“You would find dozens of fictitious payments, made by anonymous underwriters of a fund that doesn’t actually exist and deposited in an Irish Bank. Unaware of everything.”
“And stay still!” she will yell at him. “Fuck, can’t you stay still for five minutes? I have to think.”
Give me proof. Please, I need proof.
“Tell me why the fuck I should believe you,” she will suddenly say tiredly. “Give me proof that it’s not just your words. And hurry, because this thing is heavy, and I can’t wait for it to be over, one way or another. So if you don’t give me something to believe in, within two minutes, I’ll push this button and get it over with.”
He will nod, looking at the floor for a few seconds. By now, he will have to take risks; he cannot think of another solution. “All right. If you don’t believe me, and I can understand that, then will you believe this story if another person confirms it to you?”
“Who?”
“Margareth Madison, the journalist. I told you, I told you earlier. Where I went last night. About what I did. I told you she’s the one who gave me the money. Call her, and hear in her voice if it’s true.”
The woman will move her head slightly. “It might be a trick, another woman. An accomplice of yours, maybe.”
“Yes, it might, but it isn’t. And then, sorry, open the holographic connector. It takes a minute. Margareth Madison. She writes for a private contract company in the Chicago Sun Times. Check it out.”
The woman will stand still for a couple of seconds, then move towards the holographic connector. “Don’t move.”
“Don’t move,” he will echo, in an annoyed tone. “And who’s moving? I’m in a fairy tale here.”
The woman will place the personal display communicator and holographic connector on the table, connecting it. She will put in a search. Her left hand will move nervously and impaled clumsy in space, observing the sitting man through the transparent sheet and aiming the gun at him with her other hand.
“What did you say her name is?”
“Madison, Margareth. She writes for the Chicago Sun Times.”
The Captain will get up, shaking his head. “Can we still get coffee here?” he will ask the guard.
“Let’s get to the crux of the matter. Why would Janus give you all that money?”
“To have a compilation of databases. He was in a hurry. He had to hand over the work to the client, and he couldn’t do it in time alone. He needed someone to do network research and information database development.”
“A kind of subcontracting,” Cervetti will comment.
The young man will nod.
“Yes. Subcontracting. Part of the work, but complex.”
“What’s complex about it? What were you going to do?”
“Build the parameters for Janus to develop the software,” the young man will say, almost in a whisper.
“Do we have to pull your words out one by one, or do you want to explain once and for all what it is?” the Captain will say. “Answer the Commissioner! Is the automatic translator clear?”
The young man will touch the earpiece in his head, nodding. “Yes, it’s clear. He had to develop software for a rifle. The software is used to manage a whole series of hardware parts automatically, leaving the shooter free to focus only on shooting, or rather the decision to make the shot. It must manage all problems related to light, visibility and above all, wind and weather conditions. My job was to build all the parameters related to this last part and give them, ready for compilation, to Janus.”
In the meeting room, twenty-seven hours later, the magistrate will jump into the chair.
“Stop image!” the magistrate will comment, entering the room and touching the hologram of the young man with his index finger. “Then we have confirmation. It’s a rifle.”
Cervetti will nod, pointing in front of them and restarting the scene. “What kind of rifle were you working with? We want to know the model, caliber, all the technical characteristics.”
The boy will fidget in the chair.
The woman will compose the sentences, then she will look at the projection. Behind the kitchen table will appear a blonde talking into the microphone.
“Well, now you’ve seen what she looks like and what she does.”
“Yes. Now what?”
“And now go to the page... I don’t remember… between ten and twenty, put the search on yesterday’s edition of that newspaper. Enter the company I told you, Medoc. And read about the massacre. And then, look among the victims. I told you they gave me up for dead. Well, take a look and check.”
The woman will move her fingers, always checking the man through the three-dimensional sheet. She will read, still moving her fingers, checking several times. Finally, she will look strangely through the sheet at the face of the man declared dead, sitting there in front of her.
“Okay, now, call Madison. If you let me move a hand, I’ll write the number for you. Her personal, private number. You won’t find that published.”
“With the left!” the woman will say, pointing the weapon, which will cross the body of the journalist speaking into the microphone.
He will slowly move his hand and compose the sequence of digits, then place it under his buttock again. “Now, if you don’t mind, call her. And if she looks like her, then you tell her you’re a friend of mine and ask if you can pass the call to me. If she accepts, you turn it over. All right?”
The woman will remain staring at him, as if stupefied.
“Reason, Beatrix, that’s what you’re looking for. Let’s just hope she answers your number. If she agrees to talk to me, that means she knows me. Listen to the conversation, and you’ll have all the evidence you want. What are you risking?”
She will look at him, pensive.
“Reduce the size of the sheet; it’s not nice for her to see you with a gun in your hand. Normal people usually take it badly.”
The woman will not move a muscle, continuing to think.
“At least give me this chance.”
The black woman will stand up to study him.
“Don’t move.”
“Isn’t that clear, the Commissioner’s question?” the Captain will ask.
“Yes, the question is clear,” the young man will answer, raising his hands, still in handcuffs. “But it doesn’t exist, that rifle. Thank you.”
The guard will have placed three cups of coffee on the table, one in front of the young man.
“Why doesn’t it exist?” the Captain will ask. “Can’t we take the handcuffs off the boy? We’re here, Officer.”
The guard will do so.
“What, doesn’t it exist?” the Magistrate will ask, looking at Cervetti by his side.
The Commissioner will again indicate the hologram in front of the table, nodding his head to listen.
“Because this rifle, the one Janus told me about, is not in production. It’s not even on the market. They’re designing it.”
“Who?” Cervetti will rise. “Who is designing it?”
“I don’t know,” the young man will say, taking the coffee cup in his hand. “He didn’t tell me. All I know is that you need three components to make it happen.”
“And what are they?”
“Well, the first is the software.”
“And this is the part for Janus, who subcontracted a part to you.”
“That’s right,” the boy will say, sipping coffee. “Then the optics. And then, of course, the actual rifle.”
“And these three parts must then be mounted together. And who has the overall plan?”
“I don’t know. I just had to do my part. You have drawings of that. The other two I don’t know... I guess Janus didn’t know either. Maybe, the customer.”
Cervetti will get up without drinking his own coffee.
“But wouldn’t it be easier to modify an existing weapon?”
The young man will shake his head.
“No existing weapon would be a
ble to do what the customer asks. t’s all to be redesigned. An epochal leap, technologically speaking.”
The woman, entering with her left hand the sequence written by the man in the central space, will press send. In transparency, as the numbers showing the empty call number will flow, the woman will observe the man sitting in front of her.
Answer.
The man’s face will seem unperturbed, while the numbers will slide past in transparency several times.
Answer.
“Hello,” the hologram of a blonde woman, sitting at a desk, will enter the kitchen.
“Yes... hello?” the black woman will almost stammer. “Ms. Madison?”
“It’s me.”
“Madison from the Chicago Sun Times?”
“Excuse me, who are you?”
The black woman will imperceptibly lower the gun under the screen.
“I… I’m a friend of John Whiley’s.”
The woman will look at her with a face full of anxiety.
“May I... can I put him on?” the black woman will say uncertainly. “He is here with me.”
The woman will seem surprised, but won’t hesitate to answer. “Yes, of course.”
The black woman will suddenly sit down in the kitchen chair, laying the gun on the table. Whiley will move, turning the sheet towards himself.
“Whiley!” the blonde will say sitting at the desk “What happened? I’ve been waiting three-quarters of an hour for your call.”
“I had a setback, I’ll explain later.”
“But who is that woman?” the blonde will ask anxiously. “You told me that no one should know anything.”
Whiley will look at the black woman, sitting with her hands folded to listen to the conversation, as if in another dimension.
“We need to see each other as soon as possible, to talk about the research.”
“Naturally. But where?”
“Let’s say in three-quarters of an hour. Shall we meet in front of the Michigan Avenue Bridge?”
“Help me understand. Are we talking about a prototype rifle? A weapon with innovative features, I guess. And what is the essential feature of such a weapon?”
The boy will sip the coffee, then place the cup on the white table of the interrogation room.
“It must kill at a great distance.”
“How far?” Cervetti will ask, slight anxiety in his voice.
The boy will look at his interlocutors on the other side of the table.
“It must strike at a distance never tried before.”
“A sniper rifle,” Jankowski will comment.
“Yes.”
“How great a distance is it?” Cervetti will ask.
The boy will stare at the white interior of the cup, dirty halfway up with coffee residue.
“The prototype of the rifle is designed for a maximum theoretical range of about six thousand nine hundred meters.”
The Captain will turn his head towards the Commissioner with a snap.
Cervetti will stop walking around the room and turn to the young man, laying his hands on the interrogation table. “Do you also know at what actual distance they plan to use it?” he will ask, lowering his voice.
The young man will turn the cup for a few seconds, producing an annoying noise on the table.
“I... I was commissioned to do tests up to three thousand meters.”
The Commissioner will sit back in the chair, and the young man will approach, lowering his voice further. “Tests on what?”
“I told you. Pressure, air humidity, wind above all. Under different climatic conditions. Everything you need to handle a shot like that.”
“And with your testing parameters, do you think such a shot is possible?”
“I don’t know... it depends on the optics, on the rifle. But if the three parts work together, in theory...”
The young man will put a hand on his lips.
“That’s fine with me. But what happened?”
“Everything is fine. I’ll explain it later,” he’ll reassure her. “Three quarters of an hour.”
He’ll turn off the communication, and the transparent sheet between himself and the woman will disappear. The small kitchen will be invaded by the sunlight that will filter through the window onto the table. He will look at the black woman, sitting with her hands on her lap, appearing on the verge of crying.
“Do you want to accompany me with your car?” he will ask.
“What?”
“To the bus stop. If you like, of course. I have to go to the appointment.”
She will look up, nod, run her fingers through the mass of curly hair on her head, inhale deeply while looking at the table, as if trying to organize in her brain all the information acquired in the last half hour.
“Beatrix? I’m going to put the money package in the trunk in the shed.” The man will get up, take the package, the keys, and go out into the yard. A few minutes later, he will return to the living room and take his jacket and that of the woman, along with the two hats he bought the day before, then return to the kitchen.
The woman will still be standing looking at the table.
“Beatrix.”
The black woman will slowly raise her head. “What?”
“We should go,” he will say, passing her the jacket.
She’ll get up, and he will help her put on her jacket. Then he’ll put on his own and pass her hat, putting on his own. He will take the gun and look at it.
“Anyway, you couldn’t shoot it, you know?”
She will look at him with a questioning air.
“It’s a military weapon. Programmable. I put in my fingerprints, and the handle doesn’t allow others to use the trigger. You couldn’t have hurt me even if you wanted to.”
The man will place the gun in his jacket pocket, starting toward the door. The woman will follow him as he opens it and stops on the porch, under the roof.
“In theory?”
“Yes, here, if my experimental data is mounted processed by Janus in a program that automatically adjusts the shooting parameters, assuming that the shooter is really out of the ordinary, and if...”
“Get to the point, boy!” Cervetti will interrupt him, suddenly raising his voice. “Let’s be clear. Now, look, I’ll ask you if this chair can go bang on that wall, look carefully!”
The Commissioner will take his metal chair with one hand, spin it over his head and then violently throw it against the wall. The chair will bounce several times with a loud metallic noise in the middle of the room. The boy will jump and the Captain will turn around, looking with surprise at the Italian Commissioner.
“Now I ask you a simple thing: do you believe that a chair can slam on the wall, if thrown?”
“What?”
The man with dark curly hair will approach a couple of feet from the young man’s face. “Do you believe” he will scream in his face, “that a chair can slam on the wall, if thrown?”
The boy will look with fear at the tall man, whose strange talk will reach his ears through the translator. “I think so... yes.”
“Well!” the Commissioner will shout. “And now I repeat the question I asked you before. In your opinion, with the idea that you’ve been working on those parameters, is this a rifle that can potentially fire up to three kilometers and hit a man? Don’t fuck with technical explanations. Simply answer yes or no!”
The boy will study the man looking at him with flashing eyes, then at the chair on the floor, then again at the man. “I think so,” he will stammer. “I mean, yes.”
“Stop the recording,” the Magistrate will order, running a hand over his receding hairline. The man, sitting at the table, will look at the interrogation room in the dim light of the office.
A cold and bright morning will dawn gently. She will lock the door, put the keys in her pocket, and follow him when he is already on the gravel path in the yard, clutching his jacket.
“John,” she will say, thoughtful, descending the
three wooden steps.
“What?” he will ask, turning, his hands in his pocket.
She will stop by his side, in the yard. “Before, I was going to press the police number,” she will say, looking at him, still confused. “If the gun was useless, why didn’t you stop me?”
He’ll look at the grass on the lawn, then he’ll shrug his shoulders. “For two days, people who don’t know me haven’t believed what I say. I was hoping you would.”
In the driveway, the sun’s rays will be broken by the twisted branches of the now bare trees, and the yellow leaves will form a carpet of color that will contrast softly with the greenery of the yard. The woman will stand looking at the man who, turning around, will stick his hands in his pocket, again walking in the gravel driveway.
She will find no words to respond.
He will slowly rise, go to the sensor at the window, and order the communicator to open the curtains. Gradually, with an imperceptible hum, the sun’s rays will cross the holographic projection of the interrogation room from the bottom up. When the light of Rome is back in the room, he will stand by and watch the Italian Commissioner sitting at the table and his lookalike in the holographic room, next to a metal chair on the ground.
Friday, 9:27 a.m.
Old electric cars will slide into city traffic at scheduled speeds, automatically keeping distances between them and slowing to a stop in case of obstacles, such as unexpected objects on the road or pedestrians. Removing automatic functions from the car in city traffic will be prohibited by law enforcement, who will check the traffic control and parameters of each individual car with special control units.
“Can’t you go a little faster?” the man will ask.
“I’m already at the limits,” the black woman will answer. “Anyway, we’re almost there.”
The woman will move into the middle lane.
“What are you going to do now?”
Futura: Parallel Universes. Book 2 Page 19