by Rob Swigart
The strangler seemed to have picked up the women he killed. That wouldn’t happen with Patria.
He wished he had learned more about the second killing.
The trail widened and flattened. He felt the expansion of spaces around him, but the fog here was thicker than ever. His own steps were muffled on the damp ground. It had been raining, was about to rain again, but there was plenty of plant debris to soak up the water.
The sound was almost below the threshold of his hearing, but he spun quickly. The shapes were a blur in the mist, and he dropped his center, bending his knees slightly, standing in hanmi, the triangular aikido stance, waiting.
Nothing happened. The shapes melted away. The leaves dripped softly.
When they came it was together, in silence, out of the fog.
The fight became a blur of soft motion punctuated by grunts of pain. Chazz spun, dropped, felt for the flow of attack and went with it. One of the attackers flew head over heels into a tree, and Chazz heard a crack. Another feinted to the left then came in high, and Chazz dropped under the attack, pivoted, and threw the man over his hip in a smooth koshinage, but the man was up and on him again. Soon it was down to struggle, force against force, and Chazz was pinned.
The fourth man, the one who had hit the tree, came out of the mist. There was blood on his face, but he was smiling. Chazz knew the smile. He had seen it the night before, at the Disco Onyx.
They began to beat him, and the pain in his calf was nothing in comparison, and there was nothing he could do about it at all except guard the most vulnerable areas and minimize the damage.
So Chazz went away. A man of peace who wanted to protect others from his rage. A man of good intent.
He heard Shinawa tell him he must be ready to die. Was he ready? He was surely dying. The blows came to his stomach, his kidneys, and ribs. The kicks came to his thighs, his back. He was down, and the heavy shoes hit him again and again, leaving the muddy imprint of their tread. He felt his eye close and tasted blood.
The shadows leaped in the mist, elongated and unreal. Heavy limbs came out of the gray emptiness and filled his world with pain.
The pain left and took the world with it, leaving behind only dreams and fragments of dreams. A fire that burned in a rotting night sent shadows leaping across walls that met at tilted, crazy angles.
The fire spoke to him. It spoke of damp, clotted earth, falling on his dead body. Each clump hit his flesh and sent cold pain down in a swift spiral through his bowels, turning them to panic, to terror.
The cold grew and grew, the cold of poison rising up, extinguishing life as it rose, leaving behind limbs that were dead and rotting, foul green corruption, black of frostbite, black of dead flesh falling from bone.
Patria said, “I met this man, he is handsome and brave and true, I am going with him,” and he wanted to shout to her, “No, he is the killer, he is the man with many faces, don’t,” but his voice would not work, he had no air in his lungs, no strength to speak, and she was gone, and he knew with all the despair in the universe that she too was dead.
Crowds came at him with empty eyes, dead eyes staring wide and hideous. They reached for him with long fingers that dropped flesh the way the wax images at the museum in Hiroshima dropped sheets of skin like cellophane, melting off them. They were the walking dead, and they reached for him, and touched him with their hands, and where they touched his own flesh dripped and melted. He had been to Hiroshima, he saw the figures looming out of the flames, and he was one of them.
He was dead. Tall skeletal figures stood around him, towering into a sky ablaze with fire, desert sun, intolerable heat. The figures were black with wide hats that were also black. They spoke, and their voices rumbled wordlessly, one to the other across his dead body that was slowly drying and shrinking in the heat, turning black and shrinking and drying and growing smaller and smaller, leaving behind only black ash. The figures spoke, and what they said was “Too bad, but he was already dead, too bad, too bad.”
Anger rose in his dreams, a small red knot that he tried to feed. What was his intent? He heard the question. His intent was to kill, to feed the rage, to nurture it and make it grow until it was as large as he had been and to send it out as his messenger and to give back whatever it was that had been given to him. To give back this death.
But the red knot of anger would not grow. It dimmed instead, became sullen, and shrank and died away.
And then he too was gone.
SEVENTEEN
VINCENT
Vincent Meissner glared at the man across the desk. The man looked uncomfortable, but not nearly uncomfortable enough.
Meissner was outraged. The French had assassinated the Ocean Mother crew. The ship was derelict, and a solid international scandal was in the works. Vincent regretted the loss of the crew, certainly. Jacqueline Guillaume especially would be missed. Her influence and prestige were enormous, especially in Europe. She had been a tireless spokesperson for all the right green causes. She had a core of decency and virtue that shone for the world, a beacon in the night of greed and corruption.
Now that she was a martyr to the world environment, donations were flowing into the Foundation’s account. The others, too, had been dedicated volunteers. Organizations like Gaia could not survive without people like them, like Tracy Ann and Clarence, or people with real skills like Russell and Jeffrey and Willem. It was difficult to find masters and pilots who were willing to take low pay in return for the limited glory of protest. Especially now.
But this French diplomat, Sangier, had not been moved by Vincent’s sense of outrage. He had smiled blandly, examining his nails where they rested on the edge of the polished wood desk. The wood was dark, and the reflection of his hand was visible in the polished surface.
They were in a small conference room at the Hilton. Vincent had moved when it became obvious his stay on the island would be protracted. False asceticism was not one of Vincent’s strengths. He needed the solidity, the name recognition, and the facilities of a major hotel.
Sangier kept referring to a “falling out among the crew.” This was not the course Vincent planned to take. His crew did not fall out. His crew was a well-forged unit with high morale and a clear sense of mission. The French had been willing to reveal their spiteful side before. Vincent was maintaining that they had done it again.
There were only two of them facing each other across this smooth surface. Vincent’s recording device was concealed. His questions had been carefully framed for maximum publicity.
The answers had been unsatisfactory. Sangier stonewalled. He deflected. He smiled. Sometimes he frowned. He presented a smooth and polished manner that was helpful and eager yet did nothing. He was a mirror, like the top of the desk. He reflected.
Wheels inside wheels, like one of those elaborate medieval models of the crystal spheres of the heavens, all turning at different angles and different speeds. Vincent suspected Sangier was also recording. Later they would go over the recordings, trying to tease out truth from all the rest, the deception and missteps.
“Let’s take this one more time, Monsieur Sangier. We know that someone else, someone who was not a member of the crew, came aboard the Ocean Mother in Raïatéa. There is evidence that this person was aboard when she left French waters.”
“Ah, I fear, Monsieur, that is not correct,” Sangier contradicted gently. “There is no evidence this person was aboard, no documents that suggest it. The ship’s log says nothing on the subject. Immigration control has no record. I regret, but you cannot say with any confidence that such is the case.”
Vincent sighed. “The log was tampered with. Pages were missing. I’m afraid, Monsieur Sangier, that you give me no choice. I had not wanted to produce the evidence, because it is unpleasant. It does not look good at all. But I fear I must.” He opened his briefcase and pulled out a file folder, which he placed on the empty surface before him. He looked at the folder somberly for a moment then pushed it across the table.
Sangier looked at it without curiosity. He made no move to open it.
“This is, Monsieur, documented proof that the French government was behind the assassination of my crew in a blatant attack on the high seas. The Gaia Foundation must now pursue all means for redress.”
Sangier flicked the folder with one finger. “Proof? I do not think so.”
“You do not understand the extent of the environmental movement. We draw support from the full range of the political spectrum. The environment is not a petty issue, it is a global human issue. There are people even inside the French government who understand that. That is why the cable traffic summarized in this file became available to the Gaia Foundation. A woman of the stature of Jacqueline Guillaume is not martyred without consequences.”
Sangier frowned. He opened the file and looked at the fax sheets inside. He shrugged and closed the file. “Anyone can do this, Monsieur. You cannot succeed in forging documents like this, in such an amateurish way.” He pushed the folder back across the desk.
Vincent smiled. “These are faxed copies, obviously, with translations. We possess the originals. If you look carefully, you will see that these cables come with the proper codes. This is French diplomatic traffic. There is no question that any jury in the world would conclude the assault on Ocean Mother was a well planned and well executed covert operation of French Security services. But it does not need to stand up in a court of law. Only in the court of world opinion.”
Sangier opened the folder and disdainfully picked up the sheets, which he read slowly, one at a time, laying them face down on top of one another when he finished. He closed the folder over the stack.
“No,” he said. “It does not say there was such an operation.”
Vincent had not stopped smiling. “But you can see how that impression might develop. Someone reading those cables in light of events might be willing to conclude such a thing. For example, I quote: ‘Do everything possible to divert or discredit the vessel and her crew.’”
“That does not mean kill, Monsieur.”
Vincent pressed on. “Perhaps not. But that is an early cable. Read here, where it says, ‘Take appropriate action to neutralize.’ That certainly could sound like murder.” Meissner shook his head, and his chins folded over one another. “And here: ‘Long range action to prevent further damage to national credibility… Keep test results from reaching a wider public… Deploy necessary resources for effective damage control.’ But this here, I’m afraid, might be the most damaging: ‘The vessel in question should not reach unfriendly territory with its contents intact.’”
“I’m sure that means prevent illegal or deceptive data from leaving Polynesia,” Sangier said. “It says as much.”
“In a different cable, though. You may believe that, if you wish. But I’m afraid I do not, and when we present this information, the world will not think it either.”
Sangier leaned back in his chair, a wooden armchair with a plush seat in sea blue that matched the carpet and the walls. He tented his fingers before his lips. “Allow me to make a suggestion,” he said softly, and Vincent felt the first flurry of alarm. The French did not usually make suggestions. The French told people what to do; that was Vincent’s experience. It was not good when they took to suggesting.
He kept his smile in place. “Yes?”
“Perhaps there is another interpretation: A radical environmental group, one not unlike yours, M. Meissner, wants to, what is the quaint expression? give France a black eye. Such an organization might— oh, I know this is farfetched, ridiculous, even— but such an organization just might engineer the deaths of an entire crew of their own. If radical enough, dedicated enough, fanatical enough, death is sometimes a small price. Look at the Islamic zealots, M. Meissner. They drive truck bombs to certain death, believing they will wake up in paradise, is it not so? Perhaps a group such as yours would be willing to do such a thing?”
“That’s absurd. Environmentalists are not Islamic fundamentalists, M. Sangier. No one would believe it.”
“Ah, but if we could provide some evidence of such a thing? Evidence, say, similar to what you just showed me? Would not the knife cut the other way?”
“I don’t see how.” Vincent felt a line of perspiration forming along his hairline despite the air-conditioning.
“I’m sure you will when you have considered it.” Sangier leaned forward to prod the folder with a long finger. “I do not believe in these cables, Monsieur Meissner.”
“But we have the originals, Monsieur Sangier. Back in Vancouver. They are coded French diplomatic cables, and they clearly indicate…”
“Nothing. They indicate nothing. Diplomatic codes are not particularly secure. These are forged.” Sangier pushed gently at his upper lip with tented forefingers. He shrugged. “I have spoken also with Commander Shafton of the United States Coast Guard about your ship. You will get no help from them. He tells me there is no evidence of foul play, as far as the United States Coast Guard is concerned.”
“They are not concerned,” Vincent said.
Sangier spread his hands, palms up. “They are concerned, Monsieur. France and the United States are allies. We have mutual interests in the Pacific. We desire the same things, the maintenance of the balance of power.”
“France is detonating hydrogen bombs in an unstable basalt atoll in the South Pacific, storing waste plutonium in the ground. The ground is cracking open. Ciguatera poisoning is endemic in the fish of the area. There are human lives at stake, not to mention the long term effects of radiation leaks into the sea and air.”
“I appreciate your sentiments, Monsieur Meissner, believe me. I may even agree with them. But our test program is safe. Independent international commissions of scientists have declared it so. We have the only atomic testing program in the world open to qualified observers from any allied nation. We take more than adequate safeguards.”
“That is not what the evidence collected by the Ocean Mother tells us.” Vincent wasn’t sure that was true, but his last communications from the ship, from Raïatéa, suggested there was some radiation leakage, within the margin of error for the instruments she carried. “We have the telemetry data in Vancouver.”
“Really?” The question was so drenched in skepticism Meissner was almost fooled. But he knew better, he was on safer ground here. They did have telemetry, although the data was ambiguous. Like all data. In this business you never felt completely confident. You only acted it. Wheels in wheels. Each had an agenda. They turned together, like gears. Meissner was devoid of inspiration. His cards were on the table.
“Really,” he said. Sangier watched him, impassive. “We do have the data, and we are going to spread it all over the world along with evidence that the French government sponsored the assassination of the crew of a peaceful environmental research ship in violation of all international law and common human decency.” Vincent could feel his heart leaping like a hooked fish. The strain stitched across his forehead in a line of drops.
It felt good to go on the offensive, though.
Sangier was thinking. “Perhaps we have a mutual interest here.”
“Oh. And what might that be?” Too good to be true, he knew that. Mutual interest was impossible. Wheels in wheels. He wished Takamura were back from Tahiti. It would have helped to have something definite.
“We both know that there is the public agenda and the private agenda. Our public agendas are in conflict, Monsieur Meissner. But perhaps our private interests coincide.”
A diplomat to the end.
Meissner risked a pass of his hand across his forehead as he leaned back. “I’m listening.”
“Jacqueline Guillaume’s death is going to cause a problem in France. For the government and for certain forces. Political forces. Perhaps those responsible for her death are our mutual enemies.”
“Someone trying to put both of us in an awkward position?” Vincent tried to maintain a neutral tone. “Destroy Gaia’s team, and our
data, and embarrass the French government at the same time?”
“Two birds, I believe you say in English. With one rock.”
“Stone,” Vincent said automatically. “Who?”
Sangier smiled. “Conservative elements,” he said softly. “A determined right wing that does not care for the socialist government and its policies of reconciliation. Those who would have us cut off diplomatic relations with, say, New Zealand and resume atmospheric testing. You know the people.”
Vincent nodded. People like Shafton. Obstructive. Narrow vision, narrow minds. They were everywhere.
He could not trust Sangier. The man was an actor— everything he said was fake— a lie, and a cheat. He would betray Vincent in a second if it moved him a step closer to his goal.
Sangier was a representative of the French government, and the French government wanted to discredit Gaia and everything it had done. He must remember that. The consular official was holding out an olive branch. If Vincent took it, it could easily turn out to be toxic.
“I know the people,” Vincent said.
“These are people,” Sangier continued, “who are implacably hostile to what you do.”
“It makes sense.”
“Good. We have a who. We do not have as yet a how.”
“A rogue agent.”
“Probably, yes. They are unscrupulous fanatics.”
“Do you have any evidence, anything to give to the press?” Vincent thought he saw a way to use this new development. It was all a matter of interpretation.
Sangier waved this objection away. “No,” he said frankly, and this time Vincent thought he might even be telling the truth. “But I do know someone who can… acquire such evidence.”
“Oh?”
“A man with many resources.”
“Resources?”
“Yes. He once worked for the Ministry of Justice, I believe. I don’t know what name he will use, but I’ll have him contact you.”
