Zig Zag (52 page)

She
was scared. Her fear made everything worse. It was like gambling, and
having the tiniest stakes grow huge because so many people wanted in
on the game. Her mouth was open, parched. Only the light rain
moistened her tongue.

Nothing
happened. Nadja's fine. It was just one of your crises. She's fine...

She
stopped a couple of times to look at the street signs, as if they
were headstones. She'd gotten mixed up. Almost screaming, she asked
an old man with a jaundiced face for directions. He stared at her
from a doorway, but wasn't sure about the street she wanted. He and a
woman who was just leaving a building began arguing about it.

Then
she heard the siren.

She
left them arguing and took off.

She
didn't know why she was racing so fast. She had no idea where she was
going or why she had to get there right away. Still, she ran,
avoiding shadows cloaked in overcoats and carrying long umbrellas
that looked like swords. She ran so fast that her breath, which she
could see, couldn't keep up. Turned to steam, it hit her in the face.

It
was an SUV with flashing lights. It made an enormous racket as it
careered through the streets, but since traffic was so dense, she
didn't lose sight of it.

Suddenly,
everyone
began
to run, and all the cars seemed to have lights on their roofs, sirens
blaring. She found the street she was looking for, but it was blocked
off by dark-colored vans. There were more of them in front of Nadja's
door. Vans, ambulances, and cop cars. Men in helmets looking like the
riot police were asking people to step back.

She
felt like she'd been kicked in the stomach. Pushing her way to the
front, she tried to get through, but a gloved hand clamped down on
her arm. The man who spoke to her didn't look human. He wore a helmet
and mask, and his eyes were the only identifiable life source, buried
under layers and layers of law and order.

"You
can't get through here, ma'am."

"My
... friend ... lives ... here..." she panted.

"Step
back, please."

"What's
going on?" asked a woman standing beside her.

"Terrorists,"
the cop said.

Elisa
tried to catch her breath.

"My
friend ... I need to ... see her..."

"Elisa
Robledo? Is that you?"

It
was another man, this one without armor. Well dressed, wearing a coat
and tie, black hair slicked back. A stranger, but Elisa held onto his
smile and kind words like a life preserver thrown to a drowning
sailor.

"I
recognized you," he said, still smiling as he approached her.
"Let her through," he added to the masked man. "Come
with me, please, Professor."

"What
happened?" she asked, still out of breath as she hurried to keep
up with her guide's footsteps, rushing through the deafening bedlam
of lights and screeching radios.

"Nothing,
really." He walked past the doorway but didn't enter the
building. "We're just here..."

"What?"
Elisa hadn't heard the last sentence.

"For
protection," he repeated, raising his voice. "We're here
for protection."

"So,
Nadja—"

"She's
fine, though she's very scared. And after what happened to Professor
Craig, we decided the best thing would be to move her to a secure
location."

Hearing
that, she felt relieved. They'd reached the end of the street; he was
still ahead of her. There was a van parked on the sidewalk, its two
back doors slightly ajar. The man opened them wide and disappeared
inside for a second. She heard his voice.

"Miss
Petrova, your friend is here."

Then
he reemerged and made room so Elisa could get past. She leaned in,
smiling anxiously.

Inside
was another man in a white jacket, seated beside the stretcher. Which
was empty.

A
man covered her nose and mouth, her lips still stretched into a
tentative smile.

24

"THEN
what
happened?"

"I
parked the car—well, double-parked, actually—and started
running..."

"Excuse
me. Didn't something else happen first? Didn't you have a disconnect
while you were driving?"

"Yes,
I think I did."

"What
did you see?... OK calm down... And we started off so well today...
Why is it that when we get to this part, you..."

IT
would
have been a perfect day for a walk. Unfortunately, the courtyard was
tiny. It was still better than her room, though. Through the
diamond-shaped links of wire fencing she could see more fences, and
off in the distance a beach and the deep blue sea. An ocean breeze
rustled the hem of her gown—if you could call it a hem. It was
a paper gown
(paper,
for
God's sake; how cheap can you get?), but at least she was allowed to
cover up this time, and the wind wasn't as cold as she'd feared. You
got used to it.

They'd
told her there were olive and fig trees on the western slope, which
she couldn't see from there. But this landscape was enough for her:
her eyes hurt from the feast of images, but it was a fleeting pain.
She managed to take several steps without feeling dizzy, though in
the end she had to grab onto the fence to hold herself up. Beyond the
second fence, a robot moved back and forth. It was actually a
soldier, but from that distance he could have passed for a
movie-quality, computer-generated android. He held a pretty serious
gun and moved lightly, as if to communicate that he could handle the
weight with no trouble.

Then
it all went dark. The transformation was so abrupt that she thought
the landscape had actually changed. But it was just a cloud covering
the sun.

"LET'S
go
back to that vision of Nadja's body crumbling before you. Do you
remember?"

"Yes..."

"Did
you see anyone else? Did you see the figure you call 'him'? The one
from your erotic fantasies?" Silence.

"Why
are you crying?" Silence.

"Elisa,
nothing can touch you here ... Please calm down..."

SHE
felt
like she was emerging from a cave, a netherworld. The last few days
had been a series of murky, unconnected shadows. Her joints hurt, and
there were needle marks on her forearms. She was chock-full of them,
like tiny piercings everywhere. But they'd told her the reason for
all those injections. Sedating her had been their number one priority
when she arrived at the base in the state she was in. They'd given
her huge doses of tranquilizers.

It
was January 7, 2012. She'd asked the young guy who came to get her
from her room what the date was. He wore a striped suit and was very
sweet. He told her she'd been there over two weeks. Then he led her
to the ward.

"I
don't know if you know, but 'Dodecanese' means that, in theory at
least, there should be twelve islands," he said with tour-guide
intonation as they traversed endless corridors that inevitably led to
checkpoints where he had to show ID. "But actually, there are
more than fifty. This is Imnia. I think you've been here before. It's
a totally operational center: we have our own lab and heliport.
Structurally, it's very similar to the U.S. DARPA bases in the
Pacific—that's the U.S. Defense Advanced Research Projects
Agency. In fact, we also do work with the Joint EU Department of
Defense." He paused every little while to glance at her, ever
attentive. "Feeling OK? Are you dizzy? How's your appetite?
We'll feed you in a little while. You can eat with everyone else
today ... careful, there's a step there. Your colleagues are all
doing fine, so you don't need to worry. Are you cold?"

Elisa
smiled. There was no way she could be cold wearing that wool sweater
over her black strapped blouse. Her jeans were black, too.

"No,
I just... it's just that... I just realized these are my clothes."

"Yes,
we brought them from your house." He smiled, showing teeth so
perfect that for a second she found it off-putting. "Wow. Thank
you."

From
the open doors of a large salon came the labyrinthine sound of
baroque piano music. Elisa shivered.

"The
piano was the professor's reward. We allowed him his favorite
pastime. You all know each other, so we won't waste time on
introductions."

It
occurred to her that his statement was only true to a point: in fact,
she hardly recognized Blanes, Marini, Silberg, and Clissot, they
looked so exhausted. They all had huge bags under their eyes, and
their bodies, some in street clothes and others in paper gowns,
showed all the telltale signs of utter fatigue. She supposed the same
was true of her. When she walked in, they hardly took any notice.
Blanes (who, incidentally, had grown a beard) was the only one who
flashed her a weak smile after momentarily interrupting his recital.

Two
more people walked in as she took a seat by the coffee table. She
didn't recognize the first one straight off; he'd shaved his mustache
and his hair had turned completely white. The other man, though, she
knew immediately. He still had a crew cut and a gray beard, his
stocky body still looked uncomfortable in business suits, and he
still had that look of intense concentration that seemed to say that
although few things actually interested him, those that did each
received extraordinary attention.

"You
all know Mr. Harrison and Mr. Carter, our heads of security,"
the young man said. The recent arrivals nodded their greeting, and
Elisa smiled at them. Once everyone had taken a seat, the young man
began by fawning over them. "Let me just say, on my own behalf,
that I'm honored to have you here. And please don't hesitate to call
me if you need anything at all during your stay."

After
he left, following a few seconds of smiles and exchanged glances, the
white-haired man turned to her.

"Professor
Robledo, it's so nice to see you again. You do remember me, don't
you?" It clicked. She'd never liked that man; it was probably
just a personality clash. She gave him a smile, but also buttoned her
cardigan up over her skimpy blouse and crossed her legs.

"Well,
let's get right down to it. Paul, whenever you're ready."

Carter's
speech was like boiling water, waiting to burst from his mouth.

"You'll
all go home today. We call it 'reintegration.' It will be as if you
never left: your bills have been paid, your meetings postponed, your
immediate appointments canceled with no trouble, and your families
and friends have been reassured. Because of the holidays that this
operation covered, we had to use different excuses for each of you."
He passed out a little dossier. "This should bring you all up to
speed."