Skin in the Game, page 16
“And this is based on what?”
“Intuition. Blake is a slime ball.”
“I don’t think …”
Joe stopped walking.
“He didn’t deny Passage Finance is operating as an arms and exploration broker for large multinationals. You combine that with his private military outfit, Serbon, and there you have it, murder incorporated. How much moral deliberation do you think would go into killing Sam if your day job involves preying on the innocent with highly organized, lethal force?”
Sofi jerked her head back.
“Preying on the innocent?”
“Mercenaries kill innocent people. And they do it for treasure. The profits of war.”
“Selling guns to terrorists and perpetrators of crimes against humanity is one thing. But selling to legitimate countries, not banned by the United Nations? We live in a world that affirms and protects the right of nations to defend their borders.”
“Sofi, I never told you why I left the State Department, did I?”
“No.”
He motioned for them to lean up against the concrete wall between them and the river.
“We don’t live in a perfect world, I know that. And if I was to choose anywhere to live in the world it would be here where we all benefit from the long history of the struggle for human rights. I know that our governments do a lot to promote and protect those freedoms. But our civilized society is an island floating on a sea of brutality. Forces in society that—”
“Forces in society? Sounds like some kind of conspiracy theory.”
“No, it’s not a conspiracy theory. It’s confluence theory: systematic forces in society tending to one result. International capitalism is not about free markets. At best it’s government corporatism. There is the decor and rhetoric of capitalism, but the final arbiter is always political and military force.”
“The World Bank, the IMF—”
“Don’t even go there. When it comes to the arms industry and the international exploitation of natural resources, it’s clear we live in a world in which there is very little restraint on the part of our governments. I’m not making this up. You know that.”
“The press uncovers all sorts of—”
“The press is like any other business. The clients are advertisers, the asset is readership, distribution. The owners are large corporates. The agenda is dictated by those facts alone. Both our countries have a dark history of stopping at nothing to reap the rewards of colonial capitalism. Often covered up in propaganda efforts at home.”
“Come on, Joe. There is far more scrutiny over these activities today. As you say, the world’s not perfect, but it’s getting better, isn’t it?”
“I don’t think it is. As we scrutinize our governments ever more closely, they in turn move the game further out of reach. Governments today are engaged in delegating their most fundamental powers. We live in a world in which military force has been privatized. Result? A lack of real oversight in the application of force and the expansion of plausible deniability.”
“Our governments can’t condone what they don’t know. Is this why you left?”
“I learned about some things I regret ever having become involved with. Tactics I never thought my government would stoop to, for whatever reason.”
Sofi watched Joe flinch as he stared out at the rain.
“This is all very interesting. But how does any of this apply to Density? We don’t have any facts to support any of this.”
“Mandrake and Baexter aren’t working together by coincidence. The profit equation is unquestionable. The capital interests involved override any moral considerations.”
“There is nothing illegal in that.”
She turned to the river and put her hands on the ledge.
“I did do some digging around. I managed to get access to the FCO internal database. DIA is planning a consortium meeting in Dubai. Some key government officials from the UK and the US will attend. Also, the foreign minister of Uzbekistan is planning an official visit to London. All of this more or less coinciding with the launch of Passage.”
“So no proof, but the coincidences are certainly starting to stack up.”
Joe turned to Sofi, his eyes bloodshot.
“In my mind, there is no question what these guys are up to. The bigger problem is how to stop them.”
He gazed out across the river, toward the Tower of London. She lowered her voice.
“Seriously? That’s what you’re planning to do?”
He looked down at his hands, holding on to the ridge of the cement barrier.
“They killed my brother.”
“So, what is it that’s motivating you? Social justice or vengeance?”
“I don’t have to choose.”
“You may in the end, when push comes to shove.”
Joe turned to her. She could almost feel his heart pounding.
“When push comes to shove, I will do whatever is necessary to see that justice is done. Natural justice.”
Sofi stepped back and raised her arm on the ledge to balance herself. Joe turned away from her and stared out across the water, his hair drenched by the rain. She wiped the rain from her face. Joe was in another world. She stared out across to the City. The water level of the Thames was low. A tugboat streamed by, pulling a barge loaded with scrap metal. The surface of the river was a murky brown. The gate leading to the underground caverns of the Tower, Traitor’s Gate, was plainly in sight.
*
Sam Hawkins’ flat was the second and third floors of a large Victorian house just off Kensington Park Road in Notting Hill. Joe let himself in using the key he’d got with Sam’s personal effects. The interior was modern and bright, with high ceilings and large windows facing east and west. There were no signs of recent activity; the flat appeared as if it had been cleaned and tidied since Sam was last there. It was the first time he had been to Sam’s place. A large office space was set up in the middle of one of the main sitting rooms. Skis, golf clubs and other sports equipment decorated the corners of the room. The prominence of the well-stocked bar and bar stools spoke of a bachelor’s lifestyle. Only the photos of his daughter Tamara gave any clue that Sam had been a family man for a short time.
Joe turned to Sam’s desk. There was very little to see there: two computer screens and a keyboard, a phone and headset, a few writing pads and pens. He sat at the desk and noticed a picture of him and Sam as children, holding up a freshly-caught fish as their father stood behind them. He closed his eyes and heard Sam calling him as he had then, the early adolescent cracks in his voice. I’m driving the boat today; Dad said I could. He opened his eyes and pressed “Enter.” He was prompted for a password. He tried “lucy,” Sam’s ex-wife. Incorrect. Then he tried “tamara.” The computer opened its files.
He looked through the main directory. There were a few saved documents, but nothing stood out. He opened the address book and scanned the names in the list. The list was enormous. It was obvious Sam had a hectic social and professional life. Joe saw some names he had learned recently: Blake, Nelson, others at Density. He found Kristine Maarten’s name. He jotted down her address and contact details. He looked further down and noticed Sofi’s name. He fondled the mouse and then turned the computer off.
He looked through the desk drawers. In the top drawer he found a loose page with two columns. On the left were eight-digit numbers, on the right a list of names. Many were registered, numbered company names. But a few were individual names. He knew he had seen the numbers on the left before. They were the numbers on the gold trade activity reports Sam had sent to him. Client numbers.
He folded the page, slipped it into his jacket pocket, closed the laptop and carried it out with him as he left.
*
Kris Maarten lived in a small one-bedroom flat off High Street Kensington. Joe opened the gate to her garden flat and pushed the button on the intercom, introducing himself as Sam’s brother. She arrived at the door in a baggy sweater and jeans. She looked to be in her mid-twenties. Long brown hair and blue eyes. He explained how he had found her address and the investigation he was conducting with Sofi. He told her how he and Sam had not been on speaking terms for some time. She nodded as if she was already vaguely aware of all this.
“It’s strange meeting you. Sam mentioned you a few times. You’re definitely brothers.”
“We are—were different in many ways.”
Joe looked down.
“I’m still adjusting.”
“I can’t believe he’s gone. The whole thing is so distressing, of course, but the way the firm responded was just horrible.”
“Ms. Maarten …”
“Kris is OK.”
“Kris, I’m trying to find out what happened to my brother.”
“The police have been here. I answered all their questions.”
“I understand you had a close relationship with Sam.”
“We dated. That would seem to be public knowledge now.”
“You’ve left your position at Density.”
She tightened her grip on herself.
“There is something just not right about that place. I don’t have anything to compare it to. It was my first real job.”
“Did you leave of your own accord?”
“Formally, yes. Informally, they made it pretty clear there wasn’t much of a future there for me. Sam sheltered me from a lot of the stuff that goes on there.”
She shifted her weight from foot to foot.
“Sam …”
“My relationship with Sam just happened. We knew we were breaking the rules. You know they have actual rules about that at Density? Anyway, we knew, I knew, what was going on. We were drawn to each other. I knew all about Sam’s amorous escapades. He didn’t exactly hide that side of himself at work. I could say I was fooled, impressionable, but that would be a lie. Sam was exciting. And, well, physically, we were …”
“Is there anything you can tell me? Anything that might help me get a clearer picture of how Sam was before he was abducted.”
She gazed out at the street.
“I was with Sam the night before he disappeared. I slept over at his place. We had some dinner out at The Electric in Notting Hill. We went back to his afterwards. He wasn’t himself. He always gave the appearance of being in total control, even when he wasn’t. There was a part of him that was always two steps ahead of everyone else. But not that night. He was caught up in something. It was obvious. He didn’t share much with me. What he did say was that something terrible could happen if he didn’t try to stop it. He tossed and turned all that night.”
“Did you notice anything different in the work environment just before he disappeared? Any of his interactions with other people?”
“Sam always did his own thing at work. He didn’t wait for anyone. That pissed off a lot of people. Bertram …”
“Mercier?”
“Yes. A seriously nasty piece of work, always envious of Sam, because he could never be the star Sam was. He said something to me that I brushed off at the time, but … He was hitting on me all the time. I usually just ignored it. The day Sam disappeared, he said he would be meeting with me the next week to ‘discuss my responsibilities.’”
“What was so unusual about that?”
“Bertram is head of sales, so technically he’s everyone’s boss, everyone on the sales floor. But I was a junior on Sam’s team. He wouldn’t normally decide my day-to-day responsibilities.”
“Is there anything else that could help?”
“Not that I can think of. I miss him.”
CHAPTER VI
Kate positions the chairs in front of her desk so they are facing each other. She sits in front of Joe. She leans forward, her hands clasping her knees.
“The intrusive thoughts and feelings, the flashbacks, make it difficult for you to distinguish between what is real and what is not.”
Joe sits back, his hands resting on his thighs. He looks down at her.
“I don’t know if they’re flashbacks or dreams. I do know that they’re always painful.”
Joe’s face goes from white to flushed red. His eyes widen. Kate feels a warmth in her chest that tells her he is starting to open up. He looks at her with the innocence of a frightened child. She rests one of her hands on his knee.
“What we need to do is find a way to integrate your experiences back into what we call unitary consciousness. Do you understand?”
He nods.
“One way might be hypnosis. Have you ever tried it?
“No.”
“Flashbacks occur when we are in the same state of consciousness as in hypnosis. You experience the flashback as real. In fact, the same psychological processes are at work. You focus your attention on one experience or memory and suspend all peripheral awareness. The main difference is that hypnosis is a process that you can control. Self-hypnosis could help you to understand the unconscious processes that are causing you to forget. It may be a way to reintegrate your memory and identity.”
“I would have to trust you in order for it to work.”
“You can. I hope you know by now that you can trust me.”
Kate presses her hands into his, then releases them. She walks over to the wall and dims the lights. In a quiet voice, she speaks of flights of stairs leading down into darkness. She speaks of following a light down to a place where ideas and feelings are created and where they reside. Joe closes his eyes and gradually allows himself to relax into the words she is saying, slowly and softly.
“Just breathe. Watch the ideas as they appear in your mind. Let them surface and dissolve, but remain still. Stay inside and let go of your surroundings.”
He relaxes into his chair.
His breathing slows.
He remains still for a few minutes.
Then suddenly he tenses his face and grips the arms of the chair.
“No way out. Only death.”
From behind him, Kate whispers, “You are in control. Go only where you want to go.”
His head droops forward.
“Oh, God, no.”
“Joe, let the picture in your mind go. OK?”
“Shattered reflections. Hidden doors blocking the way. A dark palace in my heart.”
“I want you to think of something pleasant, anything that comes into your mind. Picture it and tell me what you see.”
Joe stills himself. Kate relaxes into the silence, expecting nothing. They sit motionless and wait as time slows down, and the electricity in the air is grounded.
“Outside the window of our hotel room, an enormous cathedral. Young couples are walking through the square, hand in hand, or with their arms wrapped tightly around each other. Autumn scents of cinnamon and apple. We walk through the gardens and past the fountains.”
“Where are you?”
“Mountains in the distance, the Arc de Triomphe.”
“Mountains?”
“No. It’s the arch of peace.”
“Arco della Pace? You’re in Milan?”
“We wander through the city. We sit in Piazza San Sepolcro.”
“Who are you with?”
“The birthplace of Italian fascism. A bundle of sticks. Fragile, but when united, strong. Family, clan, culture, kinship, spirit. Not the left or right, but something else. She asks me where I am from and I tell her I am from nowhere, of no country or people. No nets will hold me back. I will fly right past them. I am human, nothing more.”
“Joe, who are you with?”
“Long, dark hair like silk. Soft, delicate hands. She’s beautiful. She looks like you.”
“She looks like me?”
“But we are on the run. Behind every corner, every alley, a shadow awaits.”
Kate walks around and stands in front of Joe.
“What is her name?”
His eyes flicker.
“I know who she is. I know her name: Sofi. Her name is Sofi Watt.”
*
“Why are you in Milan with Sofi Watt?”
“He’s there, chasing us.”
“Who is chasing you?”
Joe shakes his head and squeezes his eyes tight shut.
“I don’t know who he is, but I know he has a gun.”
“What does he look like?”
“He is tall with a black beard. There is a scar on his face, and he has long silver hair pulled back …”
Kate’s feels her face drop.
“Did you say silver hair?”
“Very unusual.”
Kate leans back and looks up at the camera. She stares at the lens. There is a lump in her throat that won’t go away. The man in Krug’s office. It’s too much of a coincidence. She looks away from the camera.
“Please continue, Joe.”
He opens his eyes and stares at her.
“They killed my brother.”
He presses his thumbs together.
“It must be true then.”
“What must be true?”
“I am a terrorist. I have hate in my heart.”
“Who killed your brother?”
“I couldn’t save him. I couldn’t stop them.”
A rap at the door signals their time is over. Kate stands and straightens out her blouse and skirt. She approaches the orderly as he cuffs Hawkins and notices a second orderly. She turns to the first orderly.
“Why are we back to two again?”
“Krug’s orders. One orderly is to remain with you at all times. For your own protection.”
She feels a chill spread through her from her chest to her stomach.
“For my protection?”
He nods as the first orderly leaves with Hawkins. She takes a deep breath. As the second orderly is closing the door, she approaches.
“I work long hours. When do you change shifts?”
“Seven and seven, Doctor.”
When he leaves, Kate falls into the chair in the corner, just outside the range of the camera, and faces away from it, toward her desk. She closes her eyes. Fear fills her head. She opens her eyes and looks around the room. Trapped. There is no going back. Her head is spinning, as if she might pass out. She raises her hands over her eyes and slides them down to her nose and mouth and stares into space. Why did Krug ever involve me in this case? Her eyes dart back and forth. Then they stop, and gradually her focus returns. She grits her teeth and clenches her fists.
“Intuition. Blake is a slime ball.”
“I don’t think …”
Joe stopped walking.
“He didn’t deny Passage Finance is operating as an arms and exploration broker for large multinationals. You combine that with his private military outfit, Serbon, and there you have it, murder incorporated. How much moral deliberation do you think would go into killing Sam if your day job involves preying on the innocent with highly organized, lethal force?”
Sofi jerked her head back.
“Preying on the innocent?”
“Mercenaries kill innocent people. And they do it for treasure. The profits of war.”
“Selling guns to terrorists and perpetrators of crimes against humanity is one thing. But selling to legitimate countries, not banned by the United Nations? We live in a world that affirms and protects the right of nations to defend their borders.”
“Sofi, I never told you why I left the State Department, did I?”
“No.”
He motioned for them to lean up against the concrete wall between them and the river.
“We don’t live in a perfect world, I know that. And if I was to choose anywhere to live in the world it would be here where we all benefit from the long history of the struggle for human rights. I know that our governments do a lot to promote and protect those freedoms. But our civilized society is an island floating on a sea of brutality. Forces in society that—”
“Forces in society? Sounds like some kind of conspiracy theory.”
“No, it’s not a conspiracy theory. It’s confluence theory: systematic forces in society tending to one result. International capitalism is not about free markets. At best it’s government corporatism. There is the decor and rhetoric of capitalism, but the final arbiter is always political and military force.”
“The World Bank, the IMF—”
“Don’t even go there. When it comes to the arms industry and the international exploitation of natural resources, it’s clear we live in a world in which there is very little restraint on the part of our governments. I’m not making this up. You know that.”
“The press uncovers all sorts of—”
“The press is like any other business. The clients are advertisers, the asset is readership, distribution. The owners are large corporates. The agenda is dictated by those facts alone. Both our countries have a dark history of stopping at nothing to reap the rewards of colonial capitalism. Often covered up in propaganda efforts at home.”
“Come on, Joe. There is far more scrutiny over these activities today. As you say, the world’s not perfect, but it’s getting better, isn’t it?”
“I don’t think it is. As we scrutinize our governments ever more closely, they in turn move the game further out of reach. Governments today are engaged in delegating their most fundamental powers. We live in a world in which military force has been privatized. Result? A lack of real oversight in the application of force and the expansion of plausible deniability.”
“Our governments can’t condone what they don’t know. Is this why you left?”
“I learned about some things I regret ever having become involved with. Tactics I never thought my government would stoop to, for whatever reason.”
Sofi watched Joe flinch as he stared out at the rain.
“This is all very interesting. But how does any of this apply to Density? We don’t have any facts to support any of this.”
“Mandrake and Baexter aren’t working together by coincidence. The profit equation is unquestionable. The capital interests involved override any moral considerations.”
“There is nothing illegal in that.”
She turned to the river and put her hands on the ledge.
“I did do some digging around. I managed to get access to the FCO internal database. DIA is planning a consortium meeting in Dubai. Some key government officials from the UK and the US will attend. Also, the foreign minister of Uzbekistan is planning an official visit to London. All of this more or less coinciding with the launch of Passage.”
“So no proof, but the coincidences are certainly starting to stack up.”
Joe turned to Sofi, his eyes bloodshot.
“In my mind, there is no question what these guys are up to. The bigger problem is how to stop them.”
He gazed out across the river, toward the Tower of London. She lowered her voice.
“Seriously? That’s what you’re planning to do?”
He looked down at his hands, holding on to the ridge of the cement barrier.
“They killed my brother.”
“So, what is it that’s motivating you? Social justice or vengeance?”
“I don’t have to choose.”
“You may in the end, when push comes to shove.”
Joe turned to her. She could almost feel his heart pounding.
“When push comes to shove, I will do whatever is necessary to see that justice is done. Natural justice.”
Sofi stepped back and raised her arm on the ledge to balance herself. Joe turned away from her and stared out across the water, his hair drenched by the rain. She wiped the rain from her face. Joe was in another world. She stared out across to the City. The water level of the Thames was low. A tugboat streamed by, pulling a barge loaded with scrap metal. The surface of the river was a murky brown. The gate leading to the underground caverns of the Tower, Traitor’s Gate, was plainly in sight.
*
Sam Hawkins’ flat was the second and third floors of a large Victorian house just off Kensington Park Road in Notting Hill. Joe let himself in using the key he’d got with Sam’s personal effects. The interior was modern and bright, with high ceilings and large windows facing east and west. There were no signs of recent activity; the flat appeared as if it had been cleaned and tidied since Sam was last there. It was the first time he had been to Sam’s place. A large office space was set up in the middle of one of the main sitting rooms. Skis, golf clubs and other sports equipment decorated the corners of the room. The prominence of the well-stocked bar and bar stools spoke of a bachelor’s lifestyle. Only the photos of his daughter Tamara gave any clue that Sam had been a family man for a short time.
Joe turned to Sam’s desk. There was very little to see there: two computer screens and a keyboard, a phone and headset, a few writing pads and pens. He sat at the desk and noticed a picture of him and Sam as children, holding up a freshly-caught fish as their father stood behind them. He closed his eyes and heard Sam calling him as he had then, the early adolescent cracks in his voice. I’m driving the boat today; Dad said I could. He opened his eyes and pressed “Enter.” He was prompted for a password. He tried “lucy,” Sam’s ex-wife. Incorrect. Then he tried “tamara.” The computer opened its files.
He looked through the main directory. There were a few saved documents, but nothing stood out. He opened the address book and scanned the names in the list. The list was enormous. It was obvious Sam had a hectic social and professional life. Joe saw some names he had learned recently: Blake, Nelson, others at Density. He found Kristine Maarten’s name. He jotted down her address and contact details. He looked further down and noticed Sofi’s name. He fondled the mouse and then turned the computer off.
He looked through the desk drawers. In the top drawer he found a loose page with two columns. On the left were eight-digit numbers, on the right a list of names. Many were registered, numbered company names. But a few were individual names. He knew he had seen the numbers on the left before. They were the numbers on the gold trade activity reports Sam had sent to him. Client numbers.
He folded the page, slipped it into his jacket pocket, closed the laptop and carried it out with him as he left.
*
Kris Maarten lived in a small one-bedroom flat off High Street Kensington. Joe opened the gate to her garden flat and pushed the button on the intercom, introducing himself as Sam’s brother. She arrived at the door in a baggy sweater and jeans. She looked to be in her mid-twenties. Long brown hair and blue eyes. He explained how he had found her address and the investigation he was conducting with Sofi. He told her how he and Sam had not been on speaking terms for some time. She nodded as if she was already vaguely aware of all this.
“It’s strange meeting you. Sam mentioned you a few times. You’re definitely brothers.”
“We are—were different in many ways.”
Joe looked down.
“I’m still adjusting.”
“I can’t believe he’s gone. The whole thing is so distressing, of course, but the way the firm responded was just horrible.”
“Ms. Maarten …”
“Kris is OK.”
“Kris, I’m trying to find out what happened to my brother.”
“The police have been here. I answered all their questions.”
“I understand you had a close relationship with Sam.”
“We dated. That would seem to be public knowledge now.”
“You’ve left your position at Density.”
She tightened her grip on herself.
“There is something just not right about that place. I don’t have anything to compare it to. It was my first real job.”
“Did you leave of your own accord?”
“Formally, yes. Informally, they made it pretty clear there wasn’t much of a future there for me. Sam sheltered me from a lot of the stuff that goes on there.”
She shifted her weight from foot to foot.
“Sam …”
“My relationship with Sam just happened. We knew we were breaking the rules. You know they have actual rules about that at Density? Anyway, we knew, I knew, what was going on. We were drawn to each other. I knew all about Sam’s amorous escapades. He didn’t exactly hide that side of himself at work. I could say I was fooled, impressionable, but that would be a lie. Sam was exciting. And, well, physically, we were …”
“Is there anything you can tell me? Anything that might help me get a clearer picture of how Sam was before he was abducted.”
She gazed out at the street.
“I was with Sam the night before he disappeared. I slept over at his place. We had some dinner out at The Electric in Notting Hill. We went back to his afterwards. He wasn’t himself. He always gave the appearance of being in total control, even when he wasn’t. There was a part of him that was always two steps ahead of everyone else. But not that night. He was caught up in something. It was obvious. He didn’t share much with me. What he did say was that something terrible could happen if he didn’t try to stop it. He tossed and turned all that night.”
“Did you notice anything different in the work environment just before he disappeared? Any of his interactions with other people?”
“Sam always did his own thing at work. He didn’t wait for anyone. That pissed off a lot of people. Bertram …”
“Mercier?”
“Yes. A seriously nasty piece of work, always envious of Sam, because he could never be the star Sam was. He said something to me that I brushed off at the time, but … He was hitting on me all the time. I usually just ignored it. The day Sam disappeared, he said he would be meeting with me the next week to ‘discuss my responsibilities.’”
“What was so unusual about that?”
“Bertram is head of sales, so technically he’s everyone’s boss, everyone on the sales floor. But I was a junior on Sam’s team. He wouldn’t normally decide my day-to-day responsibilities.”
“Is there anything else that could help?”
“Not that I can think of. I miss him.”
CHAPTER VI
Kate positions the chairs in front of her desk so they are facing each other. She sits in front of Joe. She leans forward, her hands clasping her knees.
“The intrusive thoughts and feelings, the flashbacks, make it difficult for you to distinguish between what is real and what is not.”
Joe sits back, his hands resting on his thighs. He looks down at her.
“I don’t know if they’re flashbacks or dreams. I do know that they’re always painful.”
Joe’s face goes from white to flushed red. His eyes widen. Kate feels a warmth in her chest that tells her he is starting to open up. He looks at her with the innocence of a frightened child. She rests one of her hands on his knee.
“What we need to do is find a way to integrate your experiences back into what we call unitary consciousness. Do you understand?”
He nods.
“One way might be hypnosis. Have you ever tried it?
“No.”
“Flashbacks occur when we are in the same state of consciousness as in hypnosis. You experience the flashback as real. In fact, the same psychological processes are at work. You focus your attention on one experience or memory and suspend all peripheral awareness. The main difference is that hypnosis is a process that you can control. Self-hypnosis could help you to understand the unconscious processes that are causing you to forget. It may be a way to reintegrate your memory and identity.”
“I would have to trust you in order for it to work.”
“You can. I hope you know by now that you can trust me.”
Kate presses her hands into his, then releases them. She walks over to the wall and dims the lights. In a quiet voice, she speaks of flights of stairs leading down into darkness. She speaks of following a light down to a place where ideas and feelings are created and where they reside. Joe closes his eyes and gradually allows himself to relax into the words she is saying, slowly and softly.
“Just breathe. Watch the ideas as they appear in your mind. Let them surface and dissolve, but remain still. Stay inside and let go of your surroundings.”
He relaxes into his chair.
His breathing slows.
He remains still for a few minutes.
Then suddenly he tenses his face and grips the arms of the chair.
“No way out. Only death.”
From behind him, Kate whispers, “You are in control. Go only where you want to go.”
His head droops forward.
“Oh, God, no.”
“Joe, let the picture in your mind go. OK?”
“Shattered reflections. Hidden doors blocking the way. A dark palace in my heart.”
“I want you to think of something pleasant, anything that comes into your mind. Picture it and tell me what you see.”
Joe stills himself. Kate relaxes into the silence, expecting nothing. They sit motionless and wait as time slows down, and the electricity in the air is grounded.
“Outside the window of our hotel room, an enormous cathedral. Young couples are walking through the square, hand in hand, or with their arms wrapped tightly around each other. Autumn scents of cinnamon and apple. We walk through the gardens and past the fountains.”
“Where are you?”
“Mountains in the distance, the Arc de Triomphe.”
“Mountains?”
“No. It’s the arch of peace.”
“Arco della Pace? You’re in Milan?”
“We wander through the city. We sit in Piazza San Sepolcro.”
“Who are you with?”
“The birthplace of Italian fascism. A bundle of sticks. Fragile, but when united, strong. Family, clan, culture, kinship, spirit. Not the left or right, but something else. She asks me where I am from and I tell her I am from nowhere, of no country or people. No nets will hold me back. I will fly right past them. I am human, nothing more.”
“Joe, who are you with?”
“Long, dark hair like silk. Soft, delicate hands. She’s beautiful. She looks like you.”
“She looks like me?”
“But we are on the run. Behind every corner, every alley, a shadow awaits.”
Kate walks around and stands in front of Joe.
“What is her name?”
His eyes flicker.
“I know who she is. I know her name: Sofi. Her name is Sofi Watt.”
*
“Why are you in Milan with Sofi Watt?”
“He’s there, chasing us.”
“Who is chasing you?”
Joe shakes his head and squeezes his eyes tight shut.
“I don’t know who he is, but I know he has a gun.”
“What does he look like?”
“He is tall with a black beard. There is a scar on his face, and he has long silver hair pulled back …”
Kate’s feels her face drop.
“Did you say silver hair?”
“Very unusual.”
Kate leans back and looks up at the camera. She stares at the lens. There is a lump in her throat that won’t go away. The man in Krug’s office. It’s too much of a coincidence. She looks away from the camera.
“Please continue, Joe.”
He opens his eyes and stares at her.
“They killed my brother.”
He presses his thumbs together.
“It must be true then.”
“What must be true?”
“I am a terrorist. I have hate in my heart.”
“Who killed your brother?”
“I couldn’t save him. I couldn’t stop them.”
A rap at the door signals their time is over. Kate stands and straightens out her blouse and skirt. She approaches the orderly as he cuffs Hawkins and notices a second orderly. She turns to the first orderly.
“Why are we back to two again?”
“Krug’s orders. One orderly is to remain with you at all times. For your own protection.”
She feels a chill spread through her from her chest to her stomach.
“For my protection?”
He nods as the first orderly leaves with Hawkins. She takes a deep breath. As the second orderly is closing the door, she approaches.
“I work long hours. When do you change shifts?”
“Seven and seven, Doctor.”
When he leaves, Kate falls into the chair in the corner, just outside the range of the camera, and faces away from it, toward her desk. She closes her eyes. Fear fills her head. She opens her eyes and looks around the room. Trapped. There is no going back. Her head is spinning, as if she might pass out. She raises her hands over her eyes and slides them down to her nose and mouth and stares into space. Why did Krug ever involve me in this case? Her eyes dart back and forth. Then they stop, and gradually her focus returns. She grits her teeth and clenches her fists.
