Silence.
“So what was Ramiro doing in Montana? Is it the story that he tells? That he was a delivery boy bringing one little piece of an ultramodern bomb into our helpless nation?”
Jefferson gave the television another try.
“Maybe he is a genius, and maybe he came from the future. But the poor bastard didn't know how to drive on ice, did he?”
“Few Brazilians do,” Jefferson snapped.
I showed him a narrow, might-mean-anything smile.
“Do you think that the crash was staged?” he finally asked me.
“It has to cross my mind,” I allowed.
“Which means Ramiro was sent here, and he's supposed to feed us all the wrong information. Is that what you're thinking?”
I sat back, and I sighed.
“Okay, I'll tell you why Collins stayed right here.” Jefferson straightened his back, and he took a deep breath. “Out in the world, what are the odds of finding a second Ramiro? They're minimal at best. Collins would have bounced from one hotspot to another, wasting his skills. But he remained here instead, playing the patience game, waiting for one of you to stumble across a genuine candidate. We had a good plan in place, Carmen. The new prisoner would be brought here and thoroughly interrogated by Collins, and when the time was right, Ramiro would be allowed to meet with him, or her.”
“I once found a suspect,” I mentioned.
Jefferson remained silent.
“A young woman in Baghdad.”
He allowed that statement to simmer. Then with keen pleasure, he said, “You know the old story about Stalin, don't you? One evening, the dictator can't find his favorite pipe, and his first assumption is that it has been stolen. So he demands a full investigation. But the next morning, Stalin realizes that he simply set the pipe in a different drawer, and he admits as much to the head of his secret police. To Beria. Which leads to a very uncomfortable silence. Then Beria clears his throat, admitting that three men have already confessed to stealing the missing item.”
I showed surprise. “What? Are you claiming that my girl wasn't real?”
“I've seen all of the files on her. And everybody else who looked good, at one time or another.” Jefferson couldn't help but lean across the tiny table, saying, “When your prisoner broke, she confessed to every suggestion that was thrown her way. Give her enough time, and I think we could have convicted her for a thousand crimes, including stealing Stalin's pipe.”
I said nothing. Pretending that this was unwelcome news, I chewed on my bottom lip and refused to look him in the eyes.
“We've had dozens of candidates in the pipeline,” Jefferson claimed. “But none ever reached a point of real interest to us.”
“Too bad,” I whispered.
“Your girl was unique because she managed to kill herself. That's what kept her apparent value high. At least back in Washington, it did.”
I was silent.
“By the way, did you ever see the autopsy results? They took her apart cell by cell, basically, and not one tiny, futuristic machine was found. Just some oddities in the blood and gut, that's all.”
“I tortured an innocent woman? Is that that what you're saying?”
Jefferson gave me a moment to dwell on that sorry prospect. I think that if I'd asked for a tissue, he would have leaped up to help this naive and disappointing creature.
“We have hard jobs,” he finally said.
I got up from the dinner table.
“For what it's worth,” he began. Then he hesitated before adding, “Carmen,” with a warm tone.
“What?” I asked.
“Collins had a lot of sleepless nights, dealing with all the possibilities.”
I walked past him, standing close enough to the Monet that the water lilies turned into unrecognizable blobs of pink and white.
After a minute, I asked quietly, “How many times?”
Jefferson was chewing the lamb. He had to swallow before responding. “How many times what?”
“These unrecorded conversations,” I said, my eyes still focused on the gorgeous, senseless painting.
I heard him turn in his chair.
I asked, “When did the secret interrogations begin?”
He decided to stand. “What interrogations?”
“Sometimes Collins disabled the microphones and cameras before entering the prisoner's quarters.” I turned, showing Jefferson my best stony face. “I know it because I've checked the logs and other forms. Nine times in the last six years, some odd software error has caused the complete dumping of everything that happened between Collins and Ramiro.”
Jefferson considered his options.
I said, “These are very convenient blunders, or they are intentional acts of treason.”
“No,” said Jefferson.
“No?”
“Those interviews were Collins’ idea. But I okayed them.”
“Why?”
Too late, the man began to wonder if I was playing a game. “I don't think I need to remind you, miss. I have the authority.”
“You do,” I agreed.
“And I'll tell you this: Despite what you might believe, Ramiro continued to offer us help. Valuable, even critical insights. And we were justifiably scared of using the normal pipeline for that kind of news.”
“Name one insight,” I said.
He refused to respond.
“I do have the authority to demand an answer, sir.”
“What if another nation has captured one of Abraham's people?” Jefferson posed the question and then shuddered. “It's sobering to consider. Another power, possibly one of our enemies, is keeping somebody like Ramiro in their own deep, secret hole—”
“What else?”
He winced.
“Give me your worst nightmare,” I demanded.
“I'm sure you can guess that.”
“All right,” I said. “After many years in prison, Ramiro happens to mention, ‘Oh, by the way, my basic assumptions might have been wrong from the beginning. Maybe Abraham isn't looking for a cooperative Middle Eastern country. Maybe his sights are focused on a wealthier, much more advanced nation.'” I laughed sadly. “That isn't the sort of news you'd cherish sending up the pipeline, is it?”
Jefferson studied me, once more trying to decide what I really was, and just how adept I might be.
“That last session with Ramiro,” I began.
Squaring his shoulders made Jefferson's belly stick out.
“I can't find any recording of the interview. Is that right?”
“There isn't any,” he conceded.
I couldn't decide if he was lying.
“Collins didn't share any details with you. Did he?”
“Why do you think that?”
“Because when there was important news, he always came straight to you. But that night, he walked home with Jim.” I used a suspicious smile, pointing out, “Or maybe there was important news. But he knew that his audience would never accept whatever he was carrying with him.”
Jefferson looked up and to his right.
I glanced at his television, just for a moment. The civil war in China seemed quite small and smoky, a few pain-wracked bodies flicking in and out of existence, a single tank burning in an anonymous street.
At last, Jefferson asked me, “What exactly is your assignment here?”
“Isn't it obvious?” I asked.
Then he laughed—a miserable, sickly utterance—and with a tone of confession, he said, “Oh, shit ... that's what I thought.”
* * * *
7
“I've seen your arrival site.”
“Have you?”
“Not physically, no,” I confessed. “And even if I had the chance, I think I would pass on it today.”
“Reasonable of you.”
I stopped walking.
Ramiro took two more steps before pausing. His exercise yard was long and narrow, defined by brownish green walls, and for no discernable reaso
n, his potted plants were healthier than those in the public avenues. Standing between vigorous umbrella trees, he watched my mouth, my eyes.
“Kashmir,” I said.
He decided to offer a narrow, unreadable smile.
“You couldn't know this, but some years ago, I was able to walk on the Indian side of the disputed region. It wasn't a long visit, but I came away with the impression that Kashmir was one of the most beautiful and most dangerous places in my world.”
My comments earned an agreeable nod.
“Did Collins tell you? Various teams have visited the Shyok River.”
“He mentioned that, and I'm sure you know that.”
“Tough work, those people had. Trying to verify the unthinkable, and doing it in what was a low-grade war zone. That first survey team was tiny and ignorant. They went in fast and flew out again on the same day, pockets full of soil samples and photographs. But the evidence was plain. Something energetic had happened there. The toppled trees and soil profiles were odd, and obvious. So we came up with a workable cover story, a fable that allowed us to move around the area, and when it was absolutely necessary, involve Pakistani Intelligence.”
Ramiro's eyes remained wide open.
“But that second team didn't know what the hunt was for either. Our top people were told not to ask for specifics, but to always watch for details that seemed out of place.”
“You said you'd been to the site,” Ramiro mentioned.
“By VR means.” I placed both hands over my eyes, pretending to wear the cumbersome mask. “Those agents came home with high-density images. I learned about them when I was first briefed about you, and I demanded to be given the chance to walk the site.”
“Did you learn anything?”
“Much,” I mentioned.
He waited.
“Knowing nothing, I might have guessed that some passing god had sneezed. A perfect circle of ground, big enough for a couple hundred people, had been swept clear. Locals had already carted away most of the downed trees, but there was enough debris to give a sense of what the scene had looked like. That second team dug a trench, took its pictures, and then covered everything up again.” I drew a vertical line with a finger. “A little more than a hand's length underground, the old soil was waiting. It looked a little like shale. But according to the data, what was under that line was identical to the soil sitting straight above it. And by identical, I mean the same. Pebble for pebble, sand grain for sand grain.”
“The Lorton Energy was shaped carefully,” he said.
“Seventy feet across, eight feet tall.”
He nodded.
“I like studying the weird crap that they found in the soil. Do you know what I mean? The nano debris, the occasional busted machine part. Little stuff that we couldn't make today, even if we wanted to.”
“There would have been more debris,” he mentioned. “Except our clothes and bodies were thoroughly cleaned before.”
“Smart,” I said.
He waited.
“Of course we needed Pakistani help,” I admitted. “There was no way to poke around their side of the disputed border without being noticed. And since they happened to be our loyal allies in the war on terror, at least for the moment, we invented some very scary intelligence about an armed group, possibly Indian radicals, who had slipped across the border in ‘99. Our mutual enemies had carried gold and guns, and to help explain all the sampling, maybe enough radionuclides to build a few dirty bombs. They would have been on foot, we told our allies. And they might have had odd accents. Then we asked for help interviewing the local people, trying to find anybody who remembered strangers passing through three years before.”
“Some remembered,” said Ramiro.
I waited.
“Collins mentioned as much.”
“Stories about strangers, yes.” I started to walk again, and Ramiro fell in beside me. “I haven't gone over all the testimonies. Just a few summaries, that's all I've had time for. But there were witnesses on the local farms, and more in a couple of nearby towns. Exactly what you'd expect if a large group of quiet pedestrians had come in the night and quickly scattered across the landscape.”
“Most of us hid,” he said.
“Naturally.”
“A few were dispatched to secure transportation.”
“Those who would blend in best, I'll assume.”
“I assume the same.”
“You and your little cell hunkered down together.”
With Ramiro beside me, I was keenly aware of how much taller he was. “In a woodlot by the water,” he said.
“And Abraham?”
“I don't know where he was.”
“I wouldn't believe you if you claimed otherwise.”
Silence.
“After all, you're just a convert who got lucky. You weren't scheduled to join the invasion. But at the last moment, one of the chosen warriors fell ill—”
“My friend.”
“The German, your benefactor. Sure. He cleared your entry into Abraham's group. And when he couldn't make the trip, you did in his place.”
My companion held his gait to the end of the room, and then with the precision of a big zoo cat, he turned and started back again.
“I have a question about the German.”
“Yes?”
“But first, let's talk a little more about Kashmir.”
“Whatever you want, Carmen.”
“Even our crude virtual-reality technologies make it beautiful.”
“Our arrival site was lovely,” he agreed.
“Seeing the mountains and that glacial river ... it made me sad to think about what's happened to it since.”
He waited.
I said, “Sad,” once again.
“And I am sorry,” Ramiro volunteered.
“For what? You told us what you knew, and we acted on it. You had to pass through Kashmir because that's where the only substantial time machine existed in your day. Point-to-point transfer is the way time travel is done. And it was your German pal who claimed that Abraham would center his operation inside Iraq. Because they had industry and an educated middle class, he said. Because of a greedy dictator and a useful secret service. Abraham planned to approach Saddam with the fantastic truth, and if the Baathists cooperated, there would be riches beyond all measure.”
“Iraq was a disappointment,” he allowed.
I nodded in agreement.
We had crossed the room again, stopping short of the door—a heavy metal door with thick glass on top, a single guard watching us from the other side.
“I was surprised,” Ramiro admitted. “I expected that you'd find a good deal of physical evidence.”
“We did find some lost nanos in warehouses, and a diamond screwdriver out in the oil fields.”
He shook his head slowly. “Perhaps you understand why I don't like these people.”
“They manipulated you.”
His pace lifted, just slightly. And his hands swung the weights just a little harder.
“Then we bombed Iran hard. And goaded Israel into mangling Syria for us.”
We walked until the room ended, and like two cats, we turned and walked back in our own tracks.
“Two more disappointing wars,” I muttered.
He pointed out, “Your leaders made those decisions. I was very honest. I would have handled these conflicts differently.”
“I know.”
Then he said, “Pakistan.”
I waited.
“That was a possibility I mentioned to Collins.” His tone was frustrated. He sounded like a proud man who had suffered a public embarrassment. “Very early in our relationship, even before you reached Baghdad, I suggested to Collins that my people might gravitate to the nearest compliant government.”
“Except the Pakistanis were our friends. And we had close, close ties with Musharraf.”
Ramiro smiled. “Do you trust anyone, Carmen?”
I waved the
question aside. “But of course Pakistani Intelligence—our partners on the ground—was full of ambitious souls.”
“That's true.”
“The future that we should have lived could have been very instructive. Somebody like Abraham, setting his sights on potential allies, might identify the name and address of a young captain who would have eventually ruled his empire. A fledging Napoleon with connections and toxic ambitions. Leave him alone for another twenty or thirty years, and he would have earned his power. But patience isn't common in would-be emperors. A man like that would surely look at the temporal jihadists as gifts from God.”
“Collins and I discussed the Pakistan possibility. In addition to several other scenarios.”
“I want to talk about Pakistan.”
“Of course.”
“Do you know why we hit it next?”
He took a moment before shaking his head.
“What did Collins tell you?”
“Its government was on the brink of collapse,” he said. “A powerful bomb was detonated in Islamabad, and a peculiar device was found in the wreckage. Collins brought the object to me, to ask my opinion.”
“I haven't seen the device myself,” I admitted. “From what I hear, it's sitting in a vault under the Pentagon.” And for a thousand years, that's where it would remain, protected by the radioactive nightmares from Indian Point.
Ramiro lifted one of his weights, remarking, “It is about this size, but hollow. Cylindrical and composed of intricate nanostructures that give it some interesting properties.”
“Juice it up with electricity,” I mentioned, “and it turns invisible.”
“I gave a demonstration.”
“The machine has a structural flaw and can't be used. You claimed. But if it functions, it could play a critical role in the construction of a portable, low-energy time machine.”
Ramiro lowered the weight, saying nothing.
“I trust everyone I know,” I mentioned.
He glanced at me, his gaze curious. Alert.
“What I trust is that people will always be people. They will do what they want, and when you search for motives, rationality proves to be a luxury. Fear and love and hatred: those are the emotions that count for something. And everything that involves us comes naturally from our human beast.”
Asimov's SF, October-November 2008 Page 31
