The War of Immensities

by Barry Klemm

  “But they said you knew it was going to happen.”

  “We can predict it to a limited extent.”

  “Then why can’t you prevent it?”

  “Can you imagine trying to stop a volcano from erupting?”

  “But if you know it’s going to happen, why don’t you move the people away?”

  “Because the prediction isn’t accurate enough. Anyway, that’s nothing to do with me. I just help the victims afterwards.”

  “But why do you have to do it?”

  “Because nobody knows more about it than I do.”

  “Couldn’t you teach someone else?”

  “Look, Gav. I don’t want to be here. It makes me so sad to be away from you all. Missing out on all the important things. I have to be here. That’s how it is.”

  “Dad wants to speak now.”

  There was some sort of brief discussion before Wendell took the receiver. She could imagine the huffs and gruffs all too easily. But even the bad moments would have been a joy to her right then.

  “So, there, see. We’re all coping. Who needs you?”

  “That isn’t what I want to hear right now, Wen.”

  “Yes, well, I’m sorry. And you can add to that an extremely large apology for not understanding in the first place.”

  “I thought you did understand.”

  “Not like I do now. Truth is, we’re all enormously proud of you, now that you’re famous. It’s a lot easier being able to brag about you instead of being vague and secretive when people ask where you are.”

  “I guess so.”

  He lowered his voice. “Okay, so the telly’s back on. Now you can tell me about this plague?”

  “This what?”

  “A new plague threatening all humanity, caused by the ejecta from volcanoes.”

  “Is that what they’re saying?”

  “No. That’s what they’re continually denying.”

  “There is no contagion whatsoever, Wen.”

  “But what is it?”

  “When we know that, I’ll be home for good.”

  “And what of the world blowing up in the middle of next year?”

  “Are they denying that too?”

  “We see that Vietcong prophetess of doom saying she’ll lead the pilgrims to the land of milk and honey.”

  “That’s been on the news?”

  “A right little Mother Theresa with a Moses complex and a former refugee to boot. And French. Even Joan of Arc would have been under-qualified for the job.”

  “Jesus, Wen. How much hype are they giving this?”

  “The full treatment, as far as I can see. Although the importance might be distorted here. It’s not every day three Kiwi lassies make the international news.”

  “Who’s the third?”

  “The Irish redhead from Auckland who tells the official lies.”

  “Oh God, what’s she been saying?”

  “Don’t panic. Make sure you know where your towel is.”

  The reference meant nothing to Felicity and she was too tired to bother working it out. Lorna, she could imagine, was parroting sensible things word perfect from Thyssen with her easy smile and calm demeanour. She responded with a huge sigh.

  “It’s all getting out of hand, Wen.”

  “I’ll say it is. You were the sole voice of sanity amid a sea of madness.”

  “Well, at least that matches reality.”

  “So when can we expect you?”

  “Oh. I ought to be clear from here in a couple of weeks. I must get back for Megan’s birthday. And at least one of those semi-finals, I guess.”

  “The 7th, then the 14th if they win.”

  “14th for sure.”

  “For how long.”

  “Two weeks maybe. Then on to the next one.”

  “You mean they know where and when it’s going to be?”

  Felicity felt the chill run through her body. Was this how great secrets began to leak? “If they know they aren’t saying.”

  “If they can predict one, they can predict the rest.”

  “It isn’t that accurate. I think they can work out the when and figure the longitude, but not the latitude. This one could have occurred anywhere between the north pole and central Africa. We had no way of knowing it would be Italy.”

  “They said Mediterranean.”

  “I think that was just a lucky guess. Anyway, they don’t tell me everything.”

  “Who is they?”

  She found that she had to restrain herself from using the word Thyssen.

  “The project. Earthshaker, they call it,” she said, wondering why she needed to pretend to be vague. Now that she had reached the point of lying to her family, she knew she had to terminate the conversation. “Look, I’ve got to go. It was great hearing from you. And the kids. You don’t know how much I’ve missed you all.”

  “Hang in there, kid. We’re all behind you.”

  “Love you. Bye.”

  She laid the receiver back in the cradle and rested both hands on it for a moment. The black rain made it seem to be night as it thundered on the roof. Nausea swept through her and she closed her eyes until it passed. It was only a small thing but still it mattered. Forced to chose once more, even in this tiny way, between her family and Thyssen, she had made the same choice again. But how much longer could it go on?

  *

  As the NATO forces and civil guards pulled out, Wagner had been frantically hiring security guards from local Italian companies but they all proved very unsatisfactory. Those who didn’t abuse their position by bullying the locals, or extorting money, or just getting drunk and starting brawls, only failed to do so because they were sleeping on the job. Or seducing the local maidens. Or running through the stocks in the vineyards. And crashing his vehicles everywhere. They visited greater disaster on the region than the Shastri Effect, Wagner lamented to Brian. He was airing the idea of employing South African mercenaries.

  “Why don’t you let the problem solve itself?” Brian responded. “Recruit the guards from within the sleepers and train them to guard themselves. That way they’ll have an interest.”

  It sounded like a good idea at the time. Wagner got hold of the Red Cross list and highlighted all people between eighteen and forty as interview candidates—both male and female—no need to be sexist about this—which ought to save him an earbashing from Lorna, and Felicity, and Jami, and just about everybody else. Fabrini was one of the few useful private men he had engaged, a tall thin man with a gigantic moustache who always wore a peaked cap. Together they went off to do the interviews.

  No one would talk to them. When they raised the subject of protection, the interviewee would bow their heads, cross themselves, murmur and edge away. The nearly 700 sleepers were largely old people and children—he only had 118 candidates and he had got halfway through the list without a single volunteer. The offer of good money to these desperate starving peasants made no impression. He began to realise how frustrated Chrissie must have felt about all those souls she wasn’t saving.

  Then, as they were walking off their frustration, a big black sixties-model Pontiac pulled up beside them and two very large men in suits got out.

  “You will come with us,” they said.

  “We will go with them,” Fabrini nervously translated.

  They were driven away from the damaged region, out through orange groves and to a vast vineyard where the local baronial villa stood atop a slight rise, all white arches and porticos and ivy hanging from the balconies. You could tell that Romeos had been climbing up to their Juliets on that ivy for centuries. They were led to a patio overlooking the estate this fine sunny day and a spread of antipasto and good wine awaited them. Two women, mother and daughter presumably, chatted with Fabrini with warm smiles.

  The reason for their visit presently arrived. Don Severni, tall and elegant, white hair and beard, white suit, big smile and handshake.

  “Please forgive my tardiness, gentlemen,” he s
aid in perfect English. “I hope my family have not been too tedious.”

  All family members had faded completely from view.

  “Obviously, you know who I am,” Wagner said.

  “Yes, Mr Wagner. Have you tried the wine. It is one of our finer vintages.”

  “I’m sorry, signor. I don’t drink.”

  Fabrini was looking around for hiding places.

  “A thousand sorrows are visited upon you, as on us all, but for you there is no escape.”

  “I meditate.”

  Don Severni smiled graciously. “And work out four hours, every morning, Mr Wagner. But please, allow some slight concession to my hospitality. At least nibble on some antipasto.”

  Fabrini nodded furious encouragement. Wagner nibbled.

  It went on for some time. Fabrini tried to admire the vintage and praise the consumables but the Don dismissed him with a wave of his hand. Instead, the whole estate was pointed out to Wagner from the balcony, and the awfulness of the Shastri disaster discussed and the Don wished to praise the excellent work done by the emergency services before finally they were ready to get to the subject.

  “Yes, Mr Wagner. I know who you are. I know what you want. What I don’t know is why?”

  “Why what, exactly?”

  “Why you feel you need protection?”

  “I don’t. It is the pilgrims collectively whom I wish to protect.”

  “In these parts, protection is a luxury few can afford. It is the most valuable of all commodities and its bestowment jealously guarded.”

  “I know that. Most generous payments can be made.”

  Don Severni nodded with a sincere pouting expression. “Yes. I know that too. Project Earthshaker. The most perfect of titles. We all tremble at the very words. What possible protection could be needed by men who control the very forces of nature?”

  “As I say, the pilgrims... your own people...”

  “Forgive me, Mr Wagner. I wax lyrical too freely. Tell me, are you a friend of the friends?”

  Fabrini choked on his cigarette, but Wagner knew the name of the Mafia was never spoken. “No. I am a complete outsider.”

  “You understand the difficulties that this presents?”

  “Which is why I am speaking to you, signor.”

  “From whom do they need to be protected? It seems to me all threats are behind them.”

  “Soon, the pilgrims will depart on the first of their pilgrimages. There will be outsiders who will not understand their peaceful intentions. There will be soldiers and local authorities and perhaps interference by foreign powers and maybe even terrorist groups. And the hounds of the paparazzi must be kept at bay. All manner of dangers lie before these pilgrims. My job is to protect them.”

  “But it is being misunderstood that you fear most?”

  “Exactly. Which is why I want the protection to come from within the pilgrims themselves.”

  “From within?”

  “I wish to take those who are willing and able and train them into a security force. That way, they will be protected at all times, permanently.”

  “I see. And do you have adequate trainees from within the pilgrims, Mr Wagner?”

  “No, signor. I have none. But I believe, were you to give the word, such trainees would be readily forthcoming.”

  Don Severni laughed, took wine and toasted his fields. “Ah, Mr Wagner. You Earthshaker people speak with such strength. And so you should, with tectonic power at your command. Yes, I see your difficulty now. There seems to be a problem of divided loyalties.”

  “I think so, yes.”

  “Is there such a difficulty, Mr Wagner?”

  “I don’t think so. I believe that my pilgrim guardians could, whether they were friends of the friends or not, be able to carry out the duties I would want of them without the slightest disloyalty to the friends.”

  “Well put, Mr Wagner,” the Don smiled. Fabrini needed to sit and mop his sweating brow. “Two masters but no disloyalty. That would be a most unusual set of circumstances, were it to happen. Explain to me how it would work.”

  “Because there are no secrets in Project Earthshaker, signor. There are no words of disloyalty that a spy or traitor could speak, therefore no spies nor traitors are possible. Further, the loyalty to Project Earthshaker is of a very precise and limited kind. Specific time periods, clear duties, all very predictable in advance. Beyond the specific duties and timings, no loyalty to the Project is required. They can go anywhere they want, do anything they want, say anything they want.”

  “How wonderfully idealistic. Do you think you can control this, Mr Wagner?”

  “I can’t and I don’t. The circumstances control it. These people will be participating in the pilgrimage anyway. My plan is simply to train them up so they can protect themselves and the others for the duration of the pilgrimage, and presumably those that follow later. Beyond that, they will have no particular responsibility to us whatsoever.”

  The Don walked his patio, shaking his head, a huge grin on his face. “It is the most extraordinary proposition.”

  “We find ourselves in very extraordinary circumstances.”

  “That we do, Mr Wagner. So tell me, should I be able to do whatever it is you imagine I can do to assist you to achieve your objectives. What then?”

  “You mean, what’s in it for you?”

  “If you must resort to your American colloquialisms, yes.”

  “A large sum of money.”

  “Presumably, appropriate financial exchanges will be worked out by our accountants. That is not what I mean. My personal involvement will be in the form of a favour to Project Earthshaker. Perhaps then, at some mutually convenient time, a return favour might be possible.”

  “If it’s possible, I’ll do all I can.”

  “Then tell me, Mr Wagner. How well do you know Miss Lorna Simmons?”

  *

  The convent formed the top of a hill as they are wont to do in Italy, with the attending village a tiered clutter of rooftops gathered about its skirts. Down a series of narrow lanes with steps worn concave by centuries of the tread of monks and the devoted was a small square in the middle of the village, both horizontally and vertically centred. There was a cafe with a nice local vintage and a good sense of coffee and an array of tables that afforded a wide view of the valley. You could sit there, as they did in the evenings, and contemplate the scene below. This Brian Carrick was doing now, alone and contemplative as he waited for the others to arrive. In his rough hands he held some documents that he seemed to be making a point of not reading.

  Out there, you could clearly define a full quarter of the circumference of the circle of destruction that had descended upon the valley a week earlier. Outside the circle, the farmers continued their timeless toil in orange grove, vineyard and corn field, and vehicles and pedestrians did commerce along the roads from settlement to farm. There was an order and sense to that world that had been going on unabated since the time of the Trojan War and still did despite the proximity of the disaster. But within the circle, all was chaos. The whole area was charred, with only yellow blobs of rubble here and there. The trees that still stood were stark and leafless, and everywhere lights flashed to direct the unwary away from the fissures that had opened in the earth. Smoke still rose everywhere even though all fires had been extinguished. The smoke was coming out of the ground itself.

  At the edge of the blackened zone, you could see the cleared areas where the bivouac tents had been erected and the casualties and homeless originally gathered. Now the victims had all been moved off to regional hospitals, the homeless temporarily housed and the tents destructed. But you could still see the rough road they had forged that circumnavigated the charred region.

  Thirty or forty times, Brian must have bounced over that road in those first desperate days. A tank came in and ran the route, flattening everything in its path—later they got a grader but the continual black rain that had been falling at the time turned it into
a quagmire. Gravel had been hastily laid but that only made it bone-shatteringly corrugated. At night it had been illuminated only by the stroboscopic lightning forking the volcanic clouds above, until slowly the NATO troops floodlit the whole area.

  Now the lights were gone and natural darkness was allowed to return. Now the rain had stopped and this smoggy humid weather had hardened the ring road into permanence—it might have been the roughest road built since before Roman times, but it had served them well nevertheless. The sleepers had wakened and returned to their homes, and the job was all but done. This would probably be the last night that they would meet in this pleasant little cafe. The lingering ash in the atmosphere ensured that, once again, the sunset would be stunning.

  Felicity was next to arrive, looking exhausted as she always did these days, but that didn’t mean she didn’t spot the papers that Brian attempted to slip into the large envelope before she got there. Brian poured her a glass of wine and ordered more coffee.

  “The special is lasagne.”

  “Sounds great,” Felicity said as she flopped in the chair. “Who’s suing us this time?”

  There was no point denying it. Felicity had long since figured out his trouble.

  “Not us. Me. Judy’s lawyers. I’m sending it straight on to Joe to take care of.”

  “Oh, Brian. I’m so sorry.”

  “Strangely, I’m not. She likes to keep life plain and simple. Larry can do that for her.”

  “Simple as that? Fix this for me, Joe. End of story?”

  “No time to do it any other way.”

  “She could try being a little patient.”

  “Nar,” Brian heard himself laugh slightly. “I’m not the man she married. Whereas Larry is me one step further up the line. It makes too much sense to argue with.”

  “And the kids?”

  “Work something out when I’m in a position to do it, I guess.”

  “Brian, you can’t just dismiss fifteen years of marriage with a shrug.”

  “As things stand, that’s about all it’s worth.”

  “And you?” the doctor in her had to ask. “How are you coping?”