But Marta Morande blathered on as if she hadn't heard.
"While I was listening to that wonderful woman sing your praises, I was thinking, 'What would she think if she knew how little effort my daughter puts into anything?' She even said she bet you were getting job offers left and right, now that you've finished school."
Elisa went on guard. This was a slippery slope that inevitably led into the abyss of a bitter argument. She knew her mother wanted her degree to "get her somewhere," wanted her to get an important post in some company. Marta Marauders mind could conceive of nothing theoretical.
"Where are you going?"
Elisa, who'd started out of the room, didn't stop.
"I have stuff to do." She pushed through the swinging doors and got out of the kitchen, but not in time to avoid hearing her mother's parting shot.
"I have stuff to do, too, you know, but every once in a while I'm considerate enough to spend a little time with you."
"That's your problem."
She practically ran through the living room, bumping into the "girl" when she reached the hall. Elisa realized that her robe was hanging open, but she didn't care. She heard heels clicking behind her and decided to face up to her mother.
"Leave me alone, will you?"
"Of course," her mother said coldly. "There's nothing I want more in the world. But you should start thinking about leaving me alone, too..."
"I try my best."
"... and in the meantime, I remind you that you're living under my roof and you will obey my rules."
"Whatever you say." There was no use; she didn't have the energy to keep fighting. She started to turn back around, but stopped in her tracks when she heard her mother say, "People would change their minds about you if they knew the truth!"
"Yeah? And what's that?" she challenged.
"That you're a child," her mother replied calmly. The woman never raised her voice. Elisa was good at calculating equations, but there was no one like Marta Morande when it came to calculating emotions. "That you're twenty-three years old and you're still a child who doesn't care about her appearance, or about getting a job, or about other people..."
A child. She felt like she'd been punched in the stomach. What could you expect from a child but childish outbursts in class?
"Do you want me to pay rent?" she asked through clenched teeth.
Her mother stopped in her tracks. But then, perfectly calm, she replied, "You know that's not it. All I want is for you to come back down to planet Earth, Elisa. Sooner or later, you'll realize that there's more to life than sleeping in that pigpen of a room, studying math, and strutting around the house half naked while you eat your—" She slammed the door in her mother's face, cutting the tirade short.
For a while, she leaned against the door, as if she thought her mother was going to break it down. But all she heard were expensive heels, clicking away into the distance. In • order to calm herself down a little, she looked at her notes and the books spread all over her bed. Just seeing them relaxed her.
She soon became engrossed with another matter far more important to her.
Elisa understood the meaning of those messages from mercuryfriend.
SITTING at her desk, she grabbed a piece of paper, a pencil, and a ruler.
Bodies carrying other bodies on their backs. The soldier and the girl.
She made a sketch using the same pattern: a stick figure, with another on its shoulders. Then, using a finer pencil, she traced three squares around the figures, leaving a triangle in the center. She contemplated the result.
Next, she carefully erased the stick figures, trying to leave the lines she traced beneath them intact. Then she retraced the places she'd accidentally erased.
Any math student worth their salt knew that diagram by heart. It was Euclid's Postulate 47, from the first book of Elements. In it, the brilliant Greek mathematician proposed an elegant means of proving the Pythagorean theorem. It was easy to demonstrate that in a right triangle like the one above, the sum of the squares of the lengths of the sides is equal to the square of the length of the hypotenuse.
Over the centuries, Euclid's proof had become popular among mathematicians using allusive drawings, the most famous of which was a soldier carrying his girlfriend in a chair on his back. That drawing, known as the "sweetheart seat," had given her the key. She realized that the rest of the figures must have been taken from some sort of art book related to math (not erotica!), and even remembered having seen one once.
If you are who you think you are, you'll know.
She shivered. Could it be?
No one without a great deal of mathematical knowledge would have been able to make that kind of connection among the drawings. The anonymous sender wanted to tell her that only someone like her could come up with the solution. She had to conclude that it wasn't a coincidence.
That message is for me.
But what did it mean?
Euclid.
That new realization and all the possibilities it held made her feel dizzy.
She turned on her computer and went online. Directing her browser to the mercuryfriend.net page, she looked at the ads for the bars and clubs it listed.
Her mouth ran dry.
The ad for Euclid, on first glance, looked much like the rest. The club's name in big red letters, and beneath that the words "classy place for intimate encounters." But something else was written below:
Friday, July 8, 11:15 p.m.
Special reception. Come down and we'll talk.
You'll be interested.
She couldn't breathe. Today was July 8.
08
"I didn't know you were going out tonight," her mother said, flipping through a magazine as she half watched the television. She stared at her daughter from over the tops of her reading glasses.
"I'm meeting a friend," she lied. Or maybe it wasn't a lie. Who knew?
"That journalism student?"
"Yeah."
"I'm glad. It's good for you to get to know people."
Elisa was surprised. Last week she'd made a comment about Javier Maldonado, just something banal to fill the silence that always stretched between them. She thought her mother hadn't even registered it, but now she saw how wrong she was. She was intrigued by this sudden maternal interest; she'd always assumed that neither of them could care less what the other did, or with whom. What's the difference? It's all a lie. She heard her say one more thing (it might have been "Have a good time") as she walked out. She smiled, since she had no idea what kind of time she was going to have. She didn't even know exactly where she was going.
Because Club Euclid didn't exist.
The address was correct—a narrow street in the Chueca neighborhood—but she'd found no reference to a bar or club with that name in any guidebook or listings of any kind, there or anywhere else in Madrid. Paradoxically, that reassured her. Elisa was convinced that July 8 was intended specifically for her.
She reasoned that if the place had been easy to find, then the whole string of coincidences (the message, the Web page, Euclid's theorem, the club's existence) would have been too much. But the fact that it wasn't listed anywhere, in any paper or guidebook, piqued her curiosity, especially after she verified that the other places were for real. Maybe that meant that it was all just a fantasy. Or maybe it was a sign that her messenger had hatched a clever plan, using Euclid's name to draw her to a specific place at a specific time. But why? Who could it be and what did they want?
When she got off the subway at Chueca and walked out into the warm night air amid throngs of young people of all races, there was so much noise pouring out of so many different bars that she couldn't help but feel uneasy. Not for any reason in particular (because she neither hoped for nor feared anything specific), but she had this feeling, this slight tingling sensation on her back, under her T-shirt and cardigan. She was glad that her outfit, complete with ripped jeans, didn't attract any attention there.
The address sh
e had was for the end of one of the narrow streets that led off the plaza, between two other doorways. It was either a bar or a club, or both, though it wasn't called Euclid. The neon sign was missing some letters, but Elisa didn't care about that. She did notice, though, that it had smoked glass and swinging doors. Aside from that, it didn't appear to be any secret hideout or clandestine gambling den that relied on mathematical subterfuge to attract gorgeous young physics graduates in order to subject them to cruel, humiliating acts. People came and went, the Chemical Brothers blared over the sound system, and there didn't seem to be any bouncers at the door. Her watch said ten past eleven. She decided to go in.
There was a spiral staircase, and as she wound her way down, she saw a fairly nice scene. The small dance floor was packed, making it look even smaller. The only lights (red) were coming from the bar at the far end of the room, so all she could make out were random arms, thighs, hair, and backs, all tinged with the same reddish glow. The music was so loud that Elisa was sure that if it were turned off now, everyone's ears would continue to ring for hours. At least the air-conditioning seemed to be working. So, what else do I have to do, Mr. Euclid?
When she got to the bottom of the stairs, she blended in with the shadows. It was hard to make her way anywhere without touching people or being touched. Maybe we're supposed to meet at the bar. She headed for it, using her hands to help clear a path.
Suddenly, someone used his hands on her. A firm grasp on her arm.
"Come on!" She heard the voice. "Hurry up!" She was shocked, but she obeyed.
THEN came a quick succession of images. They made their way to the back of the bar where the bathrooms were, went up another staircase, narrower than the one she'd come down, and then down a short hallway that led to a door with a metal push bar and a pneumatic closer and an Exit sign above it. When they reached the door, he pushed the bar and opened it a few inches. After peering out, he closed it again and then turned to her.
Elisa, who had followed him as if she'd been on a leash, wondered what was going to happen next. Under the circumstances, it could be anything. But even she wasn't expecting his question and assumed she'd misheard.
"My cell phone?"
"Yeah. Do you have it on you?"
"Of course."
"Give it to me."
Speechless, she shoved her hand into her jeans pocket. She'd barely managed to extract it when he snatched the phone away from her.
"Stay here and keep a look out."
He snuck into the alley and she stood by the door, peeking through the crack just in time to see him cross the narrow street and (she could hardly believe this) throw her phone into a trash can tied to a streetlight. Then he came back and closed the door.
"Did you see where I left it?"
"Yeah, but what the..."
He put a finger to his lips.
"Shh. They'll be right here."
In the silence that followed, she watched him and he watched the street.
"Here they come," he said suddenly. He'd lowered his voice to a whisper. "Come over here—slowly." Again she felt compelled to obey him, despite the fact that she had no desire to stand right next to him. "Look."
Through the crack in the door all she could see was a car tearing down the narrow street, its engine roaring, and a man across the street, reaching into the trash. Another car drove by, and then another. When they'd gone and her line of sight was clear, she saw that he'd extracted something from the trash and was shaking it off angrily, cleaning it. She didn't have to squint to see what he held. It was her phone, there was no doubt. The man opened it and its little blue screen lit up. She'd never seen the guy before. He was bald and wore a short-sleeved shirt and (she was almost surprised) had no mustache.
All of a sudden, he turned toward them. Then she couldn't see.
"We don't want them to see us, now, do we?" the man whispered in her ear, after closing the door. "That would ruin the plan..." Then he smiled in a way that made Elisa very uncomfortable. "I should check to see if you're wearing a wire... Maybe underneath your clothes, hidden on your body ... But there'll be plenty of time later on tonight for me to give you a thorough search."
She said nothing, unsure of what shocked her more: the guy she just saw digging through the trash for her cell phone, or him, with his incredible cold blue-green eyes and voice layered with that mocking tone. Still, when he barked another order, she obeyed immediately. "Let's go," said Valente Sharpe.
"HOW could anyone have put a transmitter in my phone?"
"Are you sure you didn't leave it anywhere? Or lend it to anyone, even for a second?"
"Positive."
"Did anything break at home recently? Washing machine? TV? Anything that would require a serviceman to come to your house?"
"No. I..." Then she remembered. "The phone line. Last week they came to fix it."
"And you were home, of course. And your cell phone was in your room."
"But it hardly took any time ... They just..."
"Oh," Ric Valente smiled. "They had enough time to bug your toilet seat if they wanted to, I can assure you. They might be clumsy, but this is one thing they do all the time; they've got it down pat."
They'd reached the Plaza de Espana. Valente turned toward Ferraz. He drove slowly, serenely, accepting the customary Friday night traffic. He'd told Elisa that the car they were in was "safe" (a friend had lent it to him for the night), but added that the last thing he wanted was to get pulled over by the cops and have them ask for his ID. Elisa listened, thinking that considering all that had happened (and was happening), a ticket was the last thing on her mind. Her brain was like a Gordian knot. Every little while she looked over at Valente's aquiline profile and wondered if he were insane. He seemed to realize this.
"I know this is hard for you to believe, sweetheart. Let's see if I can't give you a little more proof. Have you had the feeling that people were following you recently? People who looked the same? I dunno, redheads, or cops, or street sweepers?"
Elisa was stunned. She felt like she'd just awoken from what she thought was a nightmare only to find someone telling her that she had never been sleeping. When she told Valente about the men with gray mustaches, he gave a hollow laugh as he braked at a red light.
"Mine were beggars. In the industry, they're known as decoys. Red herrings. They're not really watching you at all; in fact, just the opposite. All they're trying to do is get you to notice them. You know, like in the movies, there's always some guy that the protagonist notices, sitting there pretending to read the paper or wait for a bus, all the while actually spying on him. But in real life, all you ever see are the decoys. Believe me, I know what I'm talking about," he added, turning his pasty face toward her. "My father is a surveillance specialist. He says decoys are used for purely psychological reasons. If you think there are men with gray mustaches watching you, your brain will seek them out unconsciously and discard anyone who doesn't fit the bill. Then you convince yourself that you're being paranoid, lower your guard, and stop noticing other strange coincidences. Meanwhile, the real spies have a field day. Though my guess is that we've given them the slip for the eve."
Elisa was impressed. What Valente was saying was exactly what she'd been feeling over the past few days. She was going to ask another question when she realized he'd pulled over. He parked quickly beside a big Dumpster and began walking down toward Paseo de Pintor Rosales. She kept pace with him, still feeling dazed, having no idea where they were headed (she'd already asked and he hadn't answered, and she had too many other important concerns to repeat the question). So now she followed him without complaining as she tried to fit the pieces of that mind-boggling puzzle together.
"You say they're watching us, but who is 'they'? And why?"
"I'm not sure." Valente's hands were jammed down into his pockets, and though he appeared calm, she felt like he was walking awfully fast. She had trouble falling in with his meticulous steps. "Have you ever heard of ECHELON?"
&
nbsp; "It rings a bell. I read something about it awhile ago. Some kind of... international surveillance system, right?"
"The surveillance system, the most important one in the world, sweetheart. My father used to work for them, that's how I know. Did you know that everything you say on the phone, or buy with a credit card, or search on the Internet is tracked, examined, and filtered by computers? ECHELON tracks all of us, every citizen in the country, and ranks us according to our perceived threat. If the computers decide we're of interest, up goes a red flag, and then they really start to trail us: decoys, bugs, the whole shebang. That's ECHELON, the global Big Brother. We have to watch our asses, they say, so we don't end up sitting on broken glass. September 11 in New York and March 11 in Madrid brought us right back to Adam and Eve days. We're stark naked, and they're watching. ECHELON isn't Spanish, though. It's American. My dad once told me that Europe has something comparable, a surveillance system that uses similar tactics. Maybe that's who's watching us."
"I'm hearing you loud and clear, but I have to say ... this all seems ... I mean, why would ECHELON, or anybody, care about us?"
"I don't know. But I have an idea. And that's what we're going to find out."
"What's your idea?"
"They're watching us because we're the top two in Blanes's class."
Elisa laughed out loud. It was true that great physicists tended to be a little weird, but Valente appeared to be a total freak.
"You must be joking."
Valente stopped short and looked at her, hard. He was wearing, as usual, flamboyant clothes: white jeans and an off-white sweater with such a wide neckline that it almost slid off one of his bony shoulders. His straw-colored hair fell into his eyes. She heard the irritation in his voice.
"Listen, sweetheart. I went to a lot of trouble to organize this little meeting. I've spent a whole week sending you little drawings and hoping you were smart enough to decipher the message, OK? If you don't believe me, that's your problem. I'm not going to waste any more time with you."
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