Futura: Parallel Universes. Book 1

by Valerio Malvezzi

  “And if the program goes to shit,” the well-dressed man will continue, “I’m fucked. I haven’t wiped up other people’s shit for forty years in this agency to get fucked now, a year and a half before retirement, Daft. And if I get fucked, you can rest assured that you’re coming to keep me company, and retirement will be the least of our problems, I guarantee you.”

  The well-dressed man will continue squinting his little gray eyes. “Is the picture clearer for you now?”

  The brown-haired man will wait a few seconds before answering. “Don’t worry. We’re investigating.”

  Two pairs of tourists will arrive in the hotel lobby and head to reception.

  “You must not investigate,” the older man will say. “You must act.”

  “Hound twelve-six on screen two, sir,” the blond man will say.

  “Put him through,” Daft will answer.

  Whiley’s hologram will appear above the oval table, displaying the shadowy figure of a nervous man in a softly lit cabin. The blond man and the muscular man will be out of sight. The muscular man will open his jacket, from which the butt of a pistol can be seen.

  “Good morning, Whiley,” Daft will say.

  The man in the cabin will remain silent for a few seconds.

  “Who are you?”

  The brown-haired man will respond calmly, slowly. “My name is James Daft. Operations coordinator, Chicago Information Control Division.”

  Operations coordinator.

  “We don’t know each other,” the man in the cabin will answer.

  A big shot.

  “No, but we might get to know each other soon. Borman often talked to me about you. A real loss,” the man will seem contrite. “How did it happen?”

  A real loss.

  Palmer will observe the dueling while leaning against the balcony and for a moment, watching the mock fight organized for the spectators. “Although I continue to be an admirer of your traditional Sai.”

  “Mr. Palmer,” the woman will bend her head, smiling, “You are a constant surprise. Do you want to open a gym in Paris? Follow me, please.”

  The woman will climb a second flight of stairs and enter a private house, opening a sliding door.

  “Even Chiyeko is surprised at your skills, really remarkable for a European,” the Japanese woman will say, smiling at the girl behind them. “Chiyeko is a practitioner of different forms of martial arts, but she prefers Muay Thai combat.”

  The man will smile in turn, bowing his head in admiration, looking at the girl behind him, her face always serious. Then, the three will descend a few steps behind a second sliding door into a tea room. The woman in the evening dress will toss her purse on an armchair and approach a counter, pouring wine into a glass. The girl’s grip around the man’s neck will be professional, and the knife blade will be placed, in the right place on his back to kill without him letting out a shout.

  “Now,” the woman in the evening dress will say calmly, “give me a reason, one reason why I should deny Chiyeko the pleasure of killing you like a dog.”

  The blade will sting painfully through the European’s elegant shirt, while the tightness around his neck will take his breath away. The woman in the evening dress will sit in the armchair in front of the man and taste the glass of wine, crossing her legs and letting a sandaled foot swing.

  “You know, Mr. Palmer,” she will continue with an amiable smile. “Chiyeko likes to kill people, men in particular. They were naughty with her, and every now and then she needs an outlet. By the way, I confess that just the other day I was thinking I had to give her a birthday present. You know, it’s more effective than going to the psychologist, and it costs less. In my work, there’s always some asshole to eliminate.”

  The man in the cabin will wait a few long seconds before speaking. “Oh, really? And what did he say?” the man in the cabin will speak slowly. “He never said anything about you to me.”

  The dark-haired man will look fleetingly at the muscular man and the blond man, both off-field. The blond man will start with his hands on his own screen, quickly pulling files out of Whiley’s entry. The muscular man will stretch out his arms, frantically reading the texts that appear in the void. After about ten seconds, the blond man will shake his head.

  “We have to get you back, Whiley,” Daft will continue. “But we must do it safely. Are you okay?”

  The man’s voice in the cabin will seem to come from far away. “Okay?” he will ask, choking back a hysterical laugh. “No, sir. I’ve never been so far from feeling good.”

  The brown-haired man will look again at the blond man and the muscular man, off-field. “Where are you now?” he will ask.

  In the meeting room in front of him, at the end of the oval table, the man in the cabin will tap on the tabletop with his fingers.

  “In a bar. Tell me where I’m going. Who should I talk to?”

  “I have a responsibility to bring you out. We’re taking care of it. We’re gathering information and preparing the return plan safely and confidentially. We can’t take any risks or make you run. Don’t you have your own personal display? Give us a number where we can call you.”

  The man in the cabin will reflect again before speaking. “How long does it take for your plan? Can’t I go there?”

  “Negative. If you move without a display, we won’t know where you are; we can’t watch you. You could be a target and we can’t guarantee your safety. An hour. We need to get an idea of what happened, and we need to get a picture of the threat. We have no information at the moment, apart from what you have told us. We’re investigating. Call back in exactly one hour and we’ll get you out of there. Stay calm and do nothing. We are already organizing the recovery unit.”

  “Anyway,” the woman in the evening gown will continue, pointing to the girl, “a couple of years ago, those dickheads in white shirts called her unstable with sexually motivated murderous drives, or something, I think. She turned seventeen, and she’s had enough of this teenage bullshit. At least some strong emotion, every now and then, makes her feel better, for a while at least.”

  The man will feel her squeeze even more strongly, taking his breath away.

  “So, if you don’t want to be her gift, play your cards fast, and see if you have something in your hand. Coming to the point, asshole, is there a single reason why my young friend shouldn’t take your fucking life?”

  At the office of Chief Commissioner Cervetti of the Central Directorate for Prevention Police, headquarters of the NOCS in Rome, the door will be pounded vigorously with the knuckles of one hand.

  “Come in!”

  The Inspector will enter, greeting everyone. “Commissioner, there seems to be important news. The telematics investigation section, Chief Inspector Santilli, is looking for you on line two as a matter of urgency,” he will say in one breath.

  “Come in and close the door.”

  Cervetti will nervously scratch his short black beard, opening the communication on his desktop video. The hologram of a rather tall man with shaggy gray hair will appear, dressed in a white coat.

  “Cervetti here. So, Santilli, what’s new?”

  “Indeed Commissioner. Look at this. Ten suspicious money movements over an eight-hour span, on dedicated lines, started in a black hole.”

  Cervetti will beckon his assistant to sit in the chair in front of his. The black hole is slang in telematics to indicate data leaked over an inviolable access connection, with the absence of keys. Data not reached in time is lost, forever, unless you can later find a key to that part of the universe of the global system.

  “The sum?”

  In mid-air above the oval table, the man in the dimly lit room will sigh heavily.

  “And what am I going to do in the meantime?”

  “Sit still, try to stay calm, and don’t talk to anyone. An hour.”

  The man will turn off the monitor and the image will disappear from the meeting room. He will look at the blond man and the muscular man
.

  “Why didn’t you want to tell us where he is?” the blond man will ask.

  Whiley will be coming out of the bar. It will have stopped raining and the sky will be cloudy. He will look around, seeing some old electric cars with magnetic suspension gravitating about eight inches from the ground, heading down the road with a silent buzz. He will fasten his jacket as he crosses the street, looking around among passers-by. He will descend the granite steps again and enter the park in front of the square. It will almost be lunchtime. He will notice a cart selling donuts, parked under trees still damp with rain, near a garden covered in reddish leaves fallen from the trees. A group of teenagers will be buying sweets and drinks with great noise and laughter.

  We have to do it safely.

  The man will queue behind the kids, looking around the gardens. The park will be surrounded by residences and public buildings, and dozens of young people will be exiting the nearby school at the end of classes.

  Borman often talked to me about you.

  “A cream donut and a coffee cup,” he will tell the man at the cart, over the schoolchildren’s shouts.

  But she didn’t know anything about me.

  He will move away from the group of kids, entering a side driveway, among the almost completely bare trees.

  He will move away from the kiosk, walking on the bright yellow leaves covering the green of the lawn below and part of the path.

  Don’t you have your own personal display?

  He will stop to look at the horizon from a hill.

  “Ten transactions of five million.”

  Fifty million.

  “When?”

  “Three days ago. Unfortunately, we only found out now. They were damn good. They left no trace on the search systems.”

  “And we don’t know where they ended up?”

  “No, Commissioner. They moved for a few seconds on different transit lines, at random intervals, and then joined on a single frequency. In less than eight hours, they were moved and merged into a single server that was closed at the end of the operation. A black hole. No debris.”

  Debris, in computer jargon, will be traces in the operations of unrecorded, illegal money movements.

  “But, Commissioner, there is another strange thing.”

  “What?”

  “We don’t know where they ended up or what exact route they came from, but we know where they started.”

  Cervetti will move in the armchair, leaning toward the holographic screen.

  “And that would be...?”

  “From Rome, Commissioner,” the gray-haired man will say, showing a sequence of digits on his viewer. “Precisely, from some line of communication that passed, for about eight seconds, over reserved virtual spaces.”

  “To whom?”

  The man’s voice will sound certain. “To the Ministry of the Interior, Commissioner.”

  Cervetti will be motionless for a few moments. Then, he will stand up. “Nice job, Santilli. Stay after him, top priority. Maintain constant monitoring. Maximum confidentiality, of course. And please keep me informed if you find out anything. The alert status of the whole special unit.”

  “Yes, Commissioner. Of course. Ah, Commissioner, one thing...”

  “Tell me.”

  The man will scratch his head, then put his hands in the pockets of his coat.

  He will sit on a seat, still damp, at the top of the hill. What is the point of asking a rhetorical question, since they must have known that he didn’t have it with him? In the distance, he will see skyscrapers and hear the noise of aircraft.

  And don’t talk to anyone.

  He will sip coffee from the thermal cup to wash down the last bite of the donut. The voices of the city will mingle with the green oasis.

  And who am I supposed to talk to?

  He will always be hungry when he’s nervous. The idea will come to him like a punch in the stomach.

  Richard!

  He will throw the cup in a retractable bin, then run into the park, in the direction of the central route, the least busy one.

  Richard doesn’t know anything.

  Maybe his friend will already be in danger. He will meet two students, a boy and a girl walking hand in hand.

  “Guys, hey, guys, can I ask for a favor?” he’ll ask, trying to be affable, without actually succeeding.

  “Yes,” the boy will say, a large mass of curly blond hair over a face full of freckles, releasing his partner’s hand.

  “I forgot my personal display, and I don’t have a communicator. I have a very urgent call to make. If you lend me yours for five minutes, I’ll pay you fifty Eurodollars,” he will say, opening his wallet and taking out the banknotes.

  The boy will look at the girl, who will burst out laughing.

  “Are you kidding me?” the freckled boy will ask suspiciously.

  “It’s an emergency. All right, let’s do this, take one hundred Eurodollars. It’s about its value, I would guess.”

  The blond man will look at him undecided, withdrawing the personal communicator.

  “Look, I’m going to sit on that bench. Five minutes. Ok?” Whiley will ask.

  “But what’s happening?” Santilli will ask. “In eighteen years of doing this job, I have never seen such a thing.”

  Cervetti will lower his head, then look into the display. “Neither have I. And I was hoping I’d never see it.”

  He will turn off the communication, looking at the Inspector sitting in front of him. He will pace around the desk, taking a few steps, lost in thought, with his hands in his pants pockets. He will look at the wall. At the bottom of the ancient parchment print in the painting hanging on the wall, in which his name is mentioned for a decoration, he will once again read the motto of the Corps.

  Sicut Nox Silentes

  “As quiet as night.”

  Then he will turn, slowly, exchanging a worried gaze with his assistant. “Call the CEO. Say it’s urgent.”

  The room of the house in Onna Son will have walls covered with ancient tapestries and soft carpets on the floor, precious vases and a magnificent bonsai. Palmer will cough, almost unable to breathe. The woman in the evening dress, sitting in front of him, will nod to the girl, who will hold an arm around his throat, pointing the blade straight at his lung. The girl will imperceptibly relax the pressure, and the man will cough again before speaking.

  “Actually, beautiful lady, I’d give you two million reasons. In Eurodollars.”

  The woman will stop swinging her sandaled foot and put down the glass of wine, bending over the coffee table.

  “Chiyeko,” she will whisper.

  With her large sneakers, the girl will hit the back of the man’s right knee, causing him to collapse onto his knees with a groan. The girl’s knife will be at his throat in an instant, while her hand will grab his hair, violently jerking his head back.

  “Hold out your hands, asshole. Slowly, and without abrupt gestures. Chiyeko is not a very good barber,” the woman will say, uncrossing her legs and rummaging in her purse.

  The smiling girl will urge her companion. “Well, come on, give it to him, for five minutes...”

  “Thank you.” Whiley will sigh with a smile, taking the communicator and moving away about twenty steps to the bench near a flower bed with a large marble statue.

  “That’s not normal, I swear. My parents gave it to me two years ago. It would have cost eighty-five Eurodollars,” the boy will say, smiling.

  “And who gives a shit? He wanted it,” the girl will laugh.

  The two, standing on the sidelines, will watch the man who will turn his back to them, sitting on the wet seat of the park bench above the carpet of leaves. Whiley will operate it, covering the screen with his jacket, as if he were to say something really very reserved.

  “That’s not normal, honestly,” the boy will repeat, lifting his blond curls off his forehead with his hand.

  The girl will laugh again.

  Palmer will feel a burni
ng in his throat and nervously stretch his hands forward.

  “Close,” the woman will order, and the metal object will close around his hands.

  Electronic handcuffs.

  “And now, stay still, like a bag of manure,” the woman will bend forward, poking around the inside of his jacket, then repeatedly pat his ribs, belly, back, then thighs.

  “I’m clean. If I wanted to kill you, you’d be dead by now. With or without your sweet little angel back here.”

  The woman will look at the girl, then sit back in the armchair and make quick gestures in sign language. The girl will loosen her grip and take a couple of steps back. The man will breathe, massaging his neck with his hands. On his fingers, a drop of blood. The kick to his kidneys will be bad and of surprising, unexpected violence. With a prolonged scream, the man will roll on the floor, helplessly trying to bring his cuffed hands to his back. The girl will watch him writhe with a thin smile. The woman in the black silk dress will take a sip of wine, looking away for a moment, then gracefully place the goblet on the glass table. The man will continue to moan, seeming unable to speak, and he will raise his hands, as if to ask for time.

  “Try to be more cautious. Your irreverent sarcasm is really, do you want me to tell you? Unbearable. Now, if you don’t want Chiyeko’s next kick to really do you in, and I mean really, really badly, answer two simple questions quickly, with no comments. Who are you? What the fuck are you doing here?”

  The man will make an effort to speak, his voice dreary and tired. “I’m a killer. And I’m here to buy a rifle.”

  Silence will descend over the room. The Japanese woman, comfortably seated in an armchair, will look with a mixture of curiosity and interest at the suffering man on the floor, like a scientist faced with a new animal species.

  The girl will remain standing, with the knife in her hand, as if unable to understand the evolution of the matter.