Sleeping Giants

by Sylvain Neuvel

  Can I ask how Mr. Couture is doing?

  —You tell me. Last time I heard from him, he’d just gotten back to Montreal. That was also nine months ago. He’s either not taking my calls or he’s gone somewhere else. I guess he could be anywhere by now.

  —He is still in Montreal. I take it this is not the high point of your relationship.

  —I should have known it wouldn’t last.

  —Your relationship?

  —No, your asking questions you don’t already know the answer to. I thought something bad might have happened to him. It’s nice to know he just doesn’t want to talk to me. What’s he doing now?

  —That is a lot of cynicism to fit into just three sentences.

  —I don’t know what to tell you. He just left. After her death…It’s all he could think about. It just ripped apart whatever was holding him together.

  —I spoke to both of you after the incident. Unless you hid something important from me, it seems clear that neither of you are to blame for what happened.

  —We didn’t keep anything from you. But none of it would have happened if we’d listened to Dr. Franklin. Vincent chose not to. It’s his legs that gave up, his hands that pushed those buttons. I know I’m as responsible as he is, maybe more. I was trained to listen to others. But I can’t blame him for thinking he killed her. He did. I killed her too.

  —Everyone knew there were risks involved, especially Dr. Franklin.

  —It’s one thing to risk your own life. It’s fairly easy to rationalize the deaths of strangers. To shoulder the death of a friend, someone you know, that’s a completely different thing.

  —I would venture with some measure of certainty that she would not want either of you to blame yourself for her death.

  —I know she wouldn’t. There wasn’t a mean bone in her body. Somehow, it doesn’t make me feel any better about what happened. At least I know what to expect. I lost people that were close to me before. I lost family, I lost people on missions. I know how long I’ll feel like this, I know what I’ll be feeling later. Denial, grief, resentment. We’re predictable little creatures. But I’m worried about Vincent. He doesn’t know what’s coming. I’d like to know how he’s doing.

  —I am not worried for his life, if that is what you are asking. He is…You are right. He is devastated by the passing of Dr. Franklin. That much is obvious. However, you can find some comfort in the fact that it is that obvious. He has no problems expressing his feeling of loss, his guilt, his anger over what happened. His emotions are well-defined, and he is coherent in expressing them. In time, he will come back.

  —I’m not so sure. What does he do now?

  —I am not certain he has a source of income. He was making model ships when I visited.

  —Ships? Like…toys?

  —Scaled model ships from World War II. I am not an expert, but some seemed quite elaborate.

  —…

  —Some of them must have close to a thousand pieces. Building them requires a certain set of skills, a lot of patience, and attention to details.

  —…

  —Yes. You could call them toys.

  —And that’s all he does?

  —For most of the day, yes. I realize it does not sound extremely encouraging, but it gives him something to focus on. I would rather see him work on a 1/200 scale USS Arizona than lie in bed all day.

  —Does he eat? Does he bathe?

  —I believe so. Although shaving seems to have made way for other, more important tasks in his daily routine. We keep talking about Mr. Couture but it is you I came to see. How do you feel?

  —I feel…numb.

  —What do you mean?

  —After something this intense, everything else just…Things that would have had you up in arms before now seem so utterly trivial. Nothing really matters. You start to ignore little things, because they’re little things. You compromise. You rationalize. Soon you look at yourself in the mirror and you don’t recognize the person staring back at you.

  But, you know. I’m alive. I’m OK. I wake up every day, and I get out of bed thinking today might be just a bit better than yesterday. Most of the time it is. Show must go on, as they say.

  —Do you have any vacation time coming?

  —I don’t think a vacation is really what I need right now.

  —I was not making conversation. I am inquiring as to whether or not you could take a short leave of absence, not about your predispositions.

  —I don’t know. Wasn’t I just on extended leave for about two years? I never really thought about asking for more since I came back.

  —Would it surprise you to know that you have accrued 22.5 days of leave since your reassignment at Fort Carson?

  —I forgot who I was talking to. I suppose in a minute you’ll tell me that I’ve already put in for some leave.

  —You have. But I want you to feel perfectly comfortable, should you wish to reconsider.

  —I’m free to reconsider taking the leave of absence I never asked for…Typical…I should have known you didn’t come here just to see how I was doing.

  —I did. I came here specifically to see how you were doing, and to ask for your help if you appeared capable.

  —What is it you want me to do?

  —I want you to locate someone for me.

  —Can’t you get any of your Special Forces friends to do it?

  —The military are not involved in this operation. In fact, it is critical that no one working for the US government be involved in any way.

  —Except for me…

  —Except for you.

  —So, where am I taking this much-needed vacation?

  —Sarajevo.

  —Really? This better be good.

  —You will absolutely love Sarajevo. It is one of my favorite places in the world. By the time you leave, you will wish you did not have to.

  —And what am I doing in lovely Bosnia?

  —You should try and visit Mostar if time permits. But, aside from ancient cities and the usual tourist attractions, you are attending the Sarajevo Film Festival.

  —Of course. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.

  —You will catch the premiere of Oprosti mi, Mina. It is a very small film by a young Serb cineaste named Goran Lukic´. He is someone I know and trust. He will be your guide in Bosnia.

  —What does Oprosti Mina mean?

  —Oprosti mi, Mina. Mina is a name. Oprosti mi means “forgive me.”

  —Sounds like a nice guy…

  —Goran is actually one of the kindest, most selfless people I have ever met.

  —Coming from you, I’m not really sure what that means. When will he be expecting me?

  —He will not be expecting anyone. He will, however, host a small party at Zlatna Ribica after the premiere. You will make an appearance and congratulate him on his movie. When no one else is around, you will remind him that he never paid for the plumber in Belgrade.

  —What’s that? Some sort of code?

  —No, not a code. More like a subtle metaphor.

  —Why don’t you just contact him yourself? You seem to like him. He might enjoy talking to you again.

  —I assure you he would not.

  —How do you know him?

  —I assisted in his interrogation during the war.

  —You mean you helped torture him.

  —It is, as most things are, a matter of personal and historical perspective. In CIA parlance, we were given an “alternative set of procedures.” Suffice it to say that, however unpleasant the experience might have been, he is indebted to me.

  You will procure some inconspicuous clothing and ask him to take you to Srebrenica. It is a small mountain town at the east end of Bosnia.

  —Why does that ring a bell?

  —Thousands of Bosnian Muslims were rounded up and slaughtered there in the mid-nineties. Once you reach Srebrenica, you will try and find a woman called Fata.

  —Fata who?

  —I do not know
her last name. Nor do I know where she lives. I can tell you that she had three sons and one daughter. Her oldest son worked in the salt mines of Srebrenica with her husband. They might have come into town for work every day from one of the surrounding villages.

  —Really? That’s all you have? Do you know which village she might have come from?

  —I do not have that information. Unfortunately, the Serbs also destroyed hundreds of villages during the war. Hers may no longer exist. She would be in her early fifties by now. I know she was well liked by everyone, and that she might have served as some sort of informal nurse.

  —How will I know I found the right person? Unless I’m mistaken, Fata’s short for Fatima. I’m gonna take a wild guess and say that’s probably not the most unique name for a Muslim woman. Sounds a lot like: “Hey! Go find John in New York.”

  —You will know when you find her. Talk about the war. She will have stories to tell.

  —How long do I have?

  —You requested two weeks of vacation.

  —When?

  —The premiere is on the fifth. You leave Saturday.

  —And let’s assume I find this Fata of yours. What do I need her to do?

  —Nothing. She needs to do nothing. I only need to know where to find her. I may need her in the future.

  —For what?

  —Nothing you should concern yourself with. Hopefully, it will never come to that, and you will have a worthwhile experience visiting the remote corners of Bosnia. Now, if you will excuse me, I have to be on a plane in one hour.

  —Sir?

  —What is it?

  —Thank you.

  FILE NO. 230

  INTERVIEW WITH UNKNOWN SUBJECT

  Location: New Dynasty Chinese Restaurant, Dupont Circle, Washington, DC

  —Begin recording. It is almost noon. I am waiting for the man who contacted me this morning on a classified number. I am sitting by the window. There is a sniper across the street with a clear view of my table.

  There is a short, stocky, old man entering the restaurant. He appears to be in his sixties or early seventies. He is wearing a tan trench coat, about two sizes too small, and a brim hat. He…He has no eyebrows…I sincerely hope he is not the man I am waiting for…Unfortunately, he is now approaching my table with a large smile on his face.

  —Hello, sir! I’m so happy to finally meet you! I’ve heard so much about you.

  —I seriously hope not, for your sake. Please be aware that this conversation is being recorded.

  —I’m now perfectly aware. Thank you! Do you know who I am?

  —I have absolutely no idea who you are, and I do not particularly care to find out. I want to hear what you know about me, who gave you that information, and what you intend to do with it.

  —Oh…You’re upset because I mentioned your son on the phone. I didn’t mean to stir up bad memories. As I said, you have my deepest sympathies. I can’t tell you how I know what I know, but you can trust me when I say you have nothing to fear from me. Your secret is perfectly safe.

  —Listen to me very carefully for I will only say this once. If you value your life in any way, you will not mention my son to me, or to anyone else, ever again. You will tell me exactly what you know, and if I am satisfied with your answer, you will be allowed to leave this place unharmed.

  —That’s a bit rude, don’t you think? What’s the signal?

  —What signal?

  —The one for the sniper across the street?

  —…

  —It’s OK, you can show me. He’s sound asleep. By the way, get the man some food next time! Poor fellow would have had to watch us eat for an hour.

  So…Let’s start this again, shall we? Would you care to guess who I am?

  —I would not.

  —Please! Take a guess!

  —You are a retired clown who lost his eyebrows in a tragic fire-juggling accident.

  —OK. No guessing then. You can call me Mr. Burns.

  —That is a horrible alias.

  —It’s my last name, thank you very much.

  —What do you want?

  —I’m here because we have a friend in common. You should try the Kung Pao chicken.

  —Thank you, I am still looking at the menu. And who might that friend be?

  —I don’t believe you know her name. But she’s a very special friend. Someone who had a very, very large place in your heart. Someone whom I understand you recently lost touch with.

  —…I am listening.

  —Ah! Finally! Now that I have your attention, it’s your turn to listen very carefully to what I’m about to say…

  Put the menu down and get the Kung Pao chicken. The Indonesian rice is also very good, but you have to try the chicken.

  —I should warn you that I have little or no sense of humor, and very little patience.

  —Don’t be modest! You have a great sense of humor! You’re a little phlegmatic, I agree, but it’s there…I see it. OK, you look like you get grumpy when you’re hungry so I’ll just move right along.

  Do you like stories? I hope you do. I’m going to tell you a story that I was told as a child. It has a bit of everything: love, war, betrayal. I’m sure you’ll like it.

  A very long time ago, there was a vast empire. I mean vast—it literally spanned thousands of colonies. It was ruled by extremely powerful people. They believed that each colony should evolve at its own pace and be free to rule itself. They would intervene as little as they could, only to preserve life or defend the interests of the empire. They were a very wise people, a race of artists and engineers that had an unmatched understanding of the makeup of the universe. They were able to build just about anything, to manipulate matter, and harness energy in ways that no one else could.

  One of the colonies was ruled by a warrior race. What they lacked in sophistication and intelligence, they made up for with strength and grit. Their king, a legendary warrior, ruled over millions. Having mined most of the ore in his own land, he tried to conquer a neighboring people to exploit their natural resources. The empire sent several ships to intervene. The warrior king was captured, tried, and sentenced to a life of imprisonment.

  Over time he was allowed to leave his gaol, and eventually he was permitted to live freely in the empire’s metropolis, but he could never return home to his people. In the capital, he worked as a…there is no word for it—personal trainer is the closest thing I can think of, but that sounds silly. Anyway, this is how he met—Can you guess? Can you guess? A princess! The daughter of the Emperor himself.

  He trained the princess for a few hours every day. Of course, it didn’t take them long to fall for each other. They kept their relationship a secret for a while, but when the princess reached the age of marriage, she introduced the warrior king to her father. Let’s just say that he did not approve. The fallen king was sent back to prison.

  The princess was forbidden to see him but—you know, teenagers—she did. She did a lot more than that, actually. One night, she set a fire to lure the guards away and helped her lover escape. The warrior king wanted to run away, but the princess was stubborn as a mule and didn’t want to leave her whole life and family behind. So instead of doing the sensible thing, she brought her lover to the palace to confront her father. Seems hard to imagine that he went along with that, but, like I said, his people were not known for their intelligence. And let’s face it: We all do stupid things when it comes to women.

  So, confront him she did. What started as a discussion soon turned into an argument. Words were exchanged, tempers were flaring. The Emperor’s people are known for their calm demeanor, but family has a way of bringing out the worst in people. Every people.

  The Emperor raised his hand to strike his daughter and the warrior king quickly got between them. The Emperor had never fought anyone, never yielded a sword, had never done any manual labor, so to say that he was overmatched would be an understatement. Within seconds, the Emperor was on his back with a sword to his th
roat. It was only the princess screaming for him to show mercy that stopped the warrior king from plunging his blade into the Emperor’s heart. The royal guard eventually came in and the two lovers were arrested.

  The Emperor was deeply wounded by his daughter’s betrayal. He would never really be the same after that. But no matter how deep his sorrow, he could never bring himself to kill his own flesh and blood. Instead, his daughter would spend the rest of her life in the very cell her lover was jailed in.

  He had a different fate in mind for the warrior king. Since he had spared his life in the palace, the Emperor would return the favor. Banishment would be his sentence, but not just for him—for his people as well. Massive ships were built in industrial colonies and the warrior king’s entire people—tens of millions—were sent away, never to return.

  —I am assuming there will be a point to this fable sometime in the near future.

  —There will indeed, but the best part is the story. You should try to enjoy it.

  The Emperor was no fool. He knew that he had just made a powerful enemy. It might be years, decades, centuries even, but someday these people would seek vengeance for their exile. This was not something one would forget. They would pass on the hatred from generation to generation until the day their honor was restored.

  Preparing for an inevitable war, the Emperor had giant machines built in his people’s image. Indestructible weapons so powerful they could level a village or kill ten thousand men in a matter of seconds. Thousands of these giants were built and sent to every corner of the empire.

  There was one small colony at the far end of the realm. It was still in the early stages of its evolution and had received little attention from the empire in the past, but the Emperor insisted that they be protected as well. Twelve weapons were sent to the colony, along with a small detachment of soldiers to operate them. Six of them were built to resemble males, six were female. Technology was nearly nonexistent on the colony, and these giant machines that walked amongst men were instantly seen as gods and goddesses. They called them tittah.