Harrison
saw that he was pretending Jurgens's presence didn't unsettle him.
"It's
a pleasure to have you here, sir," Borsello said. "I'm at
your disposal, although I'm not sure if I understand exactly what it
is you want."
"What
I
want..
."
Harrison seemed to toy with the word. "What I
want
is
very simple, Lieutenant: four angels, sixteen men, anticontamination
suits, and all the necessary equipment."
"To
head out when?"
"Tonight.
Within eight hours."
Borsello
cocked an eyebrow. He still had that See-How-Nice-I-Am-to-Civilians
look on his face, but Harrison saw that the knotted brow was in fact
a categorical "no."
"I'm
very sorry to say that's impossible. There's a typhoon north of the
Chagos right now and it's headed straight for New Nelson. Angels are
small choppers and there's over a fifty percent chance that..."
"Hydroplanes,
then."
Borsello
smiled empathetically.
"They
wouldn't be able to land, sir. In a couple of hours, the waves around
the island will be thirty feet high. It's totally out of the
question. We're a modest outfit here on Imnia. Thirty men in my
section. We'll have to wait until tomorrow."
Harrison
looked at Previn, the woman. He returned Borsello's smiles and
courtesies, but he looked at the man's subordinate. One thing he
couldn't stand, one thing nothing could make him put up with, was the
cratered moon, that pockmarked obstacle that was Borsello's ugly
face.
"We
can have a team ready first thing. Maybe even by dawn, if..."
"Can
I have a word with you privately, Lieutenant?" Harrison
interrupted.
Raised
eyebrows, a contained effort to be polite, not to seem taken off
guard. And not to look at Jurgens. But, finally, Borsello motioned
and Previn vanished, closing the door behind her.
"What
exactly do you want, Mr. Harrison?"
With
that witch gone, Harrison felt more at ease. He closed his eyes and
envisioned possible responses. I
want
to kill the wasp buzzing in my ear. I could say that.
When
he opened them, Borsello was still there, and, luckily, so was
Jurgens. He gave a hint of a smile, like a gracious gentleman.
"I
want to go to the island tonight, Lieutenant. And to take some of
your men. If I could do this on my own, believe me, I wouldn't be
troubling you right now."
"I
understand. And I'm fully aware that I am to follow your
instructions. Those are my orders, and they come from above. But I'm
afraid that doesn't mean I can do something insane. I can't send
angels into a typhoon. And,... if you'll allow me to speak freely..."
Harrison nodded. "According to our reports, the individuals
you're looking for are on their way to Brazil. The Brazilian
authorities have already been alerted. So I don't really understand
your rush to get to New Nelson."
Harrison
nodded again, as if Borsello had just revealed some absolute truth.
It
was
true
that all evidence seemed to indicate that Carter and the scientists
had gone to Egypt after a stopover in Sanaa. His agents had
interrogated a professional forger in Cairo who'd made them
passports; Carter had demanded several entry visas for Brazil. That
was their only solid clue.
And
that exactly was why Harrison wasn't buying it. He knew Paul Carter
well, and if he'd left a trail behind, then he
wasn't
on
it.
Plus,
he had another, more subtle piece of information: military satellites
had detected an unidentified chopper flying over the Indian Ocean the
day before. That didn't add up to much, because it hadn't gone to New
Nelson, but Harrison had realized that the men in charge of reporting
visits to the island were Carter's men.
He
was sure
that
was
the right path. He'd told Jurgens that morning, when they were flying
to Imnia. "They're on the island. They went back." He even
thought he knew why.
They've
discovered how to kill off Zig Zag.
But
he had to act with the same diabolical cunning as his onetime
partner. If he showed up on the island in daylight, the watchmen
would alert Carter, and the same thing would happen if he ordered the
coast guard to be moved or interrogated. It had to be a surprise
attack; he had to make use of the fact that there would be no guards
on duty during the storm. That was the only way he could catch them.
The very idea of it made him tingle with excitement. And yet, what
would he gain by telling this idiot his plan?
After
all, he already had an unbeatable ally: Jurgens was on his side.
"It's
true that we do have a lead about Brazil," he admitted.
"It's
a possibility, Lieutenant. But I want to discard the possibility of
New Nelson before I follow that lead."
"And
I want to help you, sir, but..."
"You
have direct orders from Tactics."
"I
have orders to follow your instructions, but I repeat, I decide how
and when to risk the lives of my men. This is a business, not an
army."
"Your
men will obey me, Lieutenant. They have direct orders, too."
"As
long as I'm here,
my
men,
sir, will obey
me."
Harrison
looked away, as if he'd lost all interest in the conversation.
Instead, he glanced out at the calm, blue and yellow day outside,
above the ocean, beyond the hermetically sealed window of Borsello's
office. He almost wanted to cry, thinking that once, a long time
before he'd started on Project Zig Zag, before his eyes and mind had
come into such close contact with sheer horror, landscapes like that
had moved him.
"Lieutenant,"
he said after a long pause, still gazing out the window. "Do you
know the hierarchy of the angels?" Without waiting for a reply,
he began listing them. "Seraphim, cherubim, thrones,
dominions... I'll take charge. I belong to a higher order, a superior
hierarchy, infinitely superior to yours. I have seen far greater
horrors, and I deserve respect."
"What
do you mean by 'I'll take charge'?" Borsello asked, frowning.
Harrison
stopped looking out the window and looked at Jurgens. Then Borsello
did something surprising: he straightened up in his chair and
stiffened, as if a high-ranking officer had just walked into the
room. From the orifice between his eyebrows, a claret-colored drop
emerged and slid down the bridge of his nose. The gun and silencer
slipped back into Jurgens's jacket as quickly as they'd slipped out.
"That's
what I mean, Lieutenant," Harrison said.
30
THEY'D
moved
into the dining room. In the gray morning light, the outlines of
people and objects blended together. Carter sipped his coffee.
"Isn't
there an easier explanation?" he asked. "Some lunatic, a
sadist, a professional assassin, a terrorist organization ...
something ... I don't know, something more
realistic,
for
Christ's sake." He must have noticed the looks everyone was
giving him, because he raised his hands in submission. "Just a
question."
"Carter,
this
is
the most realistic explanation," Blanes replied. "Reality
is physics. And you know as well as I do that there's no other
explanation." He counted off on his fingers one by one as he
spoke, listing the evidence. "First, the speed and the silence:
Ross was killed in less than two hours, Nadja in a matter of minutes,
and Reinhard in a couple of
seconds.
Second,
the unbelievable variety of places: in a pantry, on a barge, an
apartment, a plane in midflight... It's obvious that changing spaces
is no problem because he
doesn't
move through space.
Third,
the mummification of the bodies showed that the amount of time that
had passed was different for the victims than it was for all the
objects around them. Finally, the degree of shock caused by seeing
the scene of the crime, even in people accustomed to dead bodies. And
why? Because of the Impact. Both Zig Zag's crimes and the images of
the past produce Impact. Marini and Ric suffered from it when they
saw the splits. All of that points to
one
of us
being
Zig Zag. That was what poor Reinhard realized."
"So
what you're saying is, one of us might
be
him
and
not even know it?"
"Elisa,
Jacqueline, you, or me," Blanes confirmed. "Or Ric. One of
the people on the island ten years ago. One of the survivors. Unless
it was Reinhard, it which case Zig Zag would now be dead. But I doubt
that."
Jacqueline
sat doubled over, elbows on her thighs, staring off into space as if
she weren't hearing a thing. But suddenly she blinked and spoke up.
"If
Ric's split wasn't that violent, then why is Zig Zag so savage?"
Blanes
looked at her grimly.
"That's
the key question. The only answer I can think of is the one Reinhard
came up with: one of us is not what he or she seems."
"What?"
"All
of our dreams ... all the things we don't want to do but are impulses
that take over..." Blanes was marking his words with emphatic
gestures. "Zig Zag is
always
influencing
us, even if we can't see him. He's in our subconscious; he makes us
think, dream, and do certain things. That had never happened before
with any of the other splits. Reinhard thought it had to come from a
sick mind, an abnormal mind. That thought horrified him. Because the
split was produced while the person was asleep, Zig Zag has taken on
incredible strength. You once used the word 'contamination,'
Jacqueline. Do you remember? That's a very apt way to describe it.
We're all contaminated by the unconscious of that sleeping mind."
"So
what you're saying is that one of us is
fooling
the
rest?" she asked incredulously.
"What
I'm saying is that we're talking about a very disturbed individual."