a little accident, who knows.”

  “Very good,” Guilland said, laughing at the prospect, “thirty-six, it is. So, I trust we’ll still be seeing you and your lovely wife this next April?”

  “And we’ll have a toast then,” the president said, thanking Guilland again before hanging up.

  Walker smiled as he came around the desk, “Now tell me, why do I get this strange feeling that that’ll cost us something juicy down the road?”

  Mac offered his darkest laugh, “What, you think those photo chips just up and disappeared? Mr. President, please consult paragraph no. 354 in the Second Abridged Edition of the Rules of the Universe: always ask for the negatives.”

  †

  Garneau buttered the toast and set the plates on the kitchen table. Elise was finishing up the bed in the other room as he called to her, “I received this strange email. Did I tell you about it?”

  “You mentioned it,” she said, entering the kitchen.

  “This person – who doesn’t identify himself – wants me to meet him tomorrow at noon. I’m supposed to go to a corner over on Percy Park. Actually, quite silly.”

  “Maybe it’s a trap, or a joke?”

  “No, no,” he laughed, “no one wants to trap me in anything.”

  He then remembered the flash drive that was still in his pocket from Prevot. He hadn’t told Elise about it; it would only make her worry.

  “On the other hand,” he continued, realizing he should never have said anything, “you’re probably right. It’s probably another one of Marcel’s jokes. He’s due about now.”

  He didn’t believe this. This was something else.

  He didn’t tell her how he knew this; that the message had ended, “Did you see their eyes?”

  †

  Chou-tse had lived in the remote Chinese village her entire life. She was only fourteen, but had already survived a great flood, working in the fields since she was nine and now this.

  She was barefoot and her dress tattered as she walked towards the ramshackle hut at the edge of the village. It was where Chengiei lived, one of the village elders. Maybe he’s still alive? Maybe he can help me?

  She hadn’t been able to find her parents, their home gone in an avalanche of mud across the fields.

  She approached the place where Chengiei’s house should have been. It was gone too. In its place was a trailer, strange, so strange in this place. She remembered seeing the army trucks earlier.

  She saw soldiers – their uniforms brown with red markings, so clean against all of the mud. One of them had Xiu Mei Shu by the arm, an older woman from the village. She could see that Xiu Mei’s arm was bloody, her face smeared with soot.

  Inside the trailer, three government officials were conducting interviews. Chou-tse walked by, trying not to look in, knowing she was to stay clear of the brown uniformed men.

  Inside the trailer, Xiu Mei sat in a folding metal chair and looked down at the floor. “Now tell me again, Ms. Shu,” the Chinese intelligence officer said. “What did you see immediately before you felt the ground shake?”

  Xiu Mei remained shaken, her daughter still missing. “Lights…” she mumbled.

  She lifted her head, like a great weight was holding it, and pointed a broken finger towards the trailer door, “Walking home. A glow...”

  She paused in exhaustion, slumping back down.

  “Say clearer old woman!” the intelligence officer ordered, jumping to his feet and standing over her.

  “As from inside,” she murmured, s
aying it as if no one was even there. “Many clouds, all at once, many clouds…”

  †

  The killer had never understood how people could know so little. It was perplexing and, at once, symptomatic.

  He’d set up ten phantom investment accounts in ten different countries. At night, while the world slept, his Zurich bankers would transfer funds back and forth from one account to another, chasing the varying exchange rates, trading before the Dow Jones bell rang out, shorting the Lithuanian market. When he awoke each morning, he’d accrued more profit than ten American factory workers would earn in a year.

  So few understood the real world.

  Lambs for the slaughter.

  The killer looked down at his desk and stared at the weapon. It was beautiful – stealthily conceived, lovingly assembled, a gleaming piece of art.

  In the end, what people did not understand was that it was merely a matter of evolution.

  He picked up the phone and heard the whir of the encryption program engage.

  “Yes,” a voice answered. It was an exotic voice, Iberian, perhaps a Spaniard.

  “I have some work for you.”

  No response.

  “Ready?”

  “Yes.”

  “Credit Suisse, account number: Tango, Bravo, 4678845. Encrypt sequence: 5-Omega-2.”

  “How many this time?” the voice inquired, emotionless.

  “Two individuals, non-professionals. Further details are in-packet. You will also receive start coordinates.”

  O’Neill and that tiresome Hawaiian detective had been getting too close – first had come the alert from Freese on Detective Keno searching for information on Major Grindel from her Washington D.C. hotel location. And now this: their movement towards Garneau as revealed in Garneau’s email – Did you see their eyes? Normally, he would have taken care of the matter himself, it would have been decent sport, but time was of the essence. And besides, he’d tired of this game. They would eventually show at the meet point or, if not, then certainly at Garneau’s office or home, and the assassin could engage them from there. It vexed him that he couldn’t trace the source of the email sent to Garneau – the transmitting source had resisted all reverse-trace programs – but it was, essentially, irrelevant for the time being.

  “Are rabbits in the garden?” the Spaniard asked.

  It was their means of designating a termination action.

  “Yes.”

  The line clicked dead. The killer replaced the receiver and poured himself a Kona blend coffee from a silver pitcher placed on his mid-century office credenza each morning.

  He looked through the large picture window and over the river.

  The water had not yet begun to ice, resisting it. A flit of brown movement caught his attention along the shore. He picked up the binoculars and looked closer.

  Yes, the warblers were migrating much later this year.

  27

  Lani reached down and grabbed her lipstick as it nearly rolled away under the seat. She might be a fugitive, but she didn’t have to look bad doing it.

  The train hit another bump and Jack grabbed the empty drink cup teetering on the table between them.

  As we come out of the tunnel, they’ll be waiting for us…

  The words hung in the air as the bullet train reached its halfway point, speeding beneath the English Channel at two hundred miles per hour towards Paris.

  Jack checked his watch – 28 minutes left.

  They knew it was a long shot – their email to Mac right before they entered the tunnel: 36 hours, that’s all we need. Mac’s answer would determine what world they would head into as they stepped off the train.

  Lani looked down – 13 minutes.

  Outside, the darkness of the tunnel was broken by the split-second flicking of lights as the train rode up upon another soft bump. She fidgeted with her dress.

  Suddenly, streams of light flooded the sleeper cabin as the train cleared the tunnel opening. Jack typed into the laptop, accessing the account. A message flashed up.

  “It’s from Mac,” he said.

  Lani leaned over.

  You have Surveillance-Net blackout

  in Paris only, 36 hrs. No police at

  Nord Station also arranged. No info

  on GMA status, but orb transmission

  from Waterloo is being delayed at NSA,

  bottle-necked we are saying here.

  Problem: Surveillance-Net shutdown not

  effective until 2 hours after you arrive

  at Nord. Also, orbs in the station, take

  precautions. Return my message when

  you find that place you told me about.

  Good luck. Mac.

  They could hear the engines reverse, straining with the brakes of the sleek, silver train.

  †

  Dr. Takamura walked casually down the university hallway accompanied by visiting professor Dr. John Arister, a cosmologist and good friend since their graduate school days. It was the third semester that Dr. Arister, Professor of Theoretical Astrophysics at Princeton, had taught a graduate seminar at Georgetown. They enjoyed playing bridge together with their wives, vacationing together on Cape Cod and sharing their hobby of 20th century classical music, particularly Messiaen. But mostly, they liked mental fencing over every idea they could find.

  “That’s interesting, Sam. Frankly, I’ve never thought of it that way. Are you sure?”

  “That’s what Jacobs over at Harvard is saying. He’s about to publish on it. If he’s wrong, it’ll be egg on a lot of faces. To be honest, economics has never interested me very much. Seems more akin to meteorology than a science.”

  “Anything else floating around, something good?” Arister asked, opening the door for Takamura as they descended the stairs and hit the late autumn chill.

  Takamura pulled his coat higher, looking up at the dismal skies. “The earthquakes are causing quite a stir. Lots of theories, nothing definitive. Danforth over at Harvard is, of course, claiming that the skies are falling. Others, though, say it’s only a random spike. To be honest, I’m glad I’m lost in my lab, the simple things, my little puzzles. Anything else up your way, at Princeton, I mean?”

  “Well, strange you mention it. One of our chaos theorists – Dr. Hopkins, you met him once – he’s been looking at these earthquakes, putting forth an interesting hypothesis. Actually, it’s quite frightening.”

  Chaos theory was the study of what happens when a system moves from order to chaos and the catalyst that tips a system over the edge. It could be any system – a system of bridges, a metabolic system of the human body, any system. The question is: As energy builds, when does a stream turn into rapids?

  “Thank God, it could never actually happen,” Arister continued, opening the door to the diner. “Still, it’s unsettling.”

  “So, tell me again. It operates like a ring around the world, faster and faster?”

  “As I said, it’s like a tuning fork, the resonations in the Earth’s tectonic plates building until a critical threshold is reached, at which point the cascade can’t be stopped, becoming like a runaway train. Hopkins says that the cascade could be initiated through a sequence of earthquakes, each occurring at a vulnerable place in the Earth’s crust. The resonation from the first quake then feeds into the next and so on, in a quickening. In the end, the sum energy of the earthquake cascade itself converges into a belt of energy around the equator, the ring I mentioned. It’s only theoretical, as no natural agent could initiate such a sequence.”

  Arister stirred sugar into his coffee, “Still an interesting idea…”

  “So then, what is the end-point to this so-called energy belt?” Takamura asked, his professor’s mind unable to leave a tidbit alone. “I mean, if this Hopkins fellow is correct and the energy escalates into this belt, with the resonation increasing – as you said, like a tuning fork – what happens when the energy reaches its threshold?”

  “Like a stream, it turns into rapids. At
some point, the system actually rushes towards its end-point. It would be its nature to do so.”

  “And what would that look like?”

  Arister stared into his coffee, swirling into patterns – turbulent, beautiful patterns. He gave the stick a swirl and the patterns broke.

  “I don’t know. No one does. The tectonic plates would oscillate, finally shattering at the edges. The world would see earthquakes like never before. The plates would split, fissure. Magma would release into thousands of volcanoes. Sulfuric acid would poison the skies…”

  He paused, “Oblivion, I suppose. Utter destruction. Fire across the sky.”

  †

  The train had stopped inside Gare du Nord Station and Jack had been gone for one minute and twenty-six seconds. She stared at her watch again, certain that it had been much longer. What he’d said just before leaving the cabin, it was unsettling. She still wasn’t sure if it was the right thing to do.

  “Where are you going?” she’d said.

  “I’ll be right back. We need some things.”

  He then rushed through the cabin door. In the corridor outside, saw passengers milling and gathering by the exits. He shut the door and the silence had returned.

  She looked at her watch. She liked that Jack flew by the seat of his pants, but sometimes…

  The cabin door swung open and he slipped back in, holding a grocery bag. “You remember that nice young man who helped us when we got on? I found him.”

  He spread the bag’s contents out on the table – a half-squeezed tube of instant glue, duct tape, odd pieces of cardboard, scissors, a black magic marker and an old hat from lost and found.

  “I grabbed what I could from the back car. Here, let’s have your shoes – the old ones out of the bag, that you wore to the manor.”

  She handed him the shoes, her real-life shoes.

  He put the cardboard on the floor. “Foot, please.”

  She put her foot on the cardboard and he traced it with the marker, then cut out the shape and used it to trace ten more, gluing them together and, finally, to the bottom of each shoe.