CHAPTER 43
Poincaré knew that whatever was about to come, despite his careful planning, would unfold according to its own logic, not his. This did not keep him from shifting his left foot to verify, for a third time, that he stood directly on an X taped to a cobblestone earlier that morning in the presence of Paolo Ludovici. "Do you see me?" he whispered.
He looked to the east end of the square, past the Dutch National Monument to the top floor of the Hotel Krasnapolsky, where the sun glinted off an open window. Ludovici was in place. "You're directly on spot, Henri. I can count the number of whiskers you missed shaving this morning." The voice came through a tiny earpiece. "Shall I shoot them off for you?"
"Maybe next time, Paolo."
"Gisele looks to be running a good operation, don't you think? I've been watching through the scope."
"She knows you're up there. It's all fine."
Charles Bell was late. Poincaré looked about the square for him and noted that the security presence, both uniformed and plainclothes, was substantial—though not so strong, he supposed, to prevent him from executing Eduardo Quito. To do that, someone would have to be monitoring him at every moment through a scope—someone like Ludovici. He recalled Felix Robinson's warning. Paolo? he wondered. Not possible. But, in fact, it was possible that Robinson had ordered Ludovici to shadow Poincaré and prevent whatever he was about to do in the name of vigilante justice. But not Paolo. He had agreed to this last favor—just his sort of favor, working outside the rules. Still, the square was teeming with security any one of whom, seen or not, could be monitoring Poincaré. A complication, then. He had not planned for it, but there was nothing to be done. He felt Ludovici's scope on him.
Charles Bell arrived with 00:18:14 showing on the clock. "I should have figured you for a dirty cop," he said, entering the square through the Eggertstraat checkpoint. "Fine French accent, same old shit. I paid my money, now give me the hard drive."
"You look tired," said Poincaré.
"Go to hell."
Poincaré checked the clock. "You know, before the hour is out I actually may. You were right to be worried, Charles—about losing your advantage if a competitor got hold of Fenster's work." Poincaré carried no briefcase and showed no obvious bulge in his jacket. No envelope for Bell. "Just so you know, the hard drive is in the state's evidence locker in Massachusetts. Hurley set you up, I'm afraid. I believe you Americans call this a sting."
"You sonuvabitch. I paid a quarter-million—"
Bell stepped closer, and Poincaré held up his hand.
"Don't." By this point Chambi should have been at his side. Poincaré did not risk turning away from Bell, and Bell showed no sign of recognizing anyone in the square behind him. "Two hundred meters away, in that building over there—you can see the open window—I have a friend with a rifle and a scope. He will put a bullet behind your ear if you touch me."
Where's Chambi?
"I don't have to touch you," Bell snarled. "But someone else may. The world can be a dangerous place for people like you and that fat-assed Hurley."
"No, you won't hire anyone either," said Poincaré, reaching into his jacket and producing a digital recorder. "Technology is a wonderful thing, Charles. The deal you made with Hurley is captured on videotape. Here's the audio portion." Poincaré clicked a button.
You're telling me that if I pay the money, you can get the hard drive?
That's right. But you wouldn't be paying me, Mr. Bell. We'll be less direct than that. The money would go to the Police Benevolent Association of Massachusetts. That way it's philanthropy, not a bribe."
Ha! And tax deductible! I love it.
A little money now, a show of good faith—what we discussed on the phone. I hope you brought an envelope. . . . Very good. Let's see . . . the full ten thousand's here. We're in business. I'll wait for the rest by wire transfer.
The ten comes out of that.
Sorry. The ten's a handling fee. Agreed? When you wire the funds, I'll have your information.
"You bastard, Poincaré!"
"It gets better, Charles. Listen. This came from your second meeting."
Well done, Mr. Bell. The association thanks you. And here's my card of appreciation. You'll find instructions that involve a bit of travel, but I think you'll be pleased.
Government should always be this efficient. See you around.
No, Mr. Bell. You won't.
"Here's how this will work," said Poincaré. As Bell listened to the audio, Poincaré chanced looking around quickly for Chambi. He saw no sign of her. "I will give you some information, which you can choose to believe or not. And then you will remain silent. If you contact me or Dana Chambi or Eric Hurley in any way, precautions are in place that would deliver this tape—and there are many copies—to the federal prosecutor in Massachusetts. If our comfort is disturbed in any way, if you send anyone to knock on our door, the prosecutor gets the tape. If any of us happens to die prematurely, the prosecutor gets the tape—so, in fact, you'd do well to pray for our continued good health and happiness. But cheer up, Charles. I wouldn't leave you emptyhanded."
The ever-confident Bell was ashen-faced. He was also a quartermillion poorer, though Poincaré figured he could afford many times that as a contribution to the policeman's fund. "I've been around long enough to know bad people when I see them," said Poincaré. "Charles, you don't have it in you to be truly bad. You're merely repulsive, and you're completely out of your league. Here's my information for you. First, I've established that you did not kill James Fenster. If it's worth anything to you, you are now off my list of suspects. Second, as you suspected, Dr. Fenster was researching patterns in the stock market. I found evidence that he was studying trading patterns, but whatever he knew died with him. I am certain no other competing fund acquired his techniques, so you will retain whatever advantage you currently have. If you fight Harvard for the hard drive and win the case, you will find a sixty-seven character password that is impossible to crack. I've been assured that not even government computers can unravel this. So it's a fool's errand. Do yourself a favor and give it up."
Poincaré handed him the digital recorder. "Now, I think, would be a good time to leave. You're lucky enough to own even a fragment of Fenster's work. Your business is flourishing. You're wealthy. So stop this, Charles. Go live your life. It would give me no pleasure to ruin you, but I will. Now I've got to go."
The clock read 00:14:12.
CHAPTER 44
As Bell walked away, Poincaré wheeled around, scanning the crowd for Dana Chambi. He had asked her to walk just thirty meters off; but between his spot and hers hundreds of people stood fixed in their places, watching the Countdown Clock and waiting for the zero moment.
He sensed movement in the crowd, and he saw her, panicked—a prisoner. Quito had Chambi by the arm. He looked directly at Poincaré and pointed at him, as if in warning. Then he pointed to a backpack unattended on the cobblestones and yelled: "Bomb!"
In the screaming and scrambling that followed, Poincaré lost them. Security personnel tackled three robed men and a woman standing near the pack. "It's mine!" yelled one of them, his face pressed to the stones. "There's no bomb! I took it through security!"
Poincaré yelled into his lapel. "Paolo!"
"They're moving toward the monument, Henri. Quito's half- dragging her. She's not happy."
He took off in a dead sprint but a uniformed policeman, a much younger man who saw him fleeing the location of the backpack, tackled him from behind. "Down! Now!" first in Dutch, then English.
Poincaré twisted from his grasp and held up his security badge. "No time," he gasped. "No time!" Which was true, for if Quito dragged Chambi beyond Ludovici's line of sight and beyond a security checkpoint, Poincaré would lose them.
"Henri, to the right of the monument, approaching the hotel."
Poincaré was up, his chest a wheezing bellows. He knocked people aside. He stumbled across folding chairs. Penitents grabbed at him. A
man shouted: "Stop! Repent!" But he did not stop and, far from repenting, he was determined to kill. Circling the monument, he yelled: "Paolo—where!" The clock read 00:02:12.
"To your right, Henri! Right! I'm losing my angle!"
Poincaré looked and leapt in a single motion, tackling them both before Quito had seen him. "Run!" he called to Chambi, his hands at Quito's throat.
She scrambled away on her knees.
"You!" Quito roared, the words half-choked.
The man's strength was immense. He lifted Poincaré directly off his chest, then flailed his arms. He caught Poincaré's cheek with a fingernail; he gouged his eyes. Poincaré lost his grip and staggered back, drawing a gun. People screamed as the voice on the platform rose with a last promise of Redemption: If you abide in My word . . .
The clock read 00:01:03.
You are My disciples indeed.
Quito lay on his back gasping as Poincaré aimed. "She was a child !"
The instant before he pulled the trigger, the gun jumped from his hand and he heard a pop. The force of the bullet rocked him backwards into a wading pool. He was hit, his hand on fire, the water turning red. He looked right and left but saw no shooter. All eyes, now, were on the clock as the numbers slipped towards Doom. Enough, he groaned as he lay in the water, staring at the sky. He saw no chariot, no fire. No Savior.
At the zero moment, the voice boomed: WE COMMEND OUR LIvES TO YOUR CARE!
Nothing in this world, not even a shooting, could distract the assembled from their appointment with Eternity. As thousands looked up, Poincaré heard a second shot and a third and fourth. Clutching his wrist, soaking wet, he stumbled to his knees to find Eduardo Quito dead on the cobblestones, three red stains on his chest. Chambi stood over him trembling as his gun dropped from her hand. Seconds later, Ludovici was at his side—having stopped first to retrieve the gun and slip it into his pocket. "Henri, goddamnit, you're a civilian. If I let you kill him, it would have been murder."
Poincaré stared. "You?"
"Who else is going to protect you from yourself, you fool? I should have put a bullet through that thick skull of yours."
"Robinson sent you?"
Ludovici nodded.
"You were working with me." He was soaking wet and felt a chill coming on.
"Well, I'd hoped not to have to say anything. Felix was worried for your health as much as I was. I told him that I'd be here watching your back. He's a better man than I thought. Look, we were worried about what you were going to do, and we agreed that you should not be the shooter. I can assure you Quito was not leaving the square."
"You were prepared to—"
"I was prepared to intercept a known terrorist, whatever that required. As it happened, events outpaced us and I only had to shoot you. I'm sorry for that; but really, after thirty years you should have known the agency would never sanction this. And don't think it's about saving you from prosecution. Felix didn't want the bad press. . . ." Ludovici pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. "Here, wrap your hand."
The president of the Indigenous Liberation Army lay as he fell, eyes open, legs bent at an angle that would have hurt were he still breathing. Chambi had not moved. Hundreds now formed a broad circle around them and watched in silence, for something had happened below while all their attention was trained above. Poincaré tightened the linen at his wound.
Accompanied by two officers, De Vries broke through the circle just as the voice from the platform, with more urgency, called: OH LORD, TAKE US!
Nothing happened.
NOW, LORD! NOW!
But it was the wrong formula or the wrong date, and the digital clock in the window of De Bijenkorf 's blinked 11:39. Someone from the crowd yelled at the podium: "Phony! Go home!" A vendor near the monument called: "Waffles! Stroopwafels!" Poincaré heard sirens in the distance.
Ludovici said: "Well, everyone. It appears we've got ourselves a body."
"Only one," said De Vries. "Which I can tell you is a relief. Is this Eduardo Quito? He was the one who shouted bomb. There was no bomb. The backpack was a backpack. Who shot him?"
"I can tell you who wanted to shoot him," said Ludovici, pointing to Poincaré. "But he didn't get the chance because I shot him first. I don't know who killed Quito. I used a small caliber bullet, which won't match what you find in the victim. Here—for your ballistics team." Ludovici handed her his rifle as a pair of police vehicles pulled up to the Hotel Krasnapolsky, lights flashing. De Vries and her officers left to meet them.
"Don't go anywhere," she said.
"I can promise he won't," said Ludovici. "And I want that gun back." When she left, he pointed toward the monument. Poincaré turned, and not ten meters away he saw Madeleine Rainier standing beside a slender man her same height, his back turned, his hair a halo of blond curls. The child in the photos . . .
With a halting wave, Rainier mouthed the words: Thank you.
"I picked them up in the scope," said Ludovici, offering a quick assessment. "Imagine my surprise on seeing Rainier—wanted in connection with the death of a man who's still alive. So I can cancel out her Interpol notice—she was never charged with a crime, in any event. And as it happens, yesterday the border police in Portugal detained the woman they thought was Dana Chambi. At the hospital she made the mistake of cutting herself when she sliced Chloe's respirator. The DNA match was perfect and she made a full confession about her role and Quito's, so this Dana Chambi is no longer a person of interest. I can also remove her from the Interpol listing. Henri, Gisele will return with the others very soon, and you and I had better decide what happened here. Quito did not shoot himself."
Poincaré nodded.
"Here's what I see," said Ludovici. "I see the body of the man who ordered your granddaughter killed. I have a strong suspicion that the bullets in his chest were fired from a gun that will never be found." He patted his pocket. "So Gisele's forensics investigation will turn up very little. I, personally, didn't see who shot Quito because I was running down the stairs of the hotel to check on you. And all our potential witnesses were looking at the sky at the moment of the shooting. No one saw a thing, Henri. For all we know, the shooter is long gone. We'll make our inquiries, of course. Gisele and I will interview a few people, but I don't anticipate detaining anyone. That's what I see." Ludovici crossed his arms. "What do you see?"
Poincaré looked across Quito's body to the circle of disappointed penitents. At the monument, Rainier was leaning against the man beside her. Poincaré motioned to her, and she crossed the circle. With his good hand, he emptied his pockets. Coins fell to the cobble stones and he dropped to his knees, searching.
"Dr. Fenster?" he said. "Your brother?"
Rainier nodded.
Swaying from pain, Poincaré found what he was looking for. "Take this. You both deserve better luck . . . a new life. Tell him I'm sorry. . . . I'm sorry we're not ready."
She accepted the buffalo nickel, smeared with Poincaré's blood, and said nothing. But she spoke in her way, as she had at the Ambassade with those gray, almond eyes. Do you understand, she asked him. Do you understand the good you've done? Behind the glasses, the right lens thicker to correct for the cornea she had given her brother Marcus, Poincaré saw gratitude. De Vries was returning and would recognize her. Rainier left him.
"Here's what I see," said Poincaré, still on his knees. "A man died. I agree that in all this confusion we would be unlikely to find the shooter. The papers will report that a known terrorist was killed. There will be an investigation, and we'll all go home." He would not have said it a lifetime ago, in April, but the world had changed.
"Are you sure?" asked Ludovici.
Dana Chambi crossed the circle to stand by Madeleine Rainier, who placed an arm around her. Poincaré looked once more at Fenster—at his back and at the young woman who had finished what he had not. What he saw was a family of two who had once been five, a cup no longer full because life, and death, had intervened. Yet someone new had entered their
circle, and their reunion was that much sweeter. He watched the three of them dissolve into the crowd, and he longed for a reunion of his own.
"Yes," said Poincaré. "I'm sure."
AFTERWORD
O what authority gives Existence its surprise?
— W. H. AUDEN
On August 16th, the sun rose over a world no more or less redeemed than it ever was. That Poincaré knew, Jesus had not called the faithful to His side in the sky; but then many believed the Lord would appear only to deserving hearts who could see, without trumpets or fanfare, that the time was at hand—and, in fact, had always been at hand. For them, the Rapture was to be a poetical rising of the spirit; and though their bodies remained in Glasgow or Bangalore or Amsterdam, they would walk with one foot in Paradise and see what others did not: that their God was everywhere, hiding in plain sight, present simply for the asking. And those who could not see? They were condemned to living as they always had: in what some called Hell, this work in progress we call the world.
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