Futura: Parallel Universes. Book 1 Page 9

  “I don’t know what happened. I was out looking for a book for Richard, a book about Koontz’s curves. I’d been at the library. When I got back, they were all dead. Borman, Porter, everybody. Firearms. Murdered.”

  The blond man will quickly check images of section twelve members.

  “Who’s Richard? There isn’t a Richard in your sled.”

  “Richard Proctor. He works in another section, he’s a sociologist. A methodologist in social research. We were supposed to see each other today.” He would like to open the revolving door, the room seeming too narrow. “But he had a cold.”

  “Any injury?”

  “Who, Richard? I don’t think so, no. I don’t know.”

  “No, you.”

  “Who, me?” Whiley will loosen the edge of the white sweater’s collar.

  It’s fucking hot in here.

  “No, not me. I wasn’t there. I explained it to you, but do you listen to me? I was in the library. When I came back they were all dead! Ah, and so was Mrs. Nielson.” The man will drop his jacket on the table. “Mrs. Nielson was in the revolving chair.”

  “When did it happen?”

  “What?... I don’t know exactly. About an hour ago. No, half an hour ago.”

  “An hour or half an hour?”

  The man in the cabin will look confused, placing three fingers of his left hand on his forehead, pressing with his nails.

  “Half an hour. Maybe a little more. I think so.”

  “Did someone call? Have the police been alerted?”

  “Anyone? No. Not that I know of. I mean, I didn’t call anyone.”

  “Well. Let’s do it. Stay away and don’t go back to your workplace for any reason. Don’t call anyone.”

  The room will look narrower to him.

  “Will you do it? I want to know what I need to do. Do I have to go there? Or where should I go?”

  Palmer will observe the girl; a hard face, an imposing nose among thick dark eyebrows under a large mass of brush-cut hair, dyed an unlikely orange.

  “To yours,” the woman in the evening dress will say with a polite smile, peering at her mysterious host.

  “You’ve made an international name for the exquisiteness of your catering proposal, for your elegance and attention to detail.”

  The girl will bring the sake to her big full lips and swallow it in an instant, then clumsily lay the glass on the table.

  “But it is the functionality that interests me most about his proposal. Its efficiency. Its effectiveness.” The man will continue sipping his sake.

  The woman will barely taste the drink, looking with interest at her host.

  “Functionality is always very important. Look at this aquarium, Mrs. Nishizawa,” the man will comment, gazing at the fish with yellow and blue stripes on the white belly, floating along the edge of the larger shell. “Apparently it isn’t important, but no one could say that it has no purpose in this room. Just like that silent sliding door, from which the dishes arrive discreetly and in the exact order, neither too soon nor too late.”

  The woman will put the sake on the table, without finishing it.

  “Moreover, those who have a certain way of producing things, those who have made a name for themselves in a field, in whatever sector they put themselves in, will continue to bring us their precision, their meticulousness, their class,” the European will continue, putting down the cup and slowly moving it to touch that of the woman in front of him.

  The tropical fish will disappear again in the large white shell.

  “What exactly did you come to do, Mr. Palmer?” The woman will sound guarded and suspicious, a smile stretching her perfect lips. “What kind of things are you really interested in, apart from Okinawan cuisine?”

  The girl by her side will sit very close and motionless, noticing every little movement of the man in front of her.

  A muscular colleague with short black hair will have entered the blond man’s room. He will look at the blond man listening to the breathy voice, without entering the field of view of the recording.

  “Stay calm. Normal recovery procedure. We need to check the information.”

  Check?

  His heart will start beating faster again.

  What is there to check?

  “Who am I talking to?”

  “I’m sending you a sequence to call me directly. Did you get it?”

  Whiley will watch the series of letters and numbers on the video.

  “Yes.”

  “Save this in the temporary memory of your communicator. Call exactly in...” The blond man will look at the man standing in front of him. The man will show him ten fingers. “Ten minutes.”

  “Who am I talking to?” Whiley will ask again.

  The holographic space in front of him will turn off with a dull hum, leaving the cabin in the dim light, just brightened by the side light points. He will stand staring at the black coffee in the cup, listening to his own heartbeat rise to his throat.

  The coffee will be cold, like the sweat on his hands.

  “But perhaps the young lady still wants some sake, how rude I am,” Palmer will say, grabbing the bottle and uncorking it again to pour some more liquid into the girl’s cup, smiling at her.

  “Miss isn’t much of a talker, isn’t she?”

  “Chiyeko has drunk enough.” The woman’s bright red colored nails will firmly touch the hand of the man who is pouring the liquor. “As for her eloquence, she is deaf-mute from birth.”

  The man will pull back his hand, visibly embarrassed.

  “I’m terribly sorry, I had no idea...”

  “Oh, don’t worry. Chiyeko suffered much more, at least until five years ago, when I took her into my custody.” The woman will smile, withdrawing her hand in turn. “The men who had taken her with them were not what you’d call an example of kindness, especially with girls. Maybe that’s why Chiyeko has a particular sensitivity to understand when a man is lying, as you are doing so far, sir.”

  Palmer will wink and put the bottle down.

  “And now, my dear,” the woman will say with a smile, “my time is up. So I’m going to ask you one last time to come to the point. What did you come looking for in this place?”

  The man will sigh, resting the palms of his hands on his knees.

  “To see if I could find something that the best sharpshooters in the world still consider a legend. The hand-made sniper rifles of the greatest manufacturer of modern times. You’ve taken great care of your confidentiality since the wars in Africa. It wasn’t easy to find you, Saki.”

  The woman will seem unperturbed with her enigmatic smile.

  “And how did you do it?”

  “Oh, I asked around a little. Those who buy good stuff know where to find it.”

  “I believe that at this point, you, Chiyeko, and I can go and continue this conversation in a more secluded place, Mr. Palmer. Will you follow us?” the woman will ask, getting up and turning around with a nod to the girl, who will open the sliding door.

  Wednesday, 11:33 a.m.

  The agency’s offices in the Chicago skyscraper will be arranged like cells in a hive, open and with transparent glass, and can be closed by sliding doors. On the second floor from the top, the electricity will be felt on the skin as if it had been crossed by electric current. The blond man will step up, opening two more side screens at the desk.

  “Let’s call him, Daft. Our section twelve has been attacked. We have a stray dog.”

  The muscular man will look at him astonished.

  “The twelfth? But aren’t those library mice?” He will raise his arms. “What the hell can you find in there that’s so important? It’s not even classified as sensitive in counterterrorism plans.”

  “That’s right.” He will watch the blond man opening a communication. “This is not normal.”

  The hologram of a brown-haired man in his fifties will appear in front of the desk.

  “Sir, it’s me. We have a problem.”


  Whiley will save the sequence on a temporary memory and exit the cabin, leaving his jacket hanging on the chair to avoid losing his seat. The sequence to call on the protected line will be activated automatically in about nine minutes. He will walk nervously around the place. Four people will stand at the bar chatting cheerfully, while an elderly woman will be sitting at a small table drinking tea. A young black man will speak, certainly playing with a friend in a three-dimensional game, in a very loud voice in the soundproofed cabin next to his.

  “A black coffee. With cream,” he will tell the bartender, thinking about what to do.

  “John L. Whiley.” The blond man will show Whiley’s hologram to the new arrival, the dark-haired man, sitting in the chair. “White, thirty-seven years old, graduated with full marks in public economy.”

  The music will barely cover the customers’ voices. A group of young Westerners will be toasting loudly for a boy’s birthday, drinking local beer. The music will have been raised to cover the cacophony of tourists.

  “I can’t ask for better,” the man will conclude, with a fleeting look at the bare back, partially covered in the evening gown that precedes him. He will follow the black-clad Japanese woman, swaying in a tight evening dress, who will gracefully walk inside after stopping to say something in a waitress’s ear. The elegantly dressed European, sticking his hands in his pocket and starting behind her in the hallway, will force himself not to look insistently at her behind.

  The girl in the athletic shoes will close the sliding door and walk silently behind them.

  “A PhD in econometrics. Researcher at Medoc,” the blond man will say. “He is the one who reported the attack on section twelve.”

  The dark-haired man will have decidedly abrupt ways, evidently to emphasize his role as boss.

  “Send a team to check right away. Report immediately,” he will brusquely order the muscular man standing in the middle of the room, who then will run out.

  “Give me the details,” he will then tell the blond man.

  “The parents both died in an accident ten years ago. He doesn’t appear to have close relatives. Heterosexual. No fixed relationship. After his doctorate, he did four years of research at the university. There, he was contacted by us and recruited to the agency. No disciplinary notes. No character notes. A complete stranger.” The blond man will maneuver the stock images, moving his hands in the virtual screen in front of the desk, extracting images and texts seemingly out of nowhere.

  “I don’t like it. Investigate his private life. Who recruited him for us?”

  The blond man will move several files into holographic space before finding a card from a few years earlier.

  “Borman. Professor Borman recruited him four years ago.”

  “Current assignment?”

  “Access examiner.”

  The man will reflect before speaking.

  “And he says there may be another witness?”

  “Not a witness. Someone who was supposed to attend a meeting. It’s not clear. He was very confused.”

  “Let me see the recording.”

  The blond man will open the file on the right side of the screen, transmitting the recording of the interview that took place. The images of the cabin will not be optimal, the light will be too soft, and there will be shadows, but the audio will be good. Two minutes and fifty seconds later, the dark-haired man will stand, opening the door.

  “Call Goedhart. Pass the call to my private line,” he will bark at the blond man, before slamming the door behind him.

  226 days earlier

  The village of Onna Son in Okinawa will have become a highly developed tourist center. The elegant Japanese woman and young European will come out of the sushi bar and enter the street. The Japanese woman in evening dress will lead, while the girl will follow the two a few steps behind. They will leave the hotel, entering a very busy street. On the ground, electric vehicles will flow between the people on the sidewalks, crossed by tourists and foreigners. Traditional Japanese music will be spread by the loudspeakers of the shopping street, full of shops and lights. A McDonald’s sign will point to a restaurant eighty meters away, above signs in local writing. They will cross a street full of wine and liquor stores, Coca Cola distributors, bookstores, and shops of typical products.

  The Japanese woman won’t say a word, moving sinuously on her elegant evening sandals, and a couple of young men leaning against the wall will look at her with evident interest. Palmer will walk behind her, occasionally looking at the girl who follows them like a shadow. They will pass by a series of white skyscrapers, entirely covered with lights, the modern structures contrasting starkly with other older buildings with more traditional architecture. In the sky, an airborne bus will pass loudly, surely heading to the airport. The streets will be full of lights and music.

  The elegant woman will turn left, entering a gallery entirely covered with a gray arch and large lamps exuding a phosphorescent pink light. The noise will be almost deafening, and the European will find it hard to understand even the Japanese translator integrated into his personal display. He will suddenly hear the sound of a guitar, then Western music, almost struggling to keep up with the Japanese woman in front of him, who will look perfectly comfortable in her high-heeled gold sandals. The man will turn around once again to verify that the Japanese girl is still following them, her very serious face contrasting with her young age.

  They will pass by premises selling all kinds of drinks and food, then go out again on another busy street.

  “Goedhart,” the well-dressed corpulent man will respond, answering his communicator from his comfortable armchair at the Allerton Hotel.

  “It’s me. I’m calling from a clean line,” the brown-haired man will say. “It seems that the cleaning is not complete.”

  The well-dressed man will squint as if to better focus the projected image, which he will narrow with his fingers in the air in front of him, rotating it so that it is hidden from prying glances.

  “I know. The cleaning lady told me,” he will comment in a flat tone.

  The brown-haired man won’t say anything for about ten seconds.

  “How? When did you see her?”

  “Just now. She came to talk to me. Looks like a hound ran away from the sled, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes. I’ll be talking to him in two minutes. He wants to come back,” the brown-haired man will say. “Anyway, the cleaning lady had no authorization to contact you directly without notifying me.”

  “Evidently, she thought it was not irrelevant to report to me that we were such assholes that we didn’t know that another dog was to attend the meeting.” The man will nervously comb his gray hair with his hand. “Holy Christ, Daft, what the fuck is going on? Who the fuck is this other one, and what does he have to do with the sled?”

  The dark-haired man will barely raise an eyebrow. “There is no need to shit in our pants. I’m going to talk to him in a minute, and I’m keeping him under control. He wants to come back, I’ll take care of it. Where’s the cleaning lady now?”

  The older man will lower his voice.

  “I sent her to do what she knows best, her job. To clean.” He will put the napkin on the table next to his coffee cup, standing up. “I’ll take a flying taxi and arrive in about twenty minutes. Meanwhile, you take care of Hound twelve-six.”

  “Don’t worry. He doesn’t know anything. I mean, he doesn’t know he knows,” the dark-haired man will say.

  “Perhaps you haven’t fully understood the seriousness of the situation,” the well-dressed man will respond, putting on his coat. “If the hound returns, and, regardless of what he knows or doesn’t know, if he opens his mouth, the whole program is fucked up.”

  Palmer will doubt that he can find his way back to the hotel, although his trained eye will be accustomed to a certain sense of orientation. The woman in the evening gown will turn left again in another gallery, dominated by yellow Japanese writing, amid a multitude of sounds and c
olors of intermittent lights. In the sky, a line of flying taxis will pass with their characteristic yellow position lights. A voice will call someone over the speaker, broadcasting an announcement that the translator will explain is a promotion of local products, items of clothing at a discount. At the end of the gallery, the woman will enter a store surmounted by two huge lit torches emitting high flames in the night. Palmer will follow her, entering the club. Two gigantic Japanese men will be at the entrance with their arms folded, watching a dozen tourists chat and ask about the island’s traditional weapons hanging on the shelves. A middle-aged salesman will politely explain to them the quality and prices of some pieces on display. The deafening street noises will be dampened inside the shop. The two Japanese and the salesman will bow deeply at the entrance of the elegant woman in the black dress. At the end of the hall, other tourists will watch a demonstration between two martial arts masters dressed in white kimonos.

  “Are you interested in the Kobudo, Mr. Palmer?” the woman will ask.

  “, I can’t call myself a fan.”

  The woman will climb a wooden staircase leading upstairs. From a wooden balustrade, the three will observe the performance on the square below, half covered with padding. The two masters will brandish weapons, the first maneuvering a strange weapon consisting of three sticks tied together by a chain, the other tinkering with two sickles with wooden handles and a hooked beak with a sharp blade. The public will follow the demonstration with interest, evidently performed with the aim of promoting the sale of weapons on the shelves.

  “Do you know what those weapons are, Mr. Palmer?” the woman will ask pointing to the fighters.

  “Well, one is a master in Kama Jutsu,” the European will reply, “while the other seems to be an expert in the difficult art of maneuvering the Sansetsukon.”