Zig Zag

by Jose Carlos Somoza

  No one spoke. Everyone looked at Elisa. She found it hard to speak, even though Jacqueline's story was far worse than hers.

  "I always thought they were just fantasies," she said, her mouth running dry. "I imagine him visiting me every night at a certain time. I have to wait for him, and I have to be scantily dressed. Then he comes and tells me things. Terrible things. Things he'll do to me, or to the people I love, if I don't obey him ... He terrifies me, too. But I thought... it was just a fantasy."

  "That's the worst thing," Jacqueline agreed. "We wanted to think it was just us, even though we knew it wasn't."

  "There has to be some sort of explanation." Blanes was massaging his temples. "I don't mean a rational explanation. We're physicists, mostly, and we know reality doesn't have to be rational. But there has to be an explanation. Something we can prove. A theory. We have to come up with a theory in order to make sense of what's happening to us."

  "There are several possibilities." Silberg's voice was unrecognizable. There was something about it that seemed silent, like the house, like the countryside at night. "Let's see if we can rule them out, narrow it down. First: Eagle Group is solely responsible. They drugged us and did this to us."

  "No," Blanes said. "It's true they've been hiding information from us, but they're as lost as we are."

  And as scared, Elisa thought.

  "OK, then. Two: the Impact. I know for a fact that the Lake of the Sun and the Jerusalem Woman had some sort of effect on all of us. And Eagle is right when they say the effects are completely unknown. Maybe it's the Impact that's making us so obsessed with ... that thing. Maybe it's a product of our disturbed unconscious ... Let's say Valente went crazy and found a way to kill Rosalyn and Ross ... I'm not talking about how he did it, just the act itself. And suppose the same thing is happening now, to one of us. Maybe Sergio, or maybe one of the people in this room right now. I know it sounds insane, but just suppose that one of us ... is behind Colin's and Nadja's deaths." Silberg's idea had sown panic.

  "Regardless," Blanes remarked, "the Impact could explain the similarities between our visions and the changes in our lives. Are there any other possibilities?"

  "One more," Silberg replied, nodding. "A mystery. Like faith. Something incomprehensible. The unknown factor."

  "In mathematics, we tend to find the value of the unknown," Blanes said. "And we'll have to find this one if we want to survive."

  Jacqueline's voice got their attention abruptly.

  "I can tell you one thing. Whatever it is, I'm sure that it's wicked. And it's real. Very real. It's evil. And it's stalking us."

  PART SEVEN

  On the Run

  … it sometimes requires courage to fly from danger.

  MARIA EDGEWORTH

  25

  Madrid March 12, 2015 1:30 A.M.

  "AND that was it," Elisa said. "We ended the meeting, agreeing that if something happened, David or Reinhard would call the rest of us and use a code word to signal that we should meet here again, and that the house was still safe. 'Zig Zag' was our code, since that was the name of the project. We decided the meeting would be at twelve thirty on the same night as the call. Meanwhile, David and Reinhard would try to get more information, and Jacqueline and I would wait. And that was what we did. Or what I did, anyway. Wait."

  She ran a hand through her wavy black hair and sighed deeply. She'd told the worst of it and felt a little calmer now.

  "Of course, it wasn't easy, living like that. We knew we couldn't trust Eagle or their specialists when they interviewed us, but luckily those sessions became more sporadic. And they gradually left us alone, as if we no longer mattered. From time to time I got messages from David; he'd send me textbooks with notes hidden in the binding—'conclusions,' he called them. They were just brief memos about whether their investigation was getting anywhere ... but I never knew exactly what kind of investigation they were conducting. I'm assuming he'll tell us now..." She cocked an inquiring eyebrow at Blanes, who nodded. "Anyway, time went by, and I just tried to carry on with my life. The dreams, the nightmares, they were always there. But David insisted we try to act as if we didn't know anything. I bought that huge butcher knife, not to attack anyone or to defend myself, I now know, but to quickly end my suffering when the time came. But slowly, years went by, and in the end I really believed I was safe, that the worst of it was over..." She stifled a sob. "And then this morning in class, I saw the article about Marini in the paper. I spent all day waiting for the call. And finally the phone rang and I heard David's voice say, 'Zig Zag,' and I knew it had started all over again ... That's it, Victor. Or at least that's as much as I know."

  She paused, but it was as if she hadn't stopped speaking. No one dared interrupt. No one moved. The four of them sat at the table, gathered around the lamp's weak glow. Elisa turned to Blanes, and then toward Jacqueline Clissot.

  "And now what I want to know is, which one of you betrayed us?" she said in a different tone entirely.

  Blanes and Jacqueline exchanged glances.

  "No one betrayed anyone, Elisa," Blanes said. "Eagle found out about the meeting, that's all."

  "That's not what Harrison says."

  "He's lying."

  Or is it you that's lying? Still staring at her old professor, Elisa tucked her hair behind her ears and dried the tears that streamed down her face while recounting those awful memories. Blanes, she sincerely hoped, would not have been so stupid. Either way, it's too late now.

  Blanes took over.

  "What really matters right now is updating you all on what we know. Reinhard and I have found out several things. We obtained information from confidential reports that were leaked; this is secret but verifiable information—"

  "David, you know they're listening in right now," Elisa warned.

  "I know, but it doesn't matter. They aren't the ones I'm most concerned about. I'm going to give you some new information. We didn't want to tell you anything until we had proof, and we still don't have much, but Sergio's death made us realize it was time to lay our cards on the table. We don't have a whole lot of news, just a few haphazard particulars, but I think everyone's case is pretty similar. Let's start with yours, Jacqueline." He gestured toward the paleontologist. "They brainwashed Jacqueline for the first time when we left New Nelson. She spent a month on the Aegean base, where they purged her memory using drugs and hypnosis. But after her second ... what do they call it? ... 'reintegration'... After her second reintegration, she started to remember things."

  "Unfortunately," Clissot threw in.

  "No, not unfortunately," Blanes corrected. "The lies would have done you more harm." He turned to the others. "At first, Jacqueline saw only jumbled, fragmented images. But when we sent her the first autopsy reports, she began to remember concrete details. Like the things she found on Rosalyn Reiter's body. Why don't you tell us about that, Jacqueline?"

  Clissot rested her elbows on the table and pressed her fingertips together, inspecting her hands under the lamp's dim glow as if they were a fragile work of art. Then she did something that—oddly—sent a shiver down Elisa's back. She smiled. The entire time she spoke, she wore a tense, horrid grin.

  "Fine. Well, I didn't have the proper equipment to do an autopsy on the island, but I still found ... things. At first, it just seemed like what you'd expect: intense erythema and eschars resulting from the joule heat—that's the heat produced from an electric current. She had burns and markings on her right hand from the cables, her body showed signs of metallization... all that was normal, considering the fact that she received a five-hundred-volt shock. But beneath the burns, I found other markings that bore no relation to electricity: mutilations, parts of her body that had been cut and even ripped off... And there were things about her body's state of preservation that made no sense at all. I wanted to tell Carter about it, but that's when the explosion occurred. It happened when I was on my way back to the barracks, so I wasn't hurt at all. I even helped evacuate the rest of t
he team."

  "Keep going," Blanes prodded.

  "Well, before we left, Carter asked me to take a look at... at what was in the pantry. I'm a forensic anthropologist, but when I saw that, I lost it entirely. It was like it blinded me. I couldn't see clearly after that, until David's reports jarred my memory." Jacqueline traced circles on the table with her finger as she smiled, as if the conversation amused her. "For instance, I saw half a face on the floor, I think it was Cheryl's, and it had been sectioned, layer by layer, sliced neatly like ... like the pages of a book. I'd never seen anything like that in my life, and I have no idea what could possibly do that. Certainly not a hatchet or even a knife. Ric Valente? No ... I don't know who could have possibly done that, or who gutted her and smeared her blood all over the walls, the ceiling, the floor, I mean every inch of the room was covered, like paint. I don't know who, or how, but it certainly wasn't your average Joe..." She fell silent.

  "And then I sent you Craig's and Nadja's reports," Blanes was gently prodding, trying to get her to keep talking.

  "Yes, then there was more. Colin's brain, for example, had been removed and sliced into thin layers. His entrails had been ripped out and replaced with other extremities that had been amputated, as though ... as though it was a game of some kind, and his blood was all over the living room, which had also been totaled. And Nadja's head had been carved. Her cranium was filed so far down it was unrecognizable ... The kind of trench of a thing that takes water years to form a rock; no machine could have done it so fast. Bizarre things like that..."

  "And there were a few surprises in those test results, too, weren't there?" Blanes asked when she fell silent again. The paleontologist nodded.

  "Their livers showed no glycogen, not a trace. The lack of autolysis in the pancreas and absence of lipids in the suprarenal capsules would indicate slow, lengthy agony. And the level of catecholamines in the blood confirm that, too. I don't know if this is all a bit too technical for you, Victor. When a person is tortured, the body undergoes an enormous amount of stress, and the glands over the kidneys—the suprarenal capsules—secrete catecholamines, which bring on tachycardia, increased blood pressure, and other physical changes designed to protect us. The level of these hormones in the blood can essentially reveal the degree of suffering the person has endured, and tell us how long it lasted. But Colin's and Nadja's test results were totally impossible, comparable to prisoners of war who have undergone very prolonged torture. The suprarenal glandular tissue was so enlarged it seemed to have been working at capacity for an extended period of time, and that points to ... weeks, maybe months, of torture." Victor swallowed.

  "That doesn't make any sense." He cast a glance at the others, disconcerted.

  "It's true, it bears no relation to how fast they died," Blanes corroborated, validating Victor's shock. "For example, Cheryl Ross had only been in the pantry for two hours. Stevenson, who was there when Craig found her body, didn't leave his post by the trapdoor, and he didn't see or hear anything out of the ordinary while he was stationed there. But Elisa said that she could hear someone's steps in the pantry at night. So how could Valente manage to get in without being seen and do everything he supposedly did to Ross that fast, and in total silence? Besides, there was no sign of intruders, no weapons were found, nothing. And, of course, there are no witnesses, not a single one, and I don't mean just eyewitnesses. No one even heard anything. No cries, noises, shouting, nothing. Not even in Nadja's case, and she was savagely butchered in a matter of minutes, in an apartment with very thin walls."

  Elisa paid very close attention. Some of what she heard was new to her, too.

  "And yet..." Blanes leaned over the table, still staring at Victor. The lamplight accentuated his features. "Every person who saw at least one of the crime scenes, every single one, including the authorities and specialists, went into some sort of shock. That's what they're calling it, though they don't know exactly what it is. The symptoms range from a temporary state of alienation—like Stevenson and Craig in the pantry—to sudden panic and anxiety—like Reinhard at the trapdoor—to a state of psychosis that doesn't respond to any standard treatment."

  "But the crimes were atrocious," Victor protested. "I mean, of course people would react that way..."

  "No." They all turned to look at Jacqueline Clissot. "I'm a forensic examiner, Victor, I do this all the time. But when I went down to that pantry and saw Cheryl's remains, I was totally traumatized."

  "What we're trying to say is that the reaction is not a hundred percent related to the degree of horror," Blanes stated. "These reactions are totally abnormal, even after seeing things that disturbing. Think about it: the soldiers, for example, are experienced men..."

  "I get it," Victor said. "Still, the reactions are unusual, but not impossible."

  "I know that," Blanes said, narrowing his eyes. "I still haven't told you the impossible part. Listen to this."

  HARRISON knew that perfection meant protection.

  You could say he was just a workaholic, but those who knew him best (or as close to "best" as Harrison ever let anyone get) would have had the chicken-and-egg debate about it. Did he end up like that because of his job, or had he chosen his job because he was like that?

  Harrison himself didn't know the answer. His professional and personal lives overlapped. He'd gotten married and divorced, spent twenty years as head of security for scientific projects, had a daughter who lived far away and whom he never saw, and all that just made him more aware of the "sacrifices" he'd made. And that awareness was exactly what made him so good at his job. Harrison knew he was doing "the right thing." He was protecting; that was what he did. If he didn't eat, or sleep, if he aged fifteen years overnight and had no free time, all that was the price you paid to "protect" others. It was a role most people on the world's stage didn't want to play, and Harrison had taken the lead.

  "No cracks." That was how his superiors described him. He was a man who had no cracks. Regardless of what that expression might mean to other people, Harrison saw himself as armor plating. Just as dogs take after their owners, eventually men take after their jobs. And as head of Eagle Group's project security, Harrison knew that what he had to do was create a field of armor-plated protection around his clients. Nothing could penetrate it. Nothing in, nothing out.

  And everything had been all right until ten years ago, when Zig Zag somehow managed to breach a gap.

  He thought about that as he left the house in Soto del Real very late that night, accompanied by three other men. The March night was far colder in the mountains surrounding Madrid than it was in the city, but Harrison was used to far worse, and as soon as he got into the car he was comfortable once more. It was a Mercedes S-Class W Special, the body as black and shiny as a transvestite's stilettos, the windows reinforced with thermoplastic and the body with Kevlar. A 9.5-millimeter bullet fired at the windshield at three thousand feet per second would do no more damage than a kamikaze insect flying into the screen. A hand grenade, mortar, or IED might incapacitate the vehicle, but no one traveling in the car would be hurt too badly. Harrison felt good in that bunker on wheels. Not 100 percent safe ("Safety is knowing that you're never safe," he told his disciples), but reasonably good, which is all any reasonable man could aspire to.

  The driver pulled out immediately, maneuvering skillfully between two other cars and a van parked in front of the house, and slipped into the dark night with the silence of a satellite. It was 1:45, the stars twinkled in the sky, the road was empty, and even the most pessimistic estimate put them at the airport in half an hour: plenty of time to greet the new arrival.

  Harrison pondered.

  After a few minutes, sitting still as a statue, he took his hand out of his jacket pocket. "Hand me the monitor."

  The man sitting on his left passed him an object that looked like a bar of Belgian chocolate. It was a five-inch flat-screen TFT monitor with high-definition resolution good enough to make you swear you had a movie theater in the palm
of your hand. The menu had four options: computer, TV, GPS, and videoconference. Harrison selected the last one and then clicked on the "Integrated Systems" option. It beeped, and immediately the L-shaped room where the four scientists sat chatting popped up on the screen. In spite of the weak light, the image was extraordinarily crisp and the color of their clothes and hair was easily discernible. The sound quality was superb. Harrison could choose from two angles, since there were two different hidden cameras filming. But neither of them had a clear shot of Elisa Robledo from straight on, so he settled for a profile, from the right. Jacqueline Clissot was speaking.

  "No. I'm a forensic examiner, Victor, I do this all the time. But when I went down to that pantry and saw Cheryl's remains, I was totally traumatized."