Zig Zag (25 page)

He
stopped speaking when he stopped walking. He'd reached Elisa, and his
blue eyes bore into her like needles. After a short pause, he added,
"If you accept, sign. If not, you'll return to Spain and that's
that. Any more questions?"

"Yes.
Several. Have you been keeping tabs on me?"

"Of
course," he replied disinterestedly, as if it were the most
mundane thing imaginable. "We've spied on you, we've tracked
your movements, we've given you a questionnaire, and delved into your
private life ... just like all the other candidates. It's all legal;
these practices are upheld by international conventions. This is
utterly routine. When you apply for a job, any job, you send your
resume, answer questions, have an interview. And none of that seems
improper to you, does it? Well, this is what happens when you apply
for a job that's been deemed classified matter. Anything else?"

Elisa
stopped to think for a moment. Her mind flashed with images of Javier
Maldonado and the sound of his voice.
"Good
journalism is the product of accurate information, patiently
compiled." Fucker.
But
in a second she calmed down.
OK,
he was just doing his job. And now it's my turn to do mine.

"Can
you at least tell me if I'll be staying in Zurich?"

"No,
you won't. As soon as you sign, you'll be taken someplace else. Have
you read the section titled 'Isolation and Security Filters'?"

"Second
page of the blue set," Cassimir piped up, speaking for the first
time since Harrison and Carter entered the room.

"You'll
be working in complete isolation," Harrison said. "All of
your telephone calls, e-mails, all of your contact with the outside
world, will have to go through a security filter. As far as the rest
of the world knows, including your friends and family, you'll still
be in Zurich. Any unforeseen event that might arise due to this
arrangement will be our responsibility. You won't have to worry about
anyone trying to visit you unannounced and finding that you're not
here; we'll take care of all of that."

"Who's
'we'?"

For
the first time, he smiled.

"Mr.
Carter and I. Our mission is to ensure that all you have to think
about are equations." He looked at his watch. "Question
time's over. Are you going to sign, or would you prefer to get on the
next flight back to Madrid?"

Elisa
stared at the papers on the table.

She
was scared. At first she thought her fear was normal, that anyone in
her position would feel the same, but then she realized that her fear
contained something more, as if a voice inside her were shouting,
Don't
do it! Don't sign. Leave. Go home.

"Can
I read through this more carefully and have a glass of water?"

MYSTERIOUS
experiences
are often unforgettable, but sometimes, paradoxically, what we
remember most about them are the inane, jumbled details. Anxiety and
agitation etch certain things in our mind, but those things are
rarely the most accurate details used to describe what's happening
objectively.

From
that first trip, so nervous she was almost sick, Elisa stored up a
whole host of trivial scenes. For example, she recalled the argument
that Carter, the stocky one (who was the one who accompanied her; she
didn't see Harrison again for a long time), had with one of his
subordinates as they boarded the little ten-seater plane at Zurich
airport that afternoon. It revolved around whether "Abdul was at
his post" or whether "Abdul left" (she never found out
who Abdul was). And there were Carter's big, hairy, veiny hands as he
sat across the aisle from her leafing through a file he'd taken from
his briefcase. And the smell of flowers and diesel (if there could be
such a mix) at the airport where they landed (which they told her
belonged to Yemen). And the exhilarating moment when Carter had to
show her how to put on a life jacket and helmet when they boarded the
helicopter awaiting them on an out-of-the-way runway. "Don't
worry, this is standard procedure for longer trips on military
helicopters." And Carter's crew cut and sparse beard, speckled
with gray. And his gruff manner, especially when he gave orders over
the phone. And how hot it was with the helmet on.

Each
and every one of these insignificant details were what made up her
experience of the shortest day and longest night (they were traveling
east) of her life. This was all she had to cling to over the years,
when she tried to reconstruct the five-hour plane and helicopter
journey.

But
of all the memories that time's acid slowly dissolved, there was one
that remained indelible, crisp and vivid, and she thought about it
every time she recalled the trip.

It
was what she saw written on the file folder that Carter had pulled
out of his briefcase.

More
than anything else, that was a visual for her; it summed up that day.
And the events that followed would never, ever let her forget it.

"Zig
Zag."

13

"IMAGINE
wanting
to understand all that I saw." That strange sentence was
written, in English, below a drawing of a man gazing at two circles
of light in the sky. She was searching for some clothes to put on
when she noticed the sticker on the headboard of her bed, which she
hadn't seen until just then. That was when it happened.

It
wasn't a rational thought but more of a physical sensation, a sort of
heat at her temples. She was naked, which made her panic even more.
She turned around and looked at the door.

And
that's when she saw the eyes.

IT
wasn't
that she hadn't been expecting it. She'd been warned about that
possible eventuality. She wasn't exactly going to have her beloved
privacy there on New Nelson, Mrs. Ross had told her the night before,
when she came out to greet her on the sandy ground where the
helicopter had landed (or maybe it was that same night, she couldn't
keep time straight). Mrs. Ross had been very nice, affectionate even.
Her smile, as she stood waiting by the helicopter, was so wide it
almost spread to her clover-shaped earrings. She held out both her
hands. "Welcome to New Nelson!" she exclaimed in
enthusiastic English, once they were far enough away from the
deafening roar of the chopper's blades. It was as if this were all a
giant celebration and Mrs. Ross were in charge of seeing to the
guests and organizing the party games.

But
it was no party. It was a very dark, steamy place, an incredibly
dark, steamy place, with reflectors lighting up a barbed-wire fence.
A sea breeze like none she'd ever felt blew through her hair, and,
despite her earplugs, she could make out strange sounds.

"We're
about a hundred and fifty kilometers north of the Chagos Archipelago
and three hundred kilometers south of the Maldives, smack in the
middle of the Indian Ocean," Mrs. Ross continued, striding
through the sand. "This island was discovered by a Portuguese
man named La Gloria, but when it became a British colony they changed
the name to New Nelson. It used to be part of the BIOT—that's
the British Indian Ocean Territory—but since 1992 the island
has formed part of the land acquired by an EU consortium. It's like
heaven, you'll see. A tiny slice of it, anyway. It could practically
fit in the palm of your hand; it's barely eleven square kilometers."
They'd walked through a gate in the fence that a soldier (not a cop;
a
soldier
armed
to the teeth) held open for them. She'd never been so close to
someone with that many weapons. Elisa turned to see if Carter was
still with them, but all she could see were another couple of
soldiers, standing by the helicopter she'd just climbed out of.
"You'll be able to explore tomorrow. You must be exhausted."

"Not
really." In fact, Elisa couldn't remember what being tired felt
like. "Aren't you sleepy?"

"En
mi casa
—"
Elisa stopped short, realizing that she'd responded in Spanish, and
quickly switched into English. "At home, I always go to bed
late."

"I
see. Still, it is four thirty in the morning."

"What?"

Mrs.
Ross gave a friendly laugh. And on realizing her mistake, Elisa
laughed, too. According to her watch, it wasn't even eleven at night.
She made a quick joke, not wanting Mrs.

Ross
to think she was an inexperienced traveler (which, in fact, she was
not). But her nerves were playing tricks on her.

They
walked to the furthest of three barracks, where Mrs. Ross opened a
door to let them into a hallway illuminated with the tiny bulbs used
in movie theater aisles after the lights are turned down.
Immediately, Elisa noticed a marked change in temperature and even
atmosphere. Instantly, the climate went from the thick, sticky
outdoor air to the climate control of those portable buildings. Mrs.
Ross opened another door, stopped again at the first one on the left,
turned the handle without using a key, and flipped on the light
inside.

"This
will be your room. It's hard to see it right now because at night
they only leave the bathroom lights on, but..."

"It's
great."

She'd
thought she would be in a tiny cell, but this was spacious. Later,
she'd be able to tell that it was about ten feet long by fifteen feet
wide and was neatly furnished with a dresser, a little desk, and a
bed and night table in the middle of the room. On the far side of the
bed, the room was only half as wide, since the rest of the space was
taken up by a wall to another room. "The bathroom," Mrs.
Ross said, opening the door.

Elisa
nodded and made polite conversation, saying it was all fine, but Mrs.
Ross didn't beat around the bush. She launched into an interrogation,
"woman to woman": How many changes of clothes had she
brought? Did she use any particular shampoo? What kind of sanitary
napkins did she want? Did she sleep in pajamas or not? Had she
brought a bathing suit? And so on. Then she pointed to the door, and
Elisa noticed that it had a rectangular glass peephole, like the kind
you see in movies where a dangerous lunatic is locked up in a cell
and under observation. It gave her the creeps. There was another,
identical one in the bathroom door, which also had no lock.

"Security
requirements," Ross said. "They call them 'grade two
low-privacy stalls.' In practical terms, what it means for us is that
any old pervert can spy on you, but luckily we're surrounded by
decent men."

Elisa
smiled, unable to help herself despite the fact that this loss of
privacy made her feel a whole host of strange and unpleasant
feelings. But it seemed like with Mrs. Ross by her side, nothing bad
could happen.

Before
her hostess left her, Elisa examined her in the bathroom light: she
was plump and matronly, maybe fifty or so, and wore a silver sweat
suit and athletic shoes. She was also wearing full makeup, her hair
looked as though she'd just come from the beauty salon, and she had
on gold rings, bracelets, and earrings. Pinned to her sweat suit was
a photo ID that read "Cheryl Ross. Scientific Section."

"I'm
sorry to have made you get up in the middle of the night," Elisa
said.

"That's
what I'm here for. Now, you need to get some rest. Tomorrow at nine
thirty (well, in about four hours, actually) there's a meeting in the
main room. You can have breakfast in the kitchen before that. And if
you need anything at all while you're here, just contact
Maintenance."