“... I’m meeting John at dinner time. I hope it won’t take long, but if I’m late, don’t wait up...”
The cabin will arrive on the twelfth floor, and the doors will open. The man will get out with the elderly couple heading to their flying car, while other people will continue to the upper floors.
“... Yes, that’s fine. Give her a kiss from me, and promise her I’ll take her skating on Saturday... Yes, that’s fine...”
The elderly couple will head to the opposite side of the garage, illuminated by large lamps on the ceiling, while the man will reach his own flying car.
“... Yes, I’ll tell him hello for you. Yes, bye.”
He will climb into the flying car and close the roof, observing the first lights of the evening begin light the city, then bend down to indicate the route to the headquarters of the agency’s offices. Raising his head, he will see two beautiful oriental eyes in the rearview mirror.
The American tourist will walk on the Galata Bridge, stopping to admire the link between the modern and the monumental historical part of the city. Walking on one of the sidewalks among the crowd, he will observe a group of fishermen with modern electronic rods lowering their lines from the parapet. While in the bridge lanes, modern magnetic suspension machines will slide with the discernable dull buzz. From the bridge, he will stop to observe the minarets, while a modern solar-powered tram passes with a whistle between the lanes.
The problem will be to get the software directly to Saki.
The man in the white hat will cross the monumental area of Istanbul and enter the gardens of Sultanahmet Square, stopping to look at the Blue Mosque. Dozens of tourists will enter the gardens, heading for the magnificent white structure surrounded by towers pointing towards the sky, but the man will simply stop and retrace his steps, to check, as usual, if anyone is following him.
Where will you get it from, from the weak node in Singapore?
After a few minutes, the man will head the other way, towards the Hagia Sophia Mosque. He will join a group of Euro-American tourists and pay the Turkish interpreter, who will lead the group into the beautiful mosque, while tourists will set up their own personal displays for English translation.
It’s noon, he should be here.
The man will follow the group observing the magnificent spires of the mosque. The guide will explain that the temple of Hagia Sophia was built by Justinian, successor of Constantine, who had transferred the capital of the empire from Rome to Byzantium, which was renamed Constantinople.
Inside the temple, the guide’s voice will rumble among the columns.
No bearded young men around.
The guide will continue the journey, reminding visitors that the mosaics represent Christ, Our Lady with Jesus in her lap, and the emperors Constantine and Justinian.
The offices on the top floor of the white building will be abuzz, while on the lower floors, the employees take the elevators to return home. The director will be seated at his desk and will speak to the brown-haired man sitting in front of him by the window, from which he will watch the bright signs of a repair shop light up.
“This is not yet the time to notify the board of directors,” the director will say. “Let’s resolve the situation within the section. Suggestions?”
“All the operations teams have a description of how he was dressed the last time we saw him. A team is guarding his house and one department, the Medoc offices have been closed, and we have prepared a version for the police, who are already on-site,” the brown-haired man will say pointing to the images that the blond man will show on the holographic screen. “He can’t take his own flying car, and the train stations, subway, and airport have all been alerted. Our teams are watching the security cameras.”
“Considering how he played you this afternoon, Daft,” the elegantly dressed man will cut in, “we must assume that he too knows these things, and will keep away from them. He can’t get away from the city, he can’t rent a private vehicle, he can’t even use electronic payments; we’d find out. So, what’s your next move?”
“We have to assume that he’ll try to get in touch with his friend Proctor,” the thin woman will state.
“We haven’t heard from him in hours, ma’am, but a team has recovered his personal display and communicator in his house,” the blond man will say with relief.
“Track down all the calls received and made by Dr. Proctor’s communicator today,” the director will order. “I want to know who he spoke to. Then tell the police to track down his flying car.”
“Don’t you think that by doing so we’ll raise a shit storm?” the elegant man will ask. “It won’t be easy to keep this secret for long.”
“You don’t say! We have six dead officers, one on the run, and one untraceable for hours.”
Justinian intended Hagia Sophia to be a more beautiful temple than that built by Solomon in Jerusalem.
The 50,000 are already in your account.
The guide will tell tourists that the temple of Hagia Sophia passed to Muhammad II in 1453, when Constantinople took the name of Istanbul.
Do you want to see the student take the money and run away?
The man will look at the big vault, following the guide’s directions.
“Are you King’s friend?”
Holden will turn. The woman will be under thirty, her yellow hair cut into a brush.
The man will nod as the group of tourists move away, following the guide behind a column.
“I am a friend of Janus,” the woman’s voice will be hard. “I’ve been watching for a quarter of an hour. Did you come alone?”
The man will nod again.
“This evening. At 11:00 p.m. Outside, in the square, on the corner, there is a bar with marble tables where people play chess. Janus asks for three conditions to be met: leave the communicator in the hotel, be disarmed, and come alone. If you don’t meet the conditions, the meeting skips. Is that clear?”
The woman will turn on her heel and walk away without waiting for an answer, joining a group of tourists heading for the exit.
Istanbul is even more beautiful at night, Holden will think, sitting at a table with a beer in his hand. He will be sitting comfortably, relaxed, like a normal tourist, sipping the drink almost absent-mindedly, watching the thousand lights of the city, a contrast of past and present. He will watch people play chess on the marble tables for a while, as tourists come and go. The black magnetic suspension machine will suddenly arrive, sliding to a silent stop at the edge of the sidewalk.
The back door will open, and the blonde woman with a brush cut will subtly move her head, nodding to him.
“Shall we go?”
The Director will look straight into the little gray eyes of the well-dressed man sitting wearily in the armchair. “I suspect we’re already in deep shit, Goeadhart. So, let’s find a lead before nightfall, okay?”
Whiley will walk the downtown streets. Passing in front of a window, he will look into the glass at his own reflected image. He will go to a cash dispenser at a bank and put his hand in the holographic device, which will instantly check his fingerprints. He will withdraw the maximum daily availability for his account, two thousand five hundred Eurodollars. He’ll go to a clothes store and buy a dark blue padded jacket and a black crew neck sweater, paying a total of five hundred and thirty Eurodollars. He will have two five hundred bills changed and come out with a bag containing his used clothes. He will then enter a hat shop, buy a wool cap for seventy Eurodollars, and change the third Eurodollar five hundred note.
I have to stay in a safe, anonymous place.
Leaving the store, he will sit on a bench and put two five hundred Eurodollar notes in one compartment of his wallet and nine hundred in another compartment.
Not in the middle of the street.
He will enter the mall, climb the spiral stairs, and buy a ticket to a holographic cinema, taking the bills from the last compartment. The show will have already begun when he sits in the
armchair, putting the bag of clothes between his legs. He will put on a helmet, noting that probably not even a dozen people are sitting in the darkness.
A man and a woman will project a virtual badge to the woman opening her front door.
“Excuse us, ma’am, is your son at home?” the brown-haired woman will ask, withdrawing the image in her communicator.
“Oh, for God’s sake, what did he do this time?” the woman will reply, putting a hand over her mouth.
“Don’t worry, ma’am, nothing serious.”
Holden will put a tip on the table and leave. The driver will be a Turk with dark hair, smooth and gathered in a long ponytail. He won’t be surprised when the blonde points a pulse gun at him, then searches him. Nor will he find it strange for the magnetic car to drive through the busy streets of the metropolis for at least half an hour, the blonde remaining on guard behind him. It will be almost midnight when the car stops in front of a nightclub, where dozens of people will be queuing on the sidewalk to enter. The music will reach the car that will wait with the engine on, levitating about a foot off the ground. The brush-cut blonde will hold the door open, beckoning Holden to get out.
“Janus is waiting for you in there,” she will tell the man as he steps on the sidewalk.
“Where do I find him?”
“He will find you.”
The black car will drive away, disappearing into night traffic.
The interior of the nightclub will be deafening, at least to Holden’s taste. Definitely not the kind of place for him. Hundreds of people will be wriggling at a hectic pace, and several areas will be packed with young dancers in a hell of flashing lights and blaring sounds of percussion instruments. Many will be dressed in dark clothing, and the venue’s aesthetic choices will deliberately recall, from crucifixes to coffins, ancient myths and stereotypes of Transylvania. Instinctively, the man will try to get away from the area where the music is loudest.
Although he is in good physical shape and knows he is an attractive man, he will feel decidedly out of place because of his clothing and age.
I’m probably the oldest person here.
He will stop to order a whisky at the bar, finally finding a place to sit on a sofa on the sidelines. On the opposite side of the table, two young people will be kissing. Holden will look around, not noticing any bearded young men, but only the bartender, a bald man covered with tattoos, and a petite girl, sitting alone on a stool.
“We just have to ask him a couple of questions,” the woman will add, closing the communicator. “Can we come in, please?”
From one room will come the noise of an electronic guitar.
“Yes, of course. But why do you want to see my son?” the woman will let the couple in and turn to a little boy in the living room, sitting on the floor with his legs crossed, watching a program projected into space in front of him. “Mark, stop that thing now and go and call your no-good brother! Oh, for God’s sake...”
Moments later, the boy will open a door, accompanied by a teenager holding a guitar, who will move to the rhythm of the music, swinging a showy painted helmet. When he takes off the holographic helmet, a large mass of blond hair will fall over a face with freckles.
“Oh, fuck!” the young man will exclaim, seeing the agents, raising his eyes to the ceiling. “I knew that wasn’t normal. I knew it, the asshole.”
The man in the blue jacket and black crew neck sweater will be on the top floor of the Willis Tower. Coming out of one of the fast elevators, he will walk among the people, observing from above the fascinating spectacle of the city illuminated beneath him for miles and miles. The man will walk a little, looking carefully around, then at the clock once again: three minutes after eight in the evening.
Richard, damn it, where are you?
Time will seem to stop among the voices of tourists, the lights of the buildings, and the bright trails of the airjet on the illuminated streets in the distance that evening.
Please, Richard.
It’s a perfect evening for seeing the big city, with few clouds in the sky, swept away by the afternoon wind, an immense starry sky, which is seen despite the brightness below, abated by the fog on the ground.
Please.
An hour and twenty minutes later, he will decide to return to the elevators, striving to master the sense of panic that will rise to his throat. He will look out the window one last time.
The petite girl will have a pleasant face, a trace of makeup, the studded black outfit definitely looking more like a costume than a real dress. She’s cute, despite the dress, the man will think, estimating her age in her twenties. She will approach and sit down, crossing her legs. The classic student willing to have a different evening, to scrounge up her rent payment.
I don’t have time, honey.
“Hi.” The girl will bend to be heard over the music, smiling. “Will you offer me a drink?”
“Maybe another time,” the man will reply courteously. “I’m waiting for someone.”
The girl will get up, look around, casting a fleeting glance at the young man tinkering, without too much competence, with the bra of the girl at the table at the end of the room, then bend over to speak into his ear.
“You found him.” – an earring on the tongue – “I’m Janus.”
For the first time, the image of the great city illuminated beneath him, the boundless plain of lights continuing in the darkness as far as the eye can see through the large windows, will seem almost frightening and alien.
The tired faces, the unbuttoned shirts, the palpable tension in the offices on the top floor, the only illumination in the huge building.
“He can’t go home or to a hotel. He can’t take a train or a jet. He knows he has to avoid checks and cameras. It’s cold in Chicago at night this time of year,” the CEO will say, looking at his staff in the meeting room. “So, where can he go?”
No one in the big boardroom will make assumptions, leaving an awkward silence hanging in the air.
“In that case,” the Director will conclude, “I am obliged to convene an emergency council meeting tomorrow morning.”
The man will look at his colleagues for a moment, almost hoping to receive an unexpected solution, then he will leave the room with the communicator in his hand and close the door.
The man in the blue jacket and black crew neck sweater will rest his head on the window of the flying bus, once again watching the vehicle descend onto a landing ramp. It will not have been a reasoned choice, taking that particular line, but random, dictated only by the need to have a place to think and stay warm. The bus will rise again above the houses and buildings, now lower on average. The speaker will notify travelers that the next stop is the last; after that the vehicle must return to the depot, so please prepare to get off. In the last fifty minutes, he will have been warm and spent time watching commuters return to the working-class neighborhoods on the line to the suburbs. He will think of various possibilities, observing the people next to him, who, on the last stops, will gradually have gotten off, heading to their homes. At some point, he will also have had the idea of repeating something done many years earlier, when he was a student. He was in a religious boarding school, on campus, and, like all students from wealthy families, had a single room.
212 days earlier
Istanbul will become one of the busiest tourist areas, also in view of the global warming climate change of about 3.5 degrees Celsius over the last fifty years. Whole areas of the Mediterranean, from Greece to southern Italy, will in fact become more similar in climate to Africa than to Europe. Istanbul will become a fashionable resort not only for historical cultural tourism, but also for alternative, youth tourism, for its explosive cocktail of information technology and natural hub of cultural exchange between East and West, also illegal.
“Follow me,” the girl dressed in black will simply say, trying to make her way through the crowd of her peers. In the disco by the sea, the music will be almost deafening, the rhythm pounding
. Hundreds of young people will be wriggling in the musical mix of different cultures. Holden will watch young people downing drinks containing addictive substances, some of them accompanied with pills, secretly swallowed in the bathrooms or hallways behind the columns. The girl will wave to a bouncer, a guy with a shaved head, six feet, five inches tall, and a hundred and thirty pounds of muscle. The girl will enter an archway through a sliding glass door and walk down a long corridor, in which the music will reach a muted volume. After passing several closed doors, she will stop, putting her hand in the holographic slot of the fourth door to the right. The door will open with a hiss. Inside will be a room with a sofa, a basket of fruit on a small table, and a bucket with ice in which a bottle will be inserted.
“We’ll be fine here, no one will disturb us,” she will say sitting and laying down her purse. “I’ve already paid for the refreshments.”
“Shall we talk here?” the man will ask, still standing.
“Of course, we’ll do nothing else.” The girl will raise her head. “If any strange ideas come to you by chance while getting to know me.”
Holden will nod several times, then put his hands in his pockets.
“Let’s immediately make a couple of things clear, girl. First, so far I’ve followed your rules, and I can also understand that you had to take precautions.”
On Friday evenings, the boarding school closed until the following Sunday evening, and everyone went home. Only two priests remained throughout the large structure; the Director, nicknamed “biscia” or “grass snake,” and the bursar, nicknamed “sgrunf” for a fictional pig. Before closing the student building, the sgrunf toured the corridors on Friday evening. Whiley still remembers how he hid in the closet of his own room, holding his breath when he heard the sgrunf maneuvering the old knob of his door. Then, half an hour later, he had come out, feeling like the undisputed king of the entire building, where he stayed for two days, playing the first interactive holographic video games with other boys scattered in other campus residences.
Futura: Parallel Universes. Book 1 Page 17