"Okay, so what’s the point?" Christie asked.
"The point is that the Church holds that your conscience is God speaking directly to you. You can choose to listen, or not to listen."
Christie nodded. "Well, I know what He’s saying to me," she said. "What’s He telling you?"
"That’s the problem," Cardinal Roscoe answered. "I am not sure. I was sure before…or at least I thought that I was. But now, I do not know. The message is not clear, my conscience is conflicted. I cannot see the truth about the moral good stated in the law of reason." He was practically reciting from the Catechism, but it was the only way he knew to get to the point of his dilemma.
"Maybe that’s the point," Christie said. "Maybe it isn’t supposed to be clear."
"That is not what I’m saying… I know clearly through the law of reason that I have taken part in something that was wrong. Yet my conscience urges me on."
"Is this something that has to be resolved now?" she asked.
Cardinal Roscoe frowned. Yes, before he could go on, he needed to resolve the internal crisis. He seemed to be standing before a solid wall, infinitely high and infinitely long in either direction. The only way past was through the wall. How to get through the wall? It had to do with conscience. It had to do with…forgiveness. That was it. His conscience would call to mind the forgiveness that must be asked, ‘for God is greater than our hearts, and he knows everything.’
Cardinal Roscoe breathed a sigh of relief. The way was clear. To proceed, then to attest to whatever faults committed along the way and ask for God’s forgiveness. His heart swelled for a moment, as he thought he’d been shown his path…but then, from the back of his mind, arose another quote from the Catholic Catechism: ‘One may never do evil so that good may result from it.’ He remembered debating this point as a young theologian, debating whether or not this was an unpardonable sin. Naturally, one argued that God could forgive whatever sins He wished to forgive; but the question remained, was this a sin that, in its absolute, God would wish to forgive?
The younger, fiery Cardinal Roscoe had consistently argued that no, it was not, it had never been and it never would be.
A chill radiated through his body, out from somewhere below his heart, as if coming directly from his eternal soul.
Milla turned on her cell phone as she entered the concourse from the A-300 jetliner that had carried her to Atlanta from Los Angeles. She pressed the CALL BACK button, and her phone dialed the last number to call her. After a few rings, she heard the recorded voice of Udin, in English, saying to leave a message and he would call right back. Milla understood that much English, and not much more.
"It’s me. I have arrived," Milla said, in Russian, and then she pressed the END button and slipped the phone into the pocket of her jacket. What to do until he called her back? She supposed it didn’t matter, really. She decided to go into the city, maybe see some sights. What was there to see in Atlanta?
Milla scouted around until she found a display of brochures about Atlanta and the state of Georgia. She saw one about the World of Coca-Cola exhibit. That would be interesting. She’d grown up in a world where Coke was a luxury item, always too expensive and out of reach, until she’d started working for Udin. She decided to go there first. She hoped Udin wouldn’t get her message right away so she would have time to enjoy herself.
She followed the signs outside to where the taxi stand was located. The air smelled thickly of exhaust. Milla walked up to a cab where the driver, an older black man with a grizzled, grey beard, leaned against the trunk. She held out the brochure.
"World of Coca-Cola?" the driver asked her.
Milla merely smiled and nodded, only recognizing the name of the soft drink maker.
He opened the back door for her, then walked around to the other side to get in. The cab smelled pungently of stale cigarette smoke and vinyl. It was almost unbreathable. She tried rolling down her window, but it would only open about a quarter of the way, and then it stopped.
The cab thrummed to life, then lurched forward and into traffic without hesitation. She rolled down her window and listened to the barrage of honking horns and revving engines echoing off the concrete all around. Buses, vans, and taxi cabs jockeyed for position by lurching forward and then braking suddenly. The traffic was orderly compared to the motorized chaos she’d experienced in Asian cities like Hong Kong and Saigon, and even in certain European cities like Paris and Rome.
It amazed her that she’d never been to America before, when she thought about it. But Europe had been her designated hunting grounds. Their happy hunting grounds. Hers and Antony’s.
After his murder, she was sent to the Far East and Asia became her new territory. It was harder to operate there, being Caucasian. Passing for a prostitute helped. It also helped her make some extra money, and helped her forget about…him. She’d willed herself to become almost a machine, emotionless, unthinking. It had been an almost Zen existence for so long. She’d discovered that emotions were both a burden and a luxury. Merely to feel happiness, even for a moment, was a treasure of unimaginable value, while suffering the pain of loss and loneliness was an exquisite torture that not even the most versatile practitioners of that art could reproduce. One did not come without the other. One could not exist without the other, like yin and yang. After a while Milla had learned to accept that and live with it. It also made her even better at what she’d already been quite good at, namely killing.
The cab ride didn’t take as long as she’d thought it would. Before too long the downtown Atlanta skyline loomed ahead. The car moved along apace with traffic. Milla looked over the driver’s shoulder at the speedometer. It showed both miles per hour and kilometers per hour. They were moving at just over one hundred km/h. Not too bad, she thought. The highway was vast, spanning six lanes just in the direction heading towards town. America was such an automobile-based society. Russia was even bigger than the United States, yet it was more European in its attitude towards automobiles and skyscrapers… Milla could not imagine driving towards Moscow in the same manner.
The car veered down an off-ramp and into the city. The sidewalks were not as busy as Milla would have expected. The car made a few turns, and before she realized it, the driver announced, "World of Coca-Cola."
Milla read the meter and pulled a wad of cash from her pocket. American money all looked the same. It took her a few seconds to sort it out, and she could feel the driver’s lack of patience. She didn’t care. Long ago she’d decided that there were only a few real people in the world; the rest were cardboard cut-outs, or extras like in a Hollywood movie who didn’t have their own stories to tell. They existed to be part of someone else’s story. The cab driver existed, at that moment, only to be a part of Milla’s story. The extent of his personality was to be impatient while Milla slowly sorted out her foreign currency.
She counted out the fare, then added five dollars as a tip. Money was nothing to her. If she had none, she knew how get what she needed to survive without it. She got out of the taxi and walked straight towards the World of Coca Cola building. She could feel the cabbie’s gaze on her for a moment, then she heard the car drive away. A few years ago Milla might have been angry at the cabbie for checking her out like that, or angry at herself for being a woman. Now, she didn’t care. It didn’t mean anything.
She walked up to the entrance of the World of Coca Cola where a small line had formed a sign stating that a tour would be starting in fifteen minutes. Milla could just enough English to figure that out, so she got in line behind a middle-aged Korean woman, who smiled at her. Milla smiled back. She hoped her cell phone didn’t ring during the tour.
Chapter 26
Oracle had known that Henry would take Angus’ gun. That Henry would not kill Angus. That Angus would kill Alonso.
It was beautiful to Angus how the pieces all came together. How he’d known where Alonso’s safe was, and the combination, and that the gun therein would be loaded. It had happened so smoo
thly and flawlessly it was as if the whole thing had been blocked out and rehearsed by everyone involved. Players on a stage, wasn’t that what Shakespeare had written?
In the trunk of Henry’s rental car was Sam’s computer and some clothes for her. The girl brightened considerably when she saw her little kid’s laptop. Oracle had specifically indicated that she was to have her laptop again so she could connect to the Internet. Angus, dumbfounded that an artificial intelligence should care whether or not some brat had access to the Internet, had asked why. Oracle never did answer that one.
Except for Angus, the others all wore the same expression.
Disbelief. Angus even caught that look on Henry’s face, who should have known better. Now, after what had happened, how could Henry not believe that anything and everything was possible where Oracle was concerned? It was quite obvious that Henry wanted to kill Angus. But he wouldn’t do it. He couldn’t. It was gone, whatever had been in him to kill in cold blood. Killing in self-defense, or in defense of the child, that was one thing, but killing in cold blood was something else entirely… Henry had once had the taste for it, fueled by vengeance, but no longer. Oracle had assured Angus of that. None of the others there had it in them, either. Angus was safe. Killing Alonso had been predetermined by Oracle. It was psychological warfare against Henry, Roscoe, and the others.
The threat of the next replacement assassin was also a form of psychological warfare. It was a very real threat, of course. All of it was real. Angus could decide not to intervene and allow the little girl’s murder. He could. Of course, he knew that Oracle had chosen him because he would do as he was told. He liked being a puppet on a string so long as he knew that’s what he was. Knowing made him feel less like a puppet.
Sam watched the screen of her computer come to life. She pressed the big, purple button with the phone symbol on it to connect to the Internet. The laptop chimed when it connected. Sam typed in the familiar address, Ribbett’s Place, and a moment later Ribbett appeared. Her friend.
"Hi, Ribbett," Sam said.
It took a moment for Ribbett to respond, but eventually he did by jumping up in the air and spinning around, and a word balloon appeared beside him that said, Hi, Sam! Ribbett could see and hear Sam, but Ribbett didn’t talk out loud even though the laptop had speakers. Ribbett never talked out loud. Sam knew that this was to help her learn how to read.
"Who is that?" Angus asked her. He was standing behind her. Tina and Henry were nearby, as well. Sam knew they were watching Angus to make sure he didn’t do anything bad to her. She wasn’t afraid even though she had seen him kill the nice man, Mr. Alonso. She didn’t know what to think about that. Maybe Alonso was a bad man. Sam didn’t want to think about it anymore.
"Ribbett," Sam replied quietly.
"Ribbett? That his name? What is he then, a frog?" Sam nodded. "So is that your friend, Sam?" Angus asked. Sam nodded again.
Who’s your friend, Sam? Ribbett asked.
Sam looked at Angus, then at Ribbett. She didn’t know what to say. Angus wasn’t really her friend…
"Oi, my name’s Angus," came the Aussie’s voice from right behind Sam.
Hello, Angus! Ribbett said. There was a brief pause, then the frog jumped up and down a couple times and a big word balloon appeared over its head. Hey, I know you!
"I don’t think so," Angus replied. "I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of making your acquaintance before now."
Ribbett suddenly laughed. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!
"What’s so bloody funny?" Angus asked. Sam could tell he was angry because he thought Ribbett was making fun of him. She tried to figure out a way to tell him that Ribbett wasn’t being mean, Ribbett was just like that. She wanted to say something, but couldn’t think of what to say.
You don’t know who I am! Ribbett yelled, then rolled around on the ground, then stood up and slapped its knee, then danced around while carnival music played and cartoon musical notes spun likes tops.
"That’s what I bloody just said, ain’t it?" Angus replied. Sam could hear anger in his voice.
Angus Becker, Woody Woodpecker! Ribbett said. I know you better than anyone knows you! I know you better than you know yourself!
There was a moment of silence behind Sam, although she could still feel Angus right behind her. She was afraid to look at him, afraid he might be really, really angry.
But then Angus laughed. It was a quick, single, sharp, bark of a laugh.
"I don’t believe it!" he said afterwards.
Now you know who I am, Ribbett said, winking at Angus.
"Yeah," Angus said. "It all makes sense, now, it does. How you know Sam. I never would’ve guessed it." Then he mussed Sam’s hair, which she didn’t like.
"Watch it, Angus," Henry said from out of view. Angus ignored him.
"Oi, Sammy, you’ve got one hell of a friend here, you do. One hell of a friend."
I’m Sam’s best friend! Ribbett said.
"Is that true, Sam?" Angus asked. "Is he your best friend?" Sam nodded. Angus was using that tone of voice that adults used when they weren’t being serious, when they were almost making fun of kids. She didn’t like it, either. It made her feel the same way that getting her hair mussed did. "Your best friend," Angus continued. "That’s really bloody something, Sam." She really wished he’d go away and leave her alone with Ribbett. She wanted to listen to Ribbett sing songs while she played a game.
Angus, why don’t you leave us alone now, OK? Ribbett said. We’re going to play a game, Sam and I.
"What, I can’t play?" Angus asked, obviously trying to sound hurt but just sounding fake.
Ribbett stopped, put his hands on his hips, and tapped his foot, waiting.
Angus mumbled something, then moved away. Sam was glad because she wanted to ask Ribbett something without having Angus right there, listening.
"Ribbett, are my Mommy and Daddy in Heaven right now?" she asked.
Ribbett paused. Sam waited. Ribbett had always known everything, so she was sure Ribbett would know if her parents were in Heaven. Even though Tina had said they were, Sam wanted to hear it again, from Ribbett, from her best friend.
After a moment, Ribbett suddenly got down on his knees and started praying. A halo appeared over his head and angel wings sprouted from his body. Sam smiled. Tina had said her parents were in Heaven, and now Ribbett was saying the same thing. Her parents were in Heaven. Sam missed them, but she knew they were okay now.
"Let’s play a game," Sam said. Ribbett jumped up and spun around like a top, the angel wings and halo disappearing.
We’re playing a game! Ribbett said in word balloons that appeared all over the screen and then popped like real balloons. We’re playing a game! We’re playing a game!
Something bothered Henry. Something concerning Tina. Earlier, he’d zoned out and imagined that Angus had killed Tina. Somehow, in his temporary delirium, he’d combined Tina with the memory of his wife. Not confused them, not inserted Tina into one of his flashbacks to that awful moment on the tour bus in Cairo. Combined them, together, but not into one person. Into one feeling. Now, hours later, that feeling remained. He found himself staring at Tina, and at the same time not wanting to look at her because of what he felt when he did.
"What is it?" she asked, and he knew he was being transparent.
"Nothing."
"Something’s bothering you, I can tell," she said.
He wanted to say, you don’t even know me. But how long did it take a person to know another person. In his experience, situations like the one they were in, high intensity, high pressure, accelerated the process of familiarity. Like soldiers in a foxhole during a battle, or kidnap victims and their kidnappers. He’d done some reading on the subject during the in-between times, when he wasn’t out on a mission. He’d also done some reading on the psychological effects that killing had on a person. If you weren’t already psychotic, killing someone could drive you crazy. Justifying it was a way to deal with it. The concept tha
t righteous killing was okay was one thing, believing it was another. Henry had always believed it, or so he thought. Until he discovered the truth.
Oracle. Now that blew Henry’s mind. He’d been sent to kill people by a computer. An Artificial Intelligence. Yes, there had been real people in the U.N. who had approved the assassinations, and who could have stopped them, all of them, had they so chosen. But an A.I. had called the shots, effectively. Well, what of it? A computer had as much right to decide who should live and who should die as any human. Meaning, none. But Henry had believed in what he was doing the way the Cardinal probably believed in God, or believed in the Pope, at least.
"We can’t stay here," Tina said quietly, with a glance towards Angus. She’d handled the shock of Alonso’s murder well, so far, but he could tell she was holding it inside. The stress would get to her sooner or later. She’d either crack, or she’d come through it stronger than before, and different. She was never going to be the same Tina Jefferson.
Of course she was right. They’d be better off away from Angus and the others. They were caught up in Oracle’s game, right smack in the middle. Of course, so far that game included keeping Sam alive, which was the whole point, at least for now.
Henry’s gut told him that something would happen soon, though. Angus was psychotic. So he was acting on Oracle’s orders. That didn’t make Henry feel any better.
The doorbell chimed.
Henry’s nerve endings all seemed to fire at once as he tensed at the sound. His heart rate seemed to increase exponentially. His old instincts returned, he felt as if he’d suddenly gotten sober after an all-night binge.
"Oh God," Tina said under her breath.
The doorbell chimed again, followed by the brass knocker hitting the door three times.
Angus turned away from Sam and her laptop, checking his watch. He looked at Henry, his expression somber, and nodded. Angus then headed towards the front door, giving Henry the perfect opportunity. He could shoot Angus in the back of the head easily, turning him off like a switch. But what would that accomplish? Besides, Angus was right. Henry felt it, deep inside. He didn’t want to kill him. He didn’t want to kill anyone. Ever again.
The Oracle Paradox Page 19
