Roadworks

by Gerard Readett

  Normal dress code rules did not apply during night shifts, so this kind of attire was quite common. Myself, I drew the line at the slippers, but I have been known to wear shorts during summer. There was no problem, really; night shift started at eleven the evening before, so there was no one left in the building, except us nocturnal workers, and it ended before anyone came in, at seven.

  No matter how long you slept during the day, at the end of the night shifts you always ended up looking like my colleague here. In fact, I am known here as Old-Sleepy-Eyes, the one who looks the worst at seven, whether I did night shift or morning shift. Either my body was dying to get to sleep, or, like today, it was not yet awake. Everyone felt the same, even if they did not show it. Although we usually liked to sit and chat during shift handovers, to get an update on any gossip, some people did not take night shifts so well. When the relief shift came in, they were off like a shot: eager to get home before they passed out.

  "Hugh, I've got to go," Stephane muttered as he got up, quite energetically, for someone who looked as tired as he did, and slightly out of character, too. Normally he stayed about ten minutes, and never failed to explain all ongoing problems.

  "Got something planned for today?" I asked.

  "No, why do you say that?"

  "No reason. It's just I've rarely seen you in such a hurry."

  At this, he tried to smile. "Bit tired today, that's all." With that, he was off.

  Maybe he had someone on the boil at home.

  Once the door closed behind him, I swivelled around, ready to start work. On the screen beside the handover, I brought up the problem-reporting system and cross-checked everything. I liked to check the problem reports themselves for a more detailed explanation, just in case something had been forgotten.

  I then glanced at the screen stuck on the wall above me, the largest one in the room, a massive 5x4-metre flat LCD colour display. On it was an outline of the city, the graphical representation of our jurisdiction, our area of responsibility. From a distance, it looked like a connect-the-dots puzzle, many dots linked by thin green lines.

  A large, green spider's web.

  At all crossroads and other strategic points there are what we call waystations. They consist of unmanned computers that receive, analyse and transmit information coming in from the sensors in traffic lights. Each waystation, or signal box, through which we can regulate traffic, was represented by a node, a small green dot on the overhead display. These turned red when communications with them failed, or signal quality of the telephone line dropped.

  The through roads were depicted as green lines, linking the nodes. These highlight the traffic density by a colour code. Green meant there was little or no traffic on the road; yellow was a moderate, but acceptable amount of traffic. Red indicated that the traffic density exceeded the road capacity; in other words, a traffic jam had occurred.

  The train and metro networks were on the map, as well. They consisted of the larger dark green nodes, connected by dark green lines, and followed the same colour-coding scheme. On a screen any smaller than the one up there, the many interconnecting lines would complicate the issue, making it hard to distinguish separate roads. At the moment, the screen was completely green; in other words, no problems just yet.

  Ten minutes later, the new trainee came in. Patrick Dierickx was a youngster of twenty-three, of medium height, and skinny, but not just any kind of skinny. Patrick appeared borderline anorexic. He did not wear his clothes; he floated about in them. Under his protuberant proboscis, his neatly trimmed moustache looked painted on. He wore a dark sober suit that must have seen countless interviews with aplomb, but his shirt collar seemed to disagree with him. His red face and stiff-necked attitude bore witness to the dangers of tight collars. Although nature had not handed out good looks to everyone, it seemed to hold a grudge against some of them.

  But then, who was I to talk? I was no Adonis, either.

  Patrick was hired last week, fresh out of university, with the superior attitude innate in graduates. He would soon learn how the world really went 'round. Whatever he might have learned at university would not help him here. Given the importance of our job to five and a half million people, we only used the most advanced systems, putting us at the vanguard of technology, a place most universities, unfortunately, still had to visit.

  Deciding to take advantage of a calm morning, I started his education.

  "Bonjour, Patrick." I spoke in French; that much I can handle. It was a well-known fact that many Belgians only spoke one of the official Belgian languages, French or Flemish, and cannot handle the other. However, they all seemed to be able to muddle through in English. Although not an official language in Belgium, English was one of the three languages used at the European Commission.

  Brussels, with its many European or international institutions, was a multi-lingual capital. Many of the suppliers of the high-tech equipment, used throughout the city for traffic management, were English speaking. Most documentation we received, when we did get some, was in technical English, and our problem reporting system was American. For simplicity, so that everyone, no matter what nationality, could follow the conversations, the language most frequently used at the Transport Authority was English. Which was handy for me, as I have learned French since I arrived, but I'm still not comfortable with it. Most of my colleagues are Belgian, though, and their English often included Americanisations. They picked up American expressions, and made no difference with English ones. Unfortunately, I could no longer make the distinction, either.

  "The Transport Management Centre, or TMC for short, is a place of raw power, both political and financial." Glancing at him, I satisfied myself that I had his attention. "Patrick, if you've got any questions, don't hesitate to ask. OK?" He nodded eagerly. "After taxes and law and order, what do citizens use as an indicator of government efficiency?"

  I found when training new staff, that this approach, giving the trainee the opportunity to arrive at his own conclusions, worked wonders. Our job required brains, not so much intelligence, but a certain flexibility of thought. Initiative and creativity did not go amiss, either. There are no fixed procedures for us to follow, and the problems we come across can have several distinct causes.

  To work efficiently here, a full understanding of all the parts of the network and the way they interact was necessary. With time and much experience, we practically knew immediately where a problem originated, what the real cause was. Between us we have discussed this, but have never found a rational, scientific explanation. When a problem occurred, we just had a feeling: the real problem is---THERE! It was more mystical than anything else.

  I have discussed this with friends in jobs where there are no set procedures to follow and this kind of sixth sense existed. Most people put this down to experience, but it's more than that.

  I tried to get trainees to think from day one. That's why I get lugged with all new staff for the Transport Management Centre: someone up there thinks I do it well.

  "Traffic?" he said, rather uncertainly.

  "Exactly. Traffic congestion. If a voter is regularly caught in a traffic jam, he will risk losing his job, arriving late all the time. He will also be submitted to unnecessary stress and aggravation. Taking the electorate as a whole, traffic congestion leads to loss of work hours. Who will the voters blame? They will blame us or, more usually, our ultimate boss, the Bourgmestre. When we make a mistake here, everyone jumps to attention because we all know the Bourgmestre will be over shortly to vent her anger at us for damaging her re-election campaign."

  His jovial face suddenly paled, but I hastened to reassure him. "Don't worry, we're too far down the ladder to matter. Managers are paid to take responsibility. Very few assume it, but our department head is good; the buck always stops with him."

  I laughed, reminded of a meeting I was forced to attend between the Bourgmestre and our head. Each time the former wanted to blame us for tarnishing her image, our head threw back that
we were working under harrowing conditions. The personnel shortage and an almost total lack of good training were due to restrictions imposed by her office. The head had always told us that he was amazed at the quality of service we attained, despite such insufficiencies. Happily enough for us, he remembered this at the end of each year when it was time for Christmas bonuses.

  "I'm digressing. Now, one thing that needs to be clear. From here," I waved at the room lazily, "we control all communication between any computers involved in traffic regulation, be they in traffic lights, at train stations or on board vehicles. We only intervene when the smooth flow of information fails." I paused for breath before continuing. "Have you got a car, Patrick?"

  "No, but I got my licence last year."

  "Well, then, you're familiar with the onboard traffic computers. As you know, they can help you determine exactly where you are in the city at any given time. You can also find the shortest route between two points. There are many more functions, but the only other one that we need be concerned with is avoiding accident sites and road works.

  "The basic principle we labour under is that we are here to regulate traffic inside the city centre, where the traffic density is the highest. At any given time, we ensure that a motorist arriving at the edge of the city is given all the relevant information. Any ideas what?"

  Patrick's brow knotted as he thought it out before venturing an answer. "Where the traffic jams are, and where there are still parking spaces in the centre."

  I would definitely have to watch out for this kid. He was too quick for his own good.

  "Yes, but it's more if AND where. If there are any traffic jams, he's given alternate routes to avoid them. However, if there are no alternate routes, that is, too many traffic jams, then his onboard transport computer will direct him to the nearest P&R terminal, proposing that he make use of the public transportation system."

  "Hugh, what's a P&R?" Now that was different.

  "What? You've never used one? Most of the cities have at least three."

  "No, I come from a little town in the country."

  "Yes, but you went to university, didn't you?"

  "I lived in the university district, where everything was within walking distance."

  It is amazing that these days, twenty-two years into the 21st century, with technology running rampant in nearly every domain, someone can grow up without being subjected to the major facilities of a modern city, even if he was a country boy.

  "A P&R, or Park and Ride terminal, is a vast parking lot next to a train and/or metro station. A motorist, to avoid taking his car into the city, can park it at the terminal, and take either the train or the metro in. Each terminal has excellent security systems, so there is no need for anyone to worry about car theft."

  "But what if there are no parking spaces left in the city?"

  I smiled at him, motioning for him to finish the thought himself. Doubtfully, he glanced at his notes, then said, "Send him to the P&R anyway."

  Easily faking a thoughtful look, I nodded. I cannot help it. Explaining the full implications of my job always boosts my ego, giving me an inflated idea of my own importance. At least I was aware of it, and that was already half the battle.

  For the three million motorists and the two-and-a-half million other commuters who use public transportation, the Transport Authority was just another faceless government institution. They probably had no idea of the hard work we put in to ensure they have a trouble-free ride into town every day. They tended to take us for granted, until the day they got delayed in a traffic jam, in which case they suddenly remembered whom to blame.

  "Yep. We don't want him driving around town all day, spewing horrible things like carbon monoxide into the city air. By the way, that's another thing we have to monitor."

  "Pollution?" he spurted incredulously.

  Imitating the clipped monotone of contemporary newscasters, and putting on a grave face, I intoned, "EEC directives specify acceptable limits of pollutant emissions inside a city centre." Then I dropped back to my normal voice, "When air inside the city reaches the limit, we must direct all motorised traffic to P&R terminals immediately. Environmental groups are always quickest to blow the whistle the moment the limits are exceeded. You will probably find a Greenpeace activist, at this very moment, testing air quality at the roundabout up the road. However, they are not just a nuisance. The city gets fined for every hour above the limits."

  Smiling as he overcame his surprise, he asked "How much?"

  Standing up, I said over my shoulder, "I have no idea, but it's enough to make senior managers tremble when it happens. We've been working for twenty minutes. It's time for a coffee break."

  Brussels, Belgium

  Zaventem, the main airport in Brussels, was rather small compared to those in other major European cities. However, it made up in traffic what it lacked in size. Just opposite the entrance halls and beside the Sheraton hotel was a series of multi-storey car-parks. On the top floor of the oldest and largest one, Wellens waited patiently beside his car. He had chosen the location for practical reasons, since he had just picked up a parcel from a passenger staying overnight at the hotel.

  An old jumbo jet from one of the smallest companies took off from a runway. He couldn't see it yet, only hear it, but he looked over the control tower where he knew it would appear within moments. As the plane cleared the tops of the building, he thought about the person he was meeting, Akila Kama. His associate, Sam, had suggested they get together, but what Wellens found most annoying was that he had not told him why. Knowing Sam as he did, Wellens mused that there must be a good reason for his being kept in the dark.

  The bell from the lift sounded, and moments later the doors opened to reveal a tall African, standing next to Sam. He was standing legs slightly apart and with the knees bent, but Wellens' attention was immediately drawn to the nasty scar on the right side of his face. Their eyes locked, and Wellens couldn't help but be surprised by the dark, intense gaze. Neither of them moved, and they both studied the other while Sam started the introductions.

  "Sir, meet Mr. Akila Kama. Mr. Kama, meet my employer, Mr. Wellens."

  Wellens was the first to turn away. He frowned at Sam to indicate he wanted to be alone with the African. When Sam had positioned himself by the lifts, Wellens nodded.

  "Mr. Kama, I'm sure your time is just as valuable as mine. So, I suggest we get right into it."

  "I totally agree with you, Mr. Wellens. I have come to you with a lucrative proposition. There is some business I will need to attend to in this city, and I have been told that I will be needing your services to successfully attain my goals."

  "And what, may I ask, is the nature of this business?"

  "Naturally I would not have come here if I had even suspected you would turn me over to the authorities. Therefore, to save us both some time, I will get right to the crux of my problem.

  "As you can see from the colour of my skin, I am African. For the past eight years, we have been waging war against Western Europe and the United States. It is time they left us alone, and stopped trying to dictate the way we run our own countries."

  "I don't mean to be impolite, but what has this to do with Brussels?"

  "You're quite right; now is not the right time to get into political diatribe. Despite our best efforts in Africa, the governments of the Western World still have not understood our message. For two years, I have been trying to find a way of hitting the front pages. That appears to be the only way to get governments to reassess their stances these days. What I was looking for was a way of bringing the battle from Africa to the heart of the Western World. And what city, other than Brussels, can claim to be the Capital of Europe?

  "Several months ago, I ransomed a compatriot of yours. While he was a captive, he overheard some of my men talking about our goals. Now, this man thought I would let him go if he gave me the name of a powerful man he once knew, who could help us in a spectacular venture. That name was yours, Mr Welle
ns."

  "What was his name?"

  "Peter Vandenborre."

  "Ah, yes. I remember I had to fire him because he became unreliable and erratic. So, he gave you my name, then you let him go?"

  "Once he had pointed me in your direction, and considering the importance of secrecy when it comes to my strike against the West, I could not let him live. As a gesture of good faith, I brought a token with me."

  "Yes?"

  "Your employee, Sam, has seen it. It convinced him I was serious, and that is why I am here."

  "All right. I'll check with Sam later. I still don't know what your spectacular strike will be, or how my company or I fit in."

  "Mr. Wellens, in a few months, I intend to take this city hostage. The best time would, of course, be during the NATO conference, when the President of the United States and the Prime ministers of the European countries will be visiting Belgium. Like that, in one fell swoop, I can ransom all the heads of state of the Western World."

  Wellens took a moment to recover. In the years since he had created his company, he had accomplished many dangerous and daring jobs, but never anything on this scale. The risk would be enormous. If he agreed to help Kama, once it was all over, they would have the Western World's entire intelligence community after them. That, in itself, should have been enough for him to reject the proposal outright, but as he well knew, the greater the risk, the greater the potential rewards. In any case, it would be interesting to hear this man out.

  "And what makes you think I can help you?"

  "I need your knowledge of the city, its infrastructure, and the capabilities of the law enforcement agencies. For these services, I am willing to offer you fifty million dollars."