Project Nirvana

by Stefan Tegenfalk

  “Well, then,” the old man said. “Shall we continue where we left off?”

  Leo tried to stand up. One of the men moved forwards and helped him to sit up. Since the doctor had treated his wounds, it did not hurt as much, but something was still wrong inside his body. His urine was red and the taste of blood in his mouth when he coughed had not disappeared.

  “You’ll get what you seek in exchange for . . . ” Leo began, but was interrupted by a coughing fit. He sank back down and had to brace himself against the floor on his arms.

  The old man’s face did not change. Instead, he signalled for one of the men to help the prisoner to sit up again.

  “I’m afraid there’s not much we can do about your internal injuries,” the old man said, with a slight touch of sarcasm in his voice. “They require complex surgery and, unfortunately, we don’t have an operating theatre here in this humble dwelling.”

  Leo struggled to look up. He watched as the man lit a cigarette and exhaled smoke from his thin nose. As always, his eyes were emotionless. His mean lips were cracked and the skin on his wrinkled face was scaly. He looked as Leo felt, terminally ill. Leo couldn’t fathom the reason behind the man’s unrelenting hatred. He poisoned the atmosphere with his destructive energy. His was the face of Evil, Leo thought. He knew this because he had also been filled with it – the hatred that corrodes and destroys. He had been an avenger of death and his deeds had made him feel fulfilled.

  Leo cautiously took a sip of water and marshalled all the strength he had. He suppressed a minor coughing fit.

  “You’ll get what you want,” he said. He struggled over each word and had to use every muscle not to collapse onto the mattress. The old man was unmoved, sitting quite still on his stool. He stubbed out his cigarette and blew out the smoke.

  “Go on,” he said, in a flat voice.

  “The formula for the compound is in a place that only I can access.”

  The old man looked at the others. “Sounds like a tall story,” he remarked.

  “You shouldn’t underestimate me,” he said, attempting to explain, but it sounded more like a threat.

  The old man’s lips tightened. “Just tell us where to get your so-called compound and we’ll take care of the rest.”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  The old man didn’t seem to believe a single word that Leo said.

  “Tell us what’s so difficult about it?”

  Leo took a deep breath. “This is not a simple drug that can be injected as you please. Its manufacture demands great expertise in advanced pharmaceutical science and it’s extremely sensitive to the ambient environment. It has to be treated like a baby.”

  “An amusing comparison,” the man said, his thin lips twitching slightly. “But you can let us wrestle with that problem. We’ll take good care of your baby, I give you my word.”

  One of the men behind the old man laughed.

  “You don’t understand . . .”

  “Enough,” the old man interrupted and stood up. “We understand everything. You mistake us for a bunch of thugs looking for easy money.”

  Leo looked straight into the old man’s rheumy eyes. “I believe only what I see here, nothing else,” he responded.

  “There are many people conducting advanced research into DNA,” the old man continued. “We have sympathizers in many different fields who share our aims. What you yourself, or together with others, have achieved does not impress me. It’s possible to provoke psychopathic tendencies with several drugs, or a combination of other substances, that are already available on the market today. Admittedly, not as precisely as your concoction, but we are not interested in what the drug does. It’s the composition of the molecules and the structure of the ribosomes that we are interested in. Not the fact that the drug causes blind rage. There is sufficient hatred and anger in the world already.”

  Leo listened in surprise to the old man. His fears were beginning to be realized. “Why are you interested in that information?”

  “The source,” the man replied. “What you yourself used as the starting point for your anger drug.”

  Despite his pain, Leo shuddered. How much did they really know? “It’s all stored as data fragments on computers all over the globe,” Leo protested. “You will . . .”

  “We know that you’ve been using WCG’s network of roughly seven hundred thousand computers,” interjected one of the men behind the old man. He spoke quickly and had a slight, West-coast accent.

  “We’ve been in touch with the World Community Grid,” he went on, “and they confirmed that you’ve been allocated processing time. To be exact, thirteen hundred hours over a period of three years. We also have the names of the seven researchers who helped you. All this was done under the pretext that you were working on HIV and therefore needed the data capacity. Not a bad lie.”

  The old man clapped his hands slowly. “And the lies continue,” he said.

  Leo followed him with his eyes.

  Suddenly, the man turned around. “I want to hear the truth. And nothing but the truth.”

  His voice hardened. The others seemed taken off guard as the old man bent down to Leo. He grabbed Leo’s hair and pressed his head backwards against the wall.

  “Our patience is nearly exhausted,” he hissed, so that only Leo could hear.

  The old man was right about Leo. Leo had lied and had deceived to accomplish his mission. To satisfy his hatred and hunger for revenge. He had stolen the research that he and Günter Himmelmann, together with others, had worked on for so many years. Extracted what he needed to create the anger drug. Appealed to WCG for processing resources, so that he could test vital parts of the research. He had saved many years of research thanks to WCG’s global computing networks. Seven colleagues had volunteered their assistance. Unwittingly, they had helped him to instigate homicides, instead of shedding any light into the origins of HIV. Leo had been perverted by his thirst for revenge.

  These psychopaths had now opened his eyes. A new vision was taking shape for him. Redemption. “How will you retrieve something that is distributed over thousands of computers?” he asked, stifling a cough.

  The old man fixed his gaze on Leo. “You’ll be given a computer. You will use it to give us what we want.”

  “Not possible.”

  “Why not?”

  “Crucial pieces of data are stored elsewhere,” Leo explained.

  “Where?”

  “With a solicitor.”

  “A solicitor?” The old man contemplated Leo intently. “What’s the name of the solicitor?”

  “She lives abroad.”

  “Where?” The old man raised his voice.

  “The Isle of Man,” Leo explained.

  The old man released Leo’s hair and he fell back onto the mattress. A hint of resignation appeared in the old man’s face. The fire in his eyes had gone out.

  “We have comrades even in Britain. Don’t bother yourself,” he said.

  “I have to go in person,” Leo added.

  “That can be arranged. Just give us the name of the solicitor.”

  “Alice McDaniel,” Leo said. “Of McDaniel Solicitors in Douglas.” A cough escaped him, and his body shook.

  The old man got out his mobile phone and went out of the room. He called a number and waited. After a moment, a voice answered.

  Leo had difficulty listening to the old man. He tried to suppress his coughing, but the man’s voice was distorted by the echoes off the cold walls of the corridor and became unintelligible. Shortly, the old man came back into the room. The fire in his eyes was back. “If the mountain won’t come to Moses, then Moses must go to the mountain!” he exclaimed.

  “Don’t harm her,” Leo pleaded. “She has nothing to do with this.”

  The old man
laughed. “We are not barbarians. Call your solicitor and kindly ask her to come to Sweden with the material that she is keeping for you.”

  “I don’t think . . .”

  “Alternatively,” the old man interrupted, “we can extract the information from her in our usual manner. The choice is yours. I must credit you for complicating everything. You have now made yourself indispensable for the forseeable future, which I assume was your plan. In your place, I would have done exactly the same.”

  Leo needed to come up with something else. But first he had to become strong enough to leave this place. “What do you want me to do?” he asked.

  “You are going to call Alice McDaniel and ask her to come to Stockholm immediately with the goods,” the old man said. “You’ll offer her ten thousand pounds for two days’ work.”

  “I don’t think . . .”

  The old man interrupted Leo again. “If there is one thing solicitors care about, it’s money. Trust me.”

  The old man’s mobile phone rang. He answered and spoke a few words in English. Then he hung up. A moment later, the phone beeped, signalling the arrival of a text message. He waved to the man with the accent, who took a fresh mobile phone from a black shoulder bag.

  “This one’s clean,” he said and handed it to the old man, who then keyed in the number he had received in the text message.

  “Say that you are ill, and you need your material delivered to Stockholm immediately,” the old man ordered, holding the phone next to Leo’s ear.

  “You’ll deposit ten thousand pounds and the cost of a business-class ticket in their account today. You’ve also booked a room for one night at the Grand Hotel, which naturally you will pay for. The meeting will take place in the hotel foyer tomorrow evening at nine o’clock. If she’s unable to make it at such short notice, you’ll get her to come the next day. Don’t forget to apologize for calling her private number so early in the morning. The Brits can be a little oversensitive about inappropriate intrusions.”

  Leo gathered his strength. He heard the telephone ringing at the other end. On the fifth ring, he heard a sleepy woman’s voice answer.

  The skylight was impossible to get through. It was too small and was more like a ventilation duct. Tor looked at his watch. Fifteen minutes had gone by and he was still on the premises. He lost his temper. He roared and kicked in the door of the toilet. The hinges broke and the door latch was ripped out of the door frame. A feeling of impotence overwhelmed him. He sat on the floor of the caravan like an abandoned child. His eyes filled with tears of frustration and despair. He couldn’t take it any more. Being continuously on the run was taking its toll. And with a vengeance. His mind and body were constantly on edge. He couldn’t relax for a second.

  He dried his eyes with his good, left arm, while examining the kicked-in toilet door. Maybe . . . , he thought, and stood up. When he was a kid, he and his mates had wedged an old door against a tree. By doing so, they were able to reach its lowest branches. All at once, his snivelling stopped and was replaced by determination. The door was his ticket out of here.

  Tor dragged the door out of the caravan with his left hand. Despite being made of thin plywood, it was heavy. He placed the door at a sufficiently steep angle between the fence and the caravan. Using the caravan window and the door lock as footholds and the door as a stepping stone, he should be able to climb up onto the roof of the caravan. Once there, it would be a simple task to jump over the fence. He hurried back to get his bag of tools from the caravan. Just as he was lifting the carrier bag from the floor, he heard something. He turned and stared into the fog. Far away, he heard the sound of a bird’s wings. Somebody was out there.

  He carefully picked up the carrier bag. It rustled. With eyes fixed on the doorway, he carefully made his way forwards. Just as he was about to leave the caravan, he saw a shadow moving in the fog. Tor froze. Like ghosts, the shapes moved slowly along one of the caravans. They were heading in Tor’s direction. He would never be able to climb onto the roof undetected. The noise would reveal his location. Carefully, he closed the door of the caravan and bolted it from the inside. They had no way of knowing that he was hiding in the caravan, unless they had dogs, and he hadn’t heard any. He took out his mobile and wondered if he should call the psycho cop again. His fingers nervously tapped the display for a brief moment before he put the phone away. The cop couldn’t help Tor now. He was completely on his own.

  Jonna lowered her weapon as Martin Borg’s face appeared out of the fog. His skin was pale, almost transparent, and his eyes as cold as the air she breathed. Behind him were two more Security Service agents, with guns drawn.

  “Are you by yourself?” Martin asked, lowering his pistol.

  “Yes,” Jonna whispered, her eyes fixed on Borg’s weapon.

  “Where are the others?”

  “Somewhere in this blasted fog.”

  Martin smiled. “Stay with us; I promise you won’t get lost,” he said.

  Jonna cursed both herself and the fog. Having to listen to Borg’s sarcastic remarks was the last thing she needed. “I’ll be all right,” she replied tersely.

  “Not here on your own,” Martin said. “I don’t think your superiors would appreciate it. Breaking regulations, and so on.”

  “Do you have any more good advice?” Her irritation boiled over and Jonna had a good mind to wipe that smirk off Borg’s face.

  “Do you need an escort back to the main gate?”

  “No, thank you. I can find my own way,” Jonna replied and started to move back in the direction from which she had come. She soon passed a caravan that she had previously inspected – she had made a note of the sticker on the door: “Beware of the dog,” with a small poodle underneath. Then she went past the next caravan and saw the same sticker. When she passed a third caravan with same sticker, she realized that she was lost again. At the end of that caravan, she almost tripped over a black power cable. She followed the cable until it disappeared into the end of the caravan. It was a Polar 680, with two sets of wheels and the lower half painted dark brown. She didn’t remember seeing this one. Then she remembered that they had switched sides. Somewhere between the third and fourth caravan, they had crossed to the row opposite. Jonna turned around and tried to find a reference point. The wooden stool that they had gone past, or the upside-down, iron bucket. Nothing was where it should be. She had lost her bearings. Once again, she was by herself and, once again, she was lost.

  Keeping her Sig Sauer lowered towards the ground, her gaze suddenly fixed on the slushy snow outside the caravan door. The ground was full of footprints, and they were of big feet. The doorstep of the caravan was also muddy. Her pulse started to race. What should she do? Break radio silence and call for backup? The element of surprise would be lost. Jonna crouched down, pressed the back of her head against the caravan and tried to think. One metre to her left was the door. She could call for backup and storm the caravan at the same time.

  Crouching, she moved to the other side of the door. She stood up cautiously and shone her torch onto the lock. It had definitely been broken into. The lock cylinder was missing. She crouched down and took out her personal radio. Would she really be doing the right thing? Wouldn’t it be better to leave and find help? The hour and the fog made her decision so damned difficult. She carefully touched her bulletproof vest; her mind was racing. What would Walter do?

  This time, she did not have an answer. She was completely stumped: this was her own decision and it was her head on the block if something went wrong. From her pocket, she took out the red distress flare that had to be used if contact was made. She looked up and took a deep breath. Then she lit the emergency flare, pressed the button on her personal radio and broke radio silence.

  Tor was trapped. Caught in a trap of his own making. Why had he come to this place, and how the hell had the fuzz found out where he was? He should h
ave prepared an escape route. That was something that Jerry was always particular about. Never enter a room without having a safe getaway, he used to say. And now look what had happened.

  There was no air in this damned caravan. Panic started to set in and his eyes began to wander like a cornered animal. Everything seemed to be going wrong. He was surrounded by idiots, slags, psychos and gays in one enormous, fucking conspiracy. He was caught between a bright future and a fate worse than . . .

  Suddenly, there was another noise. He stared at the round door handle and thought he saw it move. He held his breath.

  Jonna broke radio silence as her emergency flare fizzled in the mud behind her. “1235 to 70,” she whispered over the radio, “Contact with target. I’m going in.”

  She tore open the door to the caravan and quickly launched herself forwards. With both hands on her pistol grip, she yelled “Police!” so hard that her voice cracked. Adrenaline flooded every cell of her body as she crossed over the threshold. The light from the emergency flare lit up the walls like a flashing strobe light and she rapidly swept the room with her gun. She could hear her own, panting breaths echo in her head. It felt surreal. All at once, she was standing in the middle of the floor and no longer had her back protected. Something moved at the corner of her eye and she spun around. She almost shot her own shadow. Jonna lowered her weapon for a moment and exhaled. Only now did she see that the door to the toilet was closed. She threw her back to the wall, tightened her grip on her Sig Sauer and took a deep breath. One moment’s hesitation and then she kicked open the door.

  The toilet was empty. The mirror on the wall showed a tense and terrified figure aiming a gun at her own reflection. Behind her, the flare was burning and bathing her in ridicule, or perhaps it was the glow of failure.

  The radio crackled. She could hear the team leaders ordering their SWAT teams to re-deploy. Someone answered that they could see a red flare in the fog. “70 to 1235,” the police radio announced.

  Jonna stiffened. It was her call sign. Slowly, she began to realize the consequences of her fateful decision.