Any
math student worth their salt knew that diagram by heart. It was
Euclid's Postulate 47, from the first book of
Elements.
In
it, the brilliant Greek mathematician proposed an elegant means of
proving the Pythagorean theorem. It was easy to demonstrate that in a
right triangle like the one above, the sum of the squares of the
lengths of the sides is equal to the square of the length of the
hypotenuse.
Over
the centuries, Euclid's proof had become popular among mathematicians
using allusive drawings, the most famous of which was a soldier
carrying his girlfriend in a chair on his back. That drawing, known
as the "sweetheart seat," had given her the key. She
realized that the rest of the figures must have been taken from some
sort of art book related to math (not erotica!), and even remembered
having seen one once.
If
you are who you think you are, you'll know.
She
shivered. Could it be?
No
one without a great deal of mathematical knowledge would have been
able to make that kind of connection among the drawings. The
anonymous sender wanted to tell her that only someone like her could
come up with the solution. She had to conclude that it wasn't a
coincidence.
That
message is for me.
But
what did it mean?
Euclid.
That
new realization and all the possibilities it held made her feel
dizzy.
She
turned on her computer and went online. Directing her browser to the
mercuryfriend.net
page, she
looked at the ads for the bars and clubs it listed.
Her
mouth ran dry.
The
ad for Euclid, on first glance, looked much like the rest. The club's
name in big red letters, and beneath that the words "classy
place for intimate encounters." But something else was written
below:
Friday,
July 8, 11:15 p.m.
Special
reception. Come down and we'll talk.
You'll
be interested.
She
couldn't breathe. Today was July 8.
08
"I
didn't
know you were going out tonight," her mother said, flipping
through a magazine as she half watched the television. She stared at
her daughter from over the tops of her reading glasses.
"I'm
meeting a friend," she lied. Or maybe it wasn't a lie. Who knew?
"That
journalism student?"
"Yeah."
"I'm
glad. It's good for you to get to know people."
Elisa
was surprised. Last week she'd made a comment about Javier Maldonado,
just something banal to fill the silence that always stretched
between them. She thought her mother hadn't even registered it, but
now she saw how wrong she was. She was intrigued by this sudden
maternal interest; she'd always assumed that neither of them could
care less what the other did, or with whom.
What's
the difference? It's all a lie.
She
heard her say one more thing (it might have been "Have a good
time") as she walked out. She smiled, since she had no idea what
kind of time she was going to have. She didn't even know exactly
where she was going.
Because
Club Euclid didn't exist.
The
address was correct—a narrow street in the Chueca
neighborhood—but she'd found no reference to a bar or club with
that name in any guidebook or listings of any kind, there or anywhere
else in Madrid. Paradoxically, that reassured her. Elisa was
convinced that July 8 was intended specifically for her.
She
reasoned that if the place had been easy to find, then the whole
string of coincidences (the message, the Web page, Euclid's theorem,
the club's existence) would have been too much. But the fact that it
wasn't listed anywhere, in any paper or guidebook, piqued her
curiosity, especially after she verified that the other places
were
for
real. Maybe that meant that it was all just a fantasy. Or maybe it
was a sign that her messenger had hatched a clever plan, using
Euclid's name to draw her to a specific place at a specific time. But
why? Who could it be and what did they want?
When
she got off the subway at Chueca and walked out into the warm night
air amid throngs of young people of all races, there was so much
noise pouring out of so many different bars that she couldn't help
but feel uneasy. Not for any reason in particular (because she
neither hoped for nor feared anything specific), but she had this
feeling, this slight tingling sensation on her back, under her
T-shirt and cardigan. She was glad that her outfit, complete with
ripped jeans, didn't attract any attention there.
The
address she had was for the end of one of the narrow streets that led
off the plaza, between two other doorways. It was either a bar or a
club, or both, though it wasn't called Euclid. The neon sign was
missing some letters, but Elisa didn't care about that. She did
notice, though, that it had smoked glass and swinging doors. Aside
from that, it didn't appear to be any secret hideout or clandestine
gambling den that relied on mathematical subterfuge to attract
gorgeous young physics graduates in order to subject them to cruel,
humiliating acts. People came and went, the Chemical Brothers blared
over the sound system, and there didn't seem to be any bouncers at
the door. Her watch said ten past eleven. She decided to go in.
There
was a spiral staircase, and as she wound her way down, she saw a
fairly nice scene. The small dance floor was packed, making it look
even smaller. The only lights (red) were coming from the bar at the
far end of the room, so all she could make out were random arms,
thighs, hair, and backs, all tinged with the same reddish glow. The
music was so loud that Elisa was sure that if it were turned off now,
everyone's ears would continue to ring for hours. At least the
air-conditioning seemed to be working.
So,
what else do I have to do, Mr. Euclid?
When
she got to the bottom of the stairs, she blended in with the shadows.
It was hard to make her way anywhere without touching people or being
touched.
Maybe
we're supposed to meet at the bar.
She
headed for it, using her hands to help clear a path.
Suddenly,
someone used his hands on
her.
A
firm grasp on her arm.
"Come
on!" She heard the voice. "Hurry up!" She was shocked,
but she obeyed.
THEN
came
a quick succession of images. They made their way to the back of the
bar where the bathrooms were, went up another staircase, narrower
than the one she'd come down, and then down a short hallway that led
to a door with a metal push bar and a pneumatic closer and an Exit
sign above it. When they reached the door, he pushed the bar and
opened it a few inches. After peering out, he closed it again and
then turned to her.
Elisa,
who had followed him as if she'd been on a leash, wondered what was
going to happen next. Under the circumstances, it could be anything.
But even she wasn't expecting his question and assumed she'd
misheard.
"My
cell phone?"
"Yeah.
Do you have it on you?"
"Of
course."
"Give
it to me."
Speechless,
she shoved her hand into her jeans pocket. She'd barely managed to
extract it when he snatched the phone away from her.
"Stay
here and keep a look out."
He
snuck into the alley and she stood by the door, peeking through the
crack just in time to see him cross the narrow street and (she could
hardly believe this) throw her phone into a trash can tied to a
streetlight. Then he came back and closed the door.
"Did
you see where I left it?"
"Yeah,
but what the..."
He
put a finger to his lips.
"Shh.
They'll be right here."
In
the silence that followed, she watched him and he watched the street.
"Here
they come," he said suddenly. He'd lowered his voice to a
whisper. "Come over here—slowly." Again she felt
compelled to obey him, despite the fact that she had no desire to
stand right next to him. "Look."
Through
the crack in the door all she could see was a car tearing down the
narrow street, its engine roaring, and a man across the street,
reaching into the trash. Another car drove by, and then another. When
they'd gone and her line of sight was clear, she saw that he'd
extracted something from the trash and was shaking it off angrily,
cleaning it. She didn't have to squint to see what he held. It was
her phone, there was no doubt. The man opened it and its little blue
screen lit up. She'd never seen the guy before. He was bald and wore
a short-sleeved shirt and (she was almost surprised) had no mustache.
All
of a sudden, he turned toward them. Then she couldn't see.
"We
don't want them to see us, now, do we?" the man whispered in her
ear, after closing the door. "That would ruin the plan..."
Then he smiled in a way that made Elisa very uncomfortable. "I
should check to see if you're wearing a wire... Maybe underneath your
clothes, hidden on your body ... But there'll be plenty of time later
on tonight for me to give you a thorough search."
She
said nothing, unsure of what shocked her more: the guy she just saw
digging through the trash for her cell phone, or him, with his
incredible cold blue-green eyes and voice layered with that mocking
tone. Still, when he barked another order, she obeyed immediately.
"Let's go," said Valente Sharpe.
"HOW
could
anyone have put a transmitter in my phone?"
"Are
you sure you didn't leave it anywhere? Or lend it to anyone, even for
a second?"
"Positive."
"Did
anything break at home recently? Washing machine? TV? Anything that
would require a serviceman to come to your house?"
"No.
I..." Then she remembered. "The phone line. Last week they
came to fix it."
"And
you were home, of course. And your cell phone was in your room."
"But
it hardly took any time ... They just..."
"Oh,"
Ric Valente smiled. "They had enough time to bug your toilet
seat if they wanted to, I can assure you. They might be clumsy, but
this is one thing they do all the time; they've got it down pat."
They'd
reached the Plaza de Espana. Valente turned toward Ferraz. He drove
slowly, serenely, accepting the customary Friday night traffic. He'd
told Elisa that the car they were in was "safe" (a friend
had lent it to him for the night), but added that the last thing he
wanted was to get pulled over by the cops and have them ask for his
ID. Elisa listened, thinking that considering all that had happened
(and was happening), a ticket was the last thing on her mind. Her
brain was like a Gordian knot. Every little while she looked over at
Valente's aquiline profile and wondered if he were insane. He seemed
to realize this.