Jim Hornswell cleared his throat. "Actually, the real Walmart sells a lot more weapons than that. Boltzmann would be more like the Costco of... Conflict perhaps?"
"Jim?" said the President.
"No, it's true, I mean the sales figures aren't public, but—"
"Jim," the President said again, this time more pointedly.
"Yes, sir?"
"Nobody cares."
"No, sir."
Sarah concealed a smirk. It amused her to see the President scold his Chief of Staff. She hated Hornswell's pedantry. She believed her own laser-like focus and all business approach would favour her in the end. "The point is," she said, "Boltzmann is extremely well connected and has sophisticated channels for moving an item, even one as hot as this."
"But how did he find out about it? I mean, my understanding is that this was the most top secret of top secret things. The very toppest top of top...secretness."
Jim cleared his throat. "Technically, there can only be one top," he explained, trying to be helpful. "I mean, all of the other things would be near top, or second to the top, so not really..." Jim trailed off when he realized the President was simply staring at him. "Sorry, Mr. President."
The President of the United States turned away. He wanted to gaze out a window reflectively. Since there were no actual windows in the Situation Room, he was forced to gaze at a mirror instead. This meant that his reflection was more literal than expected as he found himself gazing at himself. He saw, for the first time, that he had a cowlick. Gee whiz, he thought, I look like Alfalfa from The Little Rascals. Why the heck didn't anyone tell me? He shot a suspicious glance at Jim Hornswell. Jim, he realised, could pass as a grown-up version of The Little Rascals character Spanky. For the first time, he wondered if his Chief of Staff truly had his best interests at heart. The President of the United States licked his hand and pressed the cowlick firmly into place. That should do it, he thought. He lifted his hand. The disobedient hair immediately popped up again. The President scowled and pressed down more firmly. Sarah and Jim watched in uncomfortable silence. When the tuft sprang up yet again, the President began vigorously slapping himself on the head in the hope of beating his scalp into submission. Finally, he pressed down with both hands until his head began to hurt. He then, tentatively, lifted his hands away and noted with satisfaction that the rogue hair stayed flat. When in doubt, he thought, use force. He had been ready to resort to a hammer if needed. He wondered what had happened to the real Alfalfa. Had he decided to check, he would have learned that the actor who played Alfalfa, Carl Switzer, died of a gunshot wound to the groin over an altercation involving a lost dog. The court ruled the death as self defence. The Little Rascal had been armed with a switchblade knife at the time.
"We don't know Mr. President," said Sarah, "communist spies in the fifties, perhaps?"
"Ah, so the Russians are involved."
"Perhaps. But, it could also simply be a case of former staff with loose lips. After this many years, who knows? We really have no leads. We do know the scientist who invented Project Loose Thread disappeared."
"Disappeared?"
"Yes, sir. Dr. Rupert MacGuffin. He quit shortly after the project was completed and moved back to his home in Scotland."
"Ah, so the Scots are involved."
Sarah wasn't quite sure how to respond to this. "Hmm, yes, well, I suppose that's possible. Anyway, he began conducting some rather crackpot experiments over there. About six years ago, we learned that he'd vanished."
"Vanished?"
"Without a trace."
"Ah ha!"
"Mr. President, I realize that sounds very mysterious but, to be honest, I wouldn't be too concerned about him. From what I understand, he went off his rocker in the years preceding. 'Sad' was the word some of his colleagues used to describe him. They said his work at the time was more fantasy than physics."
"I see," said the Commander-in-Chief. He then stared off into space as if seeing a path unseen. "I see," he repeated, his countenance both serious and thoughtful. At that moment, the President's cowlick sprang free once more.
He looks like a kind of unicorn, thought Jim.
Chapter 10
"This is your chance to get in on the ground floor..."
– V. Lustig
The Marina Bay Sands Hotel in Singapore looked like a large ship marooned atop three giant pillars high in the sky. This was no accident. Someone had actually designed it this way at a cost of eight billion dollars, making it the most expensive casino hotel ever built. Each of the pillars were separate hotel towers. The boat that bridged them was the so-called 'Skypark'. The Skypark included trees, restaurants, and a resort sized infinity pool overlooking the Malay Peninsula. Despite the premium prices, the poolside was packed. If the hotel was architecturally ludicrous, it was ludicrously successful.
Mathias Boltzmann stood at the edge of a precipice. He glanced down at the city streets below. A section of the Skypark's glass safety barrier had been removed, leaving nothing between Mathias and oblivion. He loved this. The opportunity for imminent death made him feel alive. He confidently raised the Famars Rombo four barrel shotgun to his shoulder. "What do you think, Carl?" he asked with a grin. Mathias's teeth were bright red, making it look as though he'd been drinking blood. In truth, he'd simply been chewing betel quids, a local leaf stimulant often compared to chewing tobacco. It was a bad habit he indulged in only in Asia.
"Twenty miles per hour," said Carl nervously. "No, twenty-five."
"Ten," said Mathias. He chuckled. Despite his efforts to conceal it, it was obvious that Carl was afraid of heights. The stocky American refused to come within a few feet of the ledge and cowered each time the wind blew. Fear makes him over estimate its speed, observed the arms dealer. Fear makes fools of us all. But what, he wondered, does Carl fear the most? "Pull!"
The slight Asian hotel employee on the platform behind them, released the lever. The metal arm snapped, sending a clay pigeon high into the sky. Mathias smoothly followed its arc for a moment, then squeezed the trigger. Boom! The skeet, a tiny black spec against the purple twilight, was instantly obliterated. Mathias nodded with satisfaction. "Your turn."
"No, it's fine," said the American, "I'm happy just to watch."
"Nonsense," said Mathias. "Here."
The arms dealer tossed the ornate shotgun to Carl, who had no choice but to catch it. "Okay..." he said reluctantly, "I'm a bit rusty."
"Take as much time as you like." Mathias gestured to a nearby waiter who stepped forward to hand him back his drink. Mathias swirled the fifty-year-old Macallan Scotch a moment, before taking a sip. "And as many shots as you need," he said. He then added with a wink, "I know where to get more ammunition if we need it."
Carl smiled nervously at the joke. He wasn't a bad shot and could normally hold his own. He'd grown up in a family where learning to handle, clean, and reassemble guns blindfolded was a given. If he ever so much as left the safety off, his father would box his ears until they bled. He'd killed his first deer at the age of twelve and had routinely entered target practice tournaments. Carl never won these contests, but always landed safely in the middle of the pack. The problem here wasn't the gun. It was the gulf of space between the Skypark and the Earth below. If he stared down too long, he'd start to swoon. He'd start to feel as if the building were leaning forward into the void, trying to spill him off. Still, he had to shoot, Mathias had left him no choice. Carl took a small step forward, clutching the gun in a death grip.
"You need to get closer than that," said Mathias, burying his nose in his whisky to hide his amusement. "Right up to the edge, Carl. That way, if it falls below, you can still get it. I promised the hotel that nothing would hit the ground, so it would be most unfortunate if something did."
Carl took a deep breath. There was no way he could back out now. Staring straight ahead, he stepped forward to within inches of the edge. He'd been told once that, the reason some people fear heights wasn't the fear they mig
ht fall, but the fear they might jump. It was thanatos, they said, the Freudian death urge, which compels a part of us, in some perverse way, to seek oblivion. As the seemingly infinite space yawned before him, Carl knew that this was true. He braced himself against himself, and waited.
Of course, the hotel didn't normally allow guests to shoot guns off the roof. Mathias Boltzmann was no ordinary guest. Mathias had a great many powerful friends throughout the Pacific Rim. As a result, he'd reserved an entire section of the Skypark for his own private use. Ostensibly this was for meeting with clients. That, however, could be done anywhere. In reality, Mathias simply enjoyed doing things that others could not. He never looked at the throngs of tourists lying poolside outside of his cordoned-off domain, but he knew they were looking at him. They were wondering who he was, and he basked in their wonder. Mathias held his hand aloft, but did not lower it. When he did, the servant would release the skeet. For now, however, Mathias savoured his drink, and his friend's fear.
Carl's arm shook. The longer he waited, the worse the shaking grew. He felt the wind trying to push him from his perch. Another few inches and he would be hurtling through empty air to the pavement below. Carl glanced down. Directly beneath, a toy red hotel shuttle drove along a grey road. If he fell, he might also land in the adjacent water, but he knew that, from this height, it might as well be concrete. "Well?" pleaded Carl.
Mathis smirked and dropped his hand. "Pull!"
The servant released the lever and once more a clay pigeon was flung into the void.
Released from the pressure of waiting, Carl was relieved to focus squarely on the tiny target. Once he had a sense of its trajectory, he aimed ahead and fired. The skeet continued on its way, unharmed. Humiliated and afraid that a miss might mean having to go again, Carl returned his bead to the skeet. Gravity had taken over, and the small projectile was now dropping fast. Carl aimed, adjusted, and shot once more. The skeet wobbled, indicating a graze from a stray pellet, but remained intact. This was a four-barrel shotgun, so Carl still had a chance. Keeping his eye on the plunging black pill, he aimed low. The city swung into view, and he prepared to shoot again. This time, he was determined not to miss. He tracked the target relentlessly until he was suddenly yanked upwards and flung his hands wide. The shotgun flew from his grip and flipped out into space. He was hanging over the edge, staring at asphalt, and water, one hundred and ninety-one metres below. His heart stopped.
"Ziehen!" someone shouted in German. "Pull!"
It was Mathias who had a hold of his jacket. The hands of the hotel servants joined in. They pulled him back to the safety of the roof where he collapsed in shock. He was hyperventilating. His heart pounded in his chest. It's trying to burst out, he thought in a horrified stupor, like that alien from that movie. "What happened?"
Mathias, still panting from the effort, began to laugh. "You crazy Texas fool!" he said, "You have terrible aim, but you get an 'A' for trying, and a 'D' for almost dead."
"I don't understand..."
"You followed that stupid skeet right off the roof! If I hadn't caught you..."
"You saved my life?"
"I suppose so," said Mathias with a shrug. "Anyway, you've earned your drink."
Carl continued to sit, splayed out on the terrace tile. Outside their allocated area, some of the tourists who had witnessed the incident pointed at him and babbled. He peered over the open edge and felt oddly unafraid of it. On the roadway far below, a small group of individuals had gathered around to inspect the shattered shotgun that had fallen from heaven. One of the servants helped Carl to his feet, where Mathias handed him a tumbler of Scotch. Mathias watched as the American drank, emptying the glass but not gulping it. Carl felt that he could taste every ounce of sherry cask in the luscious whiskey. He almost instantly felt drunk.
"Now," said Mathias, "enough fun and games. I invited you here for a reason."
* * *
Ten minutes later Carl was waiting in the living room of Mathias's penthouse suite. The interior was off-white modern, replete with off-white luxuries that included an off-white Steinway Grand Piano. While he waited, Carl casually played Birch Canoe. It was the only piece he knew. He noted that the fine piano had not been tuned in some time, and sounded a little off. One of the keys made no sound at all. He was not entirely alone. An imposing man in a black suit stood in the corner. The brute had a shaved head that bore a striking resemblance to the inimitable statues of Easter Island, had the statues worn sunglasses and spiderweb tattoos. Outside on the balcony stood a second guard, scanning the sky. An RPG lay at the ready by his feet. Carl knew Mathias to be anything but paranoid. Despite his enormous wealth and most-wanted status in more countries than he could count, the arms dealer often traveled alone. The idea that Mathias felt the need to guard against aerial assault intrigued Carl. What was going on?
"Okay," said Mathias, swinging wide the french doors leading to the office. He smiled warmly and waved Carl inside. Mathias then turned and pulled the double doors closed behind them. The hotel had spared no expense in furnishing the place and wanted its guests to know it. The office was tastefully opulent, centered by a large desk carved from a single slab of mahogany flown in illegally from Brazil. On the desk sat two large platters, one gold, one silver, both conspicuously covered with domes. The domes were large enough each to conceal a suckling pig.
"I've got it!" shouted Mathias triumphantly. "I've got it! I've got it! I've got it!"
"Got what?" asked Carl.
Mathias beamed, relishing the moment. "Loose Thread!"
Carl had no idea what this meant. Mathias clearly seemed to think he should. "What?" asked Carl.
Mathias hesitated. "Do you mean, 'what I can't believe it?' Or, do you mean 'what is Loose Thread?'"
Carl hesitated, then sheepishly admittedly the latter.
Mathias deflated, then became annoyed. "You don't remember that website I showed you last time?"
"Oh... right, the can... thing on eBay!" Carl had never known Mathias to be trivial. Despite this, he had dismissed his friend's explanation of the online auction as pure fiction. It was simply too preposterous. Mathias, after all, had described the canister as 'far more powerful than an atomic bomb.' How could a weapon of such awesome potential be on eBay for less than the cost of a case of bratwurst? "I'd forgotten what it was called," said the American meekly, "but, yes, of course, I remember. How exciting!"
Mathias accepted this with a nod. "Well then, let me show it to you!" Barely able to contain his excitement, he walked to the desk and reached for the gold platter. He turned back to look at Carl, and grinned once more. With a dramatic flourish of his hand, he lifted the dome. Carl, suddenly cognizant of what the platter contained, flinched, and stepped back. What was revealed was anything but threatening—an innocuous steel canister looking exactly as it had on the auction webpage, but smaller. If anything it looked even more like a Starbucks coffee mug in reality than it did in the photo.
Mathias laughed. "It's quite safe, my friend! Besides, if it were to go off, stepping back would hardly save you. Nor would leaving the country, for that matter."
Carl stared at the shiny cylinder, suddenly fascinated. "Is it... true?"
"True? True that opening it could destroy the earth? I certainly hope so. Otherwise, I'd be quite the fool. Caveat emptor and all that, I suppose. Do you think me a fool, Carl?"
Carl looked aghast at the thought. "No, certainly not! It's just so..."
"So unbelievable? I understand, but I assure you, I've done my due diligence. It's quite real. Here, take a look for yourself!" For the second time that day, Mathias tossed a weapon towards Carl. Carl caught it in his arms as if it were a baby thrown from a burning building. "Jesus Christ, Mathias!"
Mathias laughed. "I told you, it's quite safe. You couldn't open it with a sledge hammer if you tried. I've had it thoroughly examined. It's made of osmiridium, is structurally engineered to be uncrushable, and has a childproof lid."
Despite these a
ssurances, Carl examined it with care. The container appeared utterly unremarkable. It was hard to imagine an exterior that better belied its promised potential. Just as in the photographs, the outside was smooth save for the inscribed serial number and 'Top Secret' labelling. The canister was a contradiction. It felt at once both old and new, otherworldly and oddly familiar, harmless and yet utterly lethal.
"I know," Mathias snorted, "It looks like a martini shaker, hmm?"
Carl nodded, although privately he maintained his own view that it looked like a travel coffee mug. He weighed it with his hand and was surprised at how light it was. It felt as though it contained nothing at all. "What are you going to do with it?"
Mathias's eyes sparkled with mischievous delight. "The billion dollar question," he said, "but, what I think you mean is, to whom do I intend to sell it?"
"The billion dollar question? Most of our customers have only tens of millions to spend, some less."
Chaos Theory: A Feel Good Story About the End of the World Page 9
