Dante's Key

by G. L. Baron

  After a few seconds she pulled a flat circular tin out of the bag. It was made of a particular transparent polycarbonate, able to contain the magnetism emanating from its contents. She handled it with extreme care. Inside, the two small translucent objects were positioned next to each other.

  She opened the tin and put a pair of tweezers near the OCST. They were a couple of organic microchips, capable of generating a magnetic field and causing specific chemical reactions in the neural apparatus.

  A Californian team of experts in material technology – neuroscientists and electro physiologists – had developed them. In addition, they were built with nanotechnology based on the use of actin filaments. It was a three-dimensional network of branched fibres, covered with gold, able to conduct corporeal electricity.

  They had to be positioned on the neck at a distance of about ten centimetres from each other. Since they were organic devices based on actin, there were several advantages in their use. They could remain in contact with the cells for a long time without the tissues being damaged. Moreover, thanks to the ability of the actin to self-assemble, the problems of construction in reduced dimensions were solved and they guaranteed that the connections were accurate and strong.

  Helped by the other woman who had approached in the meantime, she carefully positioned the OCST on the tweezers. Then she stopped and stared at her guinea pig; Manuel Cassini was lying on the bed in his boxers, turned on his side, his mouth wide open.

  He had fainted a few minutes ago and after a slight increase in his heart rate due to the drug, he was now breathing regularly.

  She approached him and positioned the first chip on his neck.

  For a moment, the triangles on her gold bracelet gleamed in the reflection of the table lamp.

  32

  Lyon, January 2nd. 11:01 a.m.

  The night elf, protected by skin armour, stood on the ridge and drew his dagger. He dismounted from the sabre-toothed cat that he had been riding up until then, and continued walking. A few more steps and he would come to the river; he was almost at the forty-first level. But he had not taken into account the goblin warrior standing before him; the element of surprise was crucial.

  Fabien had tried to move his avatar, but the opponent was not fooled and struck repeatedly with his axe. One, two, three shots hit the target. The indicator on the right of the screen dropped dramatically.

  Bérot’s druid stepped back, but it was not enough. He had now lost too much “life”. The goblin hounded him, swinging the axe until he was able to score the decisive blow. The night elf staggered and then fell inevitably in the glade.

  Fabien snorted and looked disconsolately at the flat monitor of the lab’s computer. That game of World of Warcraft, his favourite online game, was promising. He had reached the highest level several times over the years, sometimes impersonating a gnome, sometimes a human, and other times an ogre. In the last week he had tried to run the show with a night elf of the druid class. But bad luck continued to hound him…

  He was convinced that bad luck had been recently following him in every way, by making his avatar die too soon in World of Warcraft for example, or burning his expensive electronic toys… and two events of that kind in one week were decidedly too many.

  He took his eyes off the keyboard and stretched his legs under the desk.

  That morning, at the Interpol headquarters, almost no one was around and the phone had never rung. To top it off, he had nothing else to do, having completed the report on the Vatican evidence. He just had to kill time playing video games.

  He closed Firefox and his eyes fell on his brand new smartphone, Next M2. It was there next to the computer, “dead” as the night elf in World of Warcraft. The touchscreen display had burned and refused to turn on. It had happened a few days ago… he even remembered the last words he had spoken into the microphone: ‘You have to see it for yourself... it’s unbelievable,’ he had told Sforza.

  Unbelievable.

  What was unbelievable was that his new phone had fused in that way…

  Bérot opened his desk drawer and pulled out a set of Torx screwdrivers; if he had to throw it away, he might as well take it apart to see if he could sell a few pieces on eBay.

  He unscrewed the aluminium shell and removed it. When he saw the components, however, he was stunned; they were completely charred, all of them.

  For a moment, he looked in disbelief at the phone; he had never seen anything like it. It was as if…

  Suddenly he had an idea and went to the other room, where the atomic force microscope was mounted. When the phone had stopped working he was right there. He remembered that as he spoke with Sforza he was looking at the images of the two transparent microchips on the screen.

  In addition to the microscope, in the laboratory there was also a small proton magnetometer; a container filled with hydrocarbons and wrapped by a solenoid. He did not need it for Interpol investigations but for one of his thousand passions; he liked to measure changes in the Earth’s geomagnetic field.

  He approached the terminal and called up the magnetic measurements registered on December 27th – the day the phone was damaged.

  While the computer loaded the file, he reflected; the fusion of the circuits of the Next was certainly not caused by a manufacturing defect of the phone. But it could have been generated by a strong variation of the field…

  The video was filled with tables and colourful charts.

  Bérot ran the images one by one and was shocked… He checked again, unconvinced. He checked the tables from a few days before, from the arrival of the two devices up to that morning. When he was sure of what he had discovered he stood up…

  It was impossible… and yet it had happened.

  Where had he read something similar?

  He tried to think.

  He went back into the main office and sat down at his desk. He punched the letters R N M in the search engine and waited.

  He read the results calmly, and finally found the article he sought. He remembered having read it in the past; an interview with an American engineer, the founder of a company called Solidweb.

  Immediately after, he logged into the website of the company. He found many technical explanations and also some demonstration videos on YouTube. The most interesting thing, however, was that they were projects for products that did not exist… at least not officially.

  He turned off the monitor and went into the adjacent room. If those chips were really what he thought they were, he had to understand how they worked. He positioned himself in front of the microscope and turned it on.

  For a moment he froze in disbelief. Then he walked round to check for himself. He opened the observation deck, a glass cylinder slightly larger than a pint of beer, and confirmed that… the microchips had disappeared.

  33

  Paris, January 2nd. 11:05 a.m.

  Manuel Cassini walked towards his hotel through the Tuileries. Sforza had let him go, yet again without any answers.

  At that moment, what had initially seemed like a few snowflakes brought in by the cold wind had become a proper snowfall.

  A thin, white layer had covered the pebbles of the gardens’ central avenue within minutes. The clouds were low and almost hid the Louvre building on the other side of the park. The air was sharp and took his breath away.

  The professor walked briskly, his thoughts in utter confusion. The more he thought about it, the more difficulty he had in explaining the flashback in which he lay lifeless on the bed in the Ritz. It was as if he saw his own reflection in a mirror… but with a small detail different: there was no mirror.

  However, the feeling was different. The emotion he felt was not that of someone who sees his own reflection, but rather of someone looking at another person. Had he not been a very rational man, he would have thought he was going crazy. It was as if he saw himself through an alternative point of view… as if he was watching himself on film.

  He shook his head, hoping to be able to
clear his mind of all those weird thoughts. He hoped again that it was simply a dream. In a few minutes he would wake up and he would be in his bed at home, on the hill above Posillipo.

  Now, in front of him, over the tops of bare trees, he saw the Ferris wheel wrapped in fog. Suddenly, he felt as if someone were watching him. He spun around and noticed a man a few dozen metres away, at the junction with the Alleé de Castiglione.

  At first he thought he was watching him, but when Cassini stopped trying to make him out more clearly, he turned abruptly and pulled out a mobile.

  ‘Do you know that except for you, all the other authors of this book are dead?’ Sforza’s words, spoken at the restaurant the night before, troubled him. It was useless ignoring it; he was worried.

  Despite the fact that the inspector had done everything to convince him that he had had nothing to do with Cavalli Gigli’s murder, he was still convinced. He did not know how or even why, but his vision of the small, semi-automatic pistol was always in front of him. Clearer and more vivid than ever.

  What did Sforza know? Maybe he was just trying to make sure that he would give himself away. Maybe he was waiting for a false move, looking for a motive he did not have…

  No. He decided he was not. Every time he had met the inspector, he always had the same feeling; Sforza did not think him guilty at all. He was more interested in finding out what those strange microchips were that he had shown him in the photo.

  And now he was tremendously interested as well. The image of those slender hands that had gripped them with tweezers and then put them on his neck was the last vision he had. And the most shocking.

  He instinctively put his frozen hands on his neck, hidden by the scarf. He stroked his hair and went up and down with his fingertips, right and left. Nothing. On his neck there was nothing.

  Meanwhile, he had arrived at the gardens’ exit. He turned right, towards Rue de Castiglione, and continued walking along the sidewalk, by the high black gate topped by the golden spikes that overlooked the park.

  *

  ‘Lay thou aside the motive to this grief, And lend attentive ear’. He suddenly remembered Beatrice’s words in canto XXXI of Purgatory. ‘While I unfold how opposite a way my buried flesh should have impell’d thee.’

  He was surprised that triplet in particular had surfaced in his memory just then. ‘Stop crying, and listen,’ Beatrice would have remonstrated. ‘My death should have to push in the opposite direction.’

  It meant that he had to stop crying, roll up his sleeves and get back on track. But how?

  The next moment, a big black sedan stopped next to him, just by the underpass leading to the underground station.

  ‘Professor Cassini,’ the guttural voice whipped out.

  He turned abruptly and was shocked. In the back of the car was a man with a most determined face, dominated by two different-coloured eyes.

  He had already seen this man. He was part of his first vision, the one with the gun and Cavalli Gigli. In the flashback, he had noticed a Japanese man with two different-coloured irises, one green and one brown, before his gaze concentrated on his hands.

  ‘Do you know that except for you, all the other authors of this book are dead?’ Sforza’s words seemed all the more prophetic.

  He hesitated, still standing on the sidewalk. The car was parked with the engine running, standing a few centimetres away from him and blocking any escape route.

  ‘Get in!’ Tanaka encouraged him. He had a deep voice and a tone of authority, similar to that of Gandalf in the famous scene ‘You Cannot Pass’. Moreover, the man pulled out a small weapon with a golden engraving on the barrel. He had seen that, too, although he did not remember where exactly…

  He felt trapped.

  He tried an unlikely escape. On the opposite side of the Rue de Rivoli was a row of arches that stretched unbroken along the entire sidewalk. He hoped to see some Gendarmerie agent, but unfortunately there were only white-collar workers, too busy to notice him.

  He had only one possibility…

  In a split second he decided; the crowded Metro subway 1, leading to the Tuileries underground station, was just nearby. He spun round and rushed down the stairs.

  34

  Paris, January 2nd. 11:09 a.m.

  ‘Escape is the best of all the thirty-six alternatives’ was an old Chinese proverb, and Cassini – seeing his almond eyes – must have taken it literally.

  Tanaka snorted and opened the car door. He put the gun in his jacket and flung himself down the subway stairs.

  He reached the underpass and stopped on the bottom step. He peered from side-to-side in search of the young man. He spotted him under the station sign of line 1, indicating Château de Vincennes. He was running toward the escalator. Between them were dozens of commuters and tourists who occupied the corridor.

  He raised his index finger in the direction of his men and then ran on.

  While moving in the same direction as the professor, Cassini surprised him; he approached the turnstiles that delimited the area of access to the trains and – instead of stopping – jumped the barrier with the agility of an athlete in the hundred and ten metre hurdles.

  They heard screams and the Japanese was distracted for a moment. It was enough, however: he lost sight of the professor, who in the meantime had gone into the corridor on the right.

  Tanaka pushed a woman who was going slowly, making her drop her bags of shopping. Something broke and began rolling on the pavement. His chase stopped again a second later, this time against a stroller; he saw it at the last moment and in an attempt to avoid it, stumbled, banging his head against one of the ticket office’s iron struts.

  Cassini spun round.

  One of his pursuers seemed to have stopped just beyond the turnstiles. He doubted he was alone…

  He kept running at breakneck speed, slipping onto the narrow escalators that sank into the bowels of the city. In front of him the other passengers were motionless, some talking amiably, most tinkering with smartphones. He started down on foot and devoured the stairs two-by-two, slipping in and out between the people, excusing himself. Someone swore.

  Then he suddenly stopped. Below him on the opposite escalator coming up, he spotted two of the pursuers. They were still a long way away and probably had not seen him. He had noticed them because they were pushing and jostling in his direction.

  He had no choice; if he continued going down he would run into them.

  Courageously, he jumped over the railing. For a while he remained in precarious balance between the two escalators. He clung with his hands on an advertising poster and jumped over onto the opposite escalator. There were a few people nearby. He glanced below him; the two men in black suits were less than ten metres away. They must certainly have noticed him and were accelerating, gaining ground.

  He started to go up, and within moments was back again at the starting point, at the top of the escalator, undecided on which direction to take. The man with the voice of Gandalf was not there, or at least he had not seen him in the confusion. Instead, he spotted the sign marking the way to La Défense and followed it.

  He began to run. The space was huge, with a red handrail running down the centre. He catapulted down the steps and when he was about halfway down, among the dozens of voices he heard one… ‘Stop!’ He would have sworn that it was the Japanese affected by heterochromia. The authoritative tone left no doubt about it.

  Cassini, however, did not stop. He got all the way down and found himself in front of the track. A few moments passed and all his fears materialized in seeing Tanaka’s breathless face. The man came bounding out of the stair well and spotted him easily.

  There was virtually no one on the platform and the Japanese was only a few metres away.

  He had no way out. Unless…

  The white and green train was arriving on the platform opposite, heading towards the Louvre Rivoli station, at least according to the big flashing sign hanging from the ceiling.

&nbs
p; Cassini did not stop to think.

  He jumped down from the platform and tried to cross the tracks, intending to run along the other platform. He took only a few steps and was soon forced to stop, because the cuffs of his trousers got caught between the rails. He gave a sharp tug and the fabric tore. He was still trapped. A female voice, in the distance, began to scream. Cassini watched the train come towards him at full speed. He did not lose heart; he pulled up his leg with his hands. He tried a second time and finally managed to break free.

  The train, meanwhile, was only a few metres away. Cassini ran with all his might head-down. He moved with his last reserves of energy and stumbled onto the tracks.

  He reached the platform opposite, and under the astonished gaze of several passengers, managed to climb up, rolling away moments before the train hit him.

  He lay on the ground for a moment. Then, not sure yet if he had made it, cautiously stood up. Through the train’s windows he saw the Japanese on the opposite platform; he was running now. He was heading towards the driver’s compartment, with the intention perhaps of crossing the tracks himself.

  But he did not have time, when he had almost reached the end of the platform, from the deep black tunnel another train emerged that cut off the track.

  Cassini breathed a sigh of relief.

  The doors slid open and he entered the carriage.

  Ten long seconds went by. Then twenty.

  The professor stared at the escalator; he expected to see some of the Japanese’s accomplices shoot out. And, unfortunately, he was not wrong.

  Two men appeared from the corridor and headed for the still open doors of the carriage.

  This time, though, luck turned in his favour. The doors closed again just an instant before the two were able to enter.

  But the train did not leave. Two seconds. Three. Five.

  Cassini closed his eyes, sure that at any moment the driver would let the two laggards in… But it did not happen.

  The train departed and headed down the black hole of the tunnel.