Futura: Parallel Universes. Book 2

by Valerio Malvezzi

“I’ll see that reporter. We’re going to try to find out something.”

  “Yes, but then?”

  “Then I’ll leave. If that’s what you mean.”

  “I didn’t mean that. It was just to know. In fact, I wanted to tell you... You don’t have to leave. I mean, if you don’t know where to go. So that’s that. If you want, you can stay and sleep at my place tonight.”

  The man will look out the window. “We’re almost there,” he will say.

  The woman will stop the car.

  “I’ll let you know when I’m ready,” he will say, opening the door.

  “Yes, but how do I find you?” she will ask, taking him by the arm.

  “You have Madison’s number. Maybe I’ll get one, I don’t know yet. If you need something, call her. We’ll probably be together.”

  The woman will let go of his arm. “What about the money?” she will ask.

  “Keep it inside, in the trunk. It’ll be safer there.”

  The man will hold the door open.

  “Look, John, first...”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’ll contact you.” He will close the door, walking through the crowd.

  “... I’m sorry,” she’ll murmur, watching him go.

  185 days earlier

  Rome will be wonderful that morning at the end of May. Despite modernity’s occasional disruption of the austerity of ancient stones, the scent of a millennial civilization will continue to fascinate the thousands of tourists who will continue to flock there, hungry to know the eternal city. From the window of an ancient building, made modern by technology, a man will look from a window with slightly darkened glass at the people walking down the street below. The magistrate will smooth his dark mustache as he looks into the street through the window’s darkened glass. The two men to whom he will turn his back will be seated at the table in slightly dim light.

  “You’re telling me, Commissioner,” the man will say, as if absorbed in observing the traffic in the street below, “that we have a weapon capable of attacking the life of a person with an incredible distance of three thousand meters?”

  Chief Inspector Santilli will answer, “We’re not sure yet, Doctor. It’s just a hypothesis, being studied for now. Frankly, that also seems far-fetched to us. However, we are taking it seriously. We have already sought the advice of our ballistics experts to study all the data, and diagrams that we have found in the arrested person’s home.”

  The magistrate will move his head several times, slowly. “And your opinion, Cervetti?” he will ask, without turning around. “Could there be a connection with our investigation? It would be important to understand whether this weapon will serve a foreign army for its special forces, killers to assassinate an organized crime boss, or perhaps a general from some distant African country. Or, and this is what we’re really interested in, to attack the life of the Holy Father.”

  The Commissioner will squirm in the chair, an old wooden one with leather padding, looking for a more comfortable position, feeling a numb leg.

  “Because in the latter hypothesis, I believe there is a nightmare for us, in terms of the security service” the magistrate will add. “Or am I wrong?”

  Of the thirty-eight bridges that will cross the Chicago River, the city of the same name, Michigan Avenue, which marked the birth of the fabulous Magnificent Mile, will certainly be one of the most famous. Whiley will know that in that area of the city the flow of passers-by will always be high and that tourists will go to see one of the famous tilting bridges, stopping to observe a masterpiece of the technique of the time. In the spring, it will open to make way for the sailing ships that will spend the winter in the inland lakes, and in autumn to allow them to make the reverse journey.

  The blonde will be on the sidewalk in a green coat, hair pulled back, and a pair of brown boots. She will be standing in an easily identifiable spot and will keep her shoulder hunched against her neck to protect herself from the wind, more annoying than usual that morning.

  “It took you long enough to arrive. But what happened? Who was that woman?”

  Whiley will clap his hands to reactivate the circulation. “It’s cold this morning. A woman friend of mine. I’ll tell you later. So, where are we going?”

  “I thought you would tell me.”

  “We simply need a safe place, access to the holographic network, and some time to do some research. We could go to one of the bars around here. There are a lot of people.”

  The woman will turn to look around the passers-by who will walk quickly in the shopping area, heading to the neighboring streets.

  “I have a better idea.”

  “That is?”

  “My house. It’s ten minutes away. I’ve got the car back here.”

  Whiley will stare at the woman, thinking. “Since you invited me to your house, and we have to work together, let’s call each other by our first names.”

  “Why do you want to start from this?” the blonde will ask, offering her guest a coffee cup. The apartment, on the fifteenth floor of a downtown building, will be small but pleasant.

  The Commissioner will raise his arms, looking at the inspector to his right. “Unfortunately, I’m led to believe, Doctor, that there are elements of connection. And that it’s not a weapon designed to kill many enemies, or to become a series project.”

  “And what makes him think that?” the magistrate will ask, always looking at the window.

  “Perhaps, if we can hear some other passage of the interrogation, you will convince yourself.”

  The magistrate will turn around, walk through the room and come back to sit down.

  “Santilli, please, let’s skip the technical part and see the central part of the interrogation,” the Commissioner will say.

  “The part where he answers questions about the client’s needs?” Santilli will ask.

  “That’s right. Show us the scene.”

  Commissioner Cervetti will be sitting at the interrogation table, in a room illuminated by a strong electric light, while through the window, the sun will appear to be rising.

  “So, Janus told you that you had to design software according to the patterns of the weapon we found in your house, right?”

  “Precisely.”

  “And who gave those plans to Janus?”

  “He told me they came directly from his client.”

  “His client,” Cervetti will repeat.

  “Yes.”

  “But have you ever physically met Janus?”

  “Never. We’ve always met in the virtual world.”

  “And on those occasions Janus explained to you how you had to operate, based on instructions directly from the client. Is that correct?”

  “Yes. That’s right.”

  The Commissioner will get up from the table and walk into the bare room, stopping by the window. “So, it’s reasonable to assume, according to what you say, that Janus’ client should be an experienced person.”

  The man and woman will be in a tidy and functional living room sitting in front of an oval glass coffee table. On it will be the communicator, the woman’s personal display, and a holographic connector.

  “You have to start from somewhere,” he will comment, taking the cup.

  The woman will sit in front of him. “So, what shall I do?”

  He will sip the boiling-hot coffee.

  “Be yourself. Contact her. Ask for information. Try to understand if there are any connections between this book and other articles and publications. Try to butter her up a little; these writers are always a little vain. Maybe she’ll tell you something useful for our research.” The man will put the cup on the coffee table. “In short, I certainly don’t have to teach you your work.”

  The woman will look at him, a little hesitant. “But I’m not familiar with that novel. I didn’t read it. And I won’t know what she’s talking about.”

  “Make something up.”

  She’ll think about it for a second. “Ok,” she will say, dial
ing the number. “Let’s go.”

  An overweight woman with reddish hair will appear in the living room.

  “Jane Rosbow?”

  “Yes, who are you?” the redhead will ask in an inquisitive tone.

  “Margareth Madison. I write for the Chicago Sun Times.”

  The woman will sit on what looks like a sofa in her home, immediately appearing more friendly.

  “Good morning, tell me.”

  “Good morning. Look, we heard, and I don’t know if it’s true, that you wrote a very interesting novel. But that for some reason it was not published on the holographic network. Is it true, or is it unfounded news?”

  Don’t waste your time, girl.

  “Man is it ever true!” the redhead will say, clapping her hands on her knees. “And it really made me angry. Only, you don’t understand who to protest to. It disappeared. My editor puts it on the net, nothing. After a few minutes, I don’t know how many, they tell me that there are technical problems.”

  “Of course,” the young man will reply, looking into the empty coffee cup in front of him. “He had to be able to know the matter perfectly. There was talk of very technical subjects. I had to do extensive research to find the specifications the customer requested. But that one knew exactly what to ask.”

  “So, let’s talk about an experienced man in the field. Because he was a man, the client, wasn’t he?”

  The young man will look at the two men, who will be staring at him. “Well, I don’t know. Not for sure. But I had that impression.”

  “Why an impression? Maybe when Janus spoke, he used expressions that made you understand? What did the translator say to you, phrases like he wants or phrases like she wants?”

  The young man will shake his long hair from his shoulders, touching the thin beard on his chin. “Now that I think of it... I think so. Yes, I think he said he wants. In the sense of a man.”

  “You think, or are you sure? Think about it.”

  The young man will look at the two others apprehensively. “It seems to me that on a couple of occasions he said that he was not in a hurry, but he wanted a job at the highest level. He, that’s what he said. I couldn’t swear by it, but I seem to remember that. I’m pretty sure of that.”

  Cervetti will nod. “Let’s change the subject. You said yourself that you encountered difficulties in your search. Why wasn’t there similar data already available?”

  “Not for those distances.”

  “And at what maximum distances have you usually found information, for the specific question of shooting?”

  “Two thousand, two thousand two hundred yards. Anyway, nothing at three thousand meters.”

  “And what is the average theoretical maximum distance hypothesized today for long-distance shots?”

  “Not over two thousand.”

  The young man’s voice will sound slightly metallic robotic in the empty interrogation room.

  The redhead’s plump arms will have a slight tremor when the hologram widens them, due to a connection problem on the international line.

  “There would be technical problems for six days. I’m pissed off. I want explanations. The publisher moves seas and mountains and then it turns out that it’s not a technical problem.”

  “Oh, no?”

  “No. Turns out there was a protest, diplomatically.”

  “Where, excuse me?”

  “I’m Scottish, you know, I live in a small town in the north of Scotland. I don’t know about these things,” the redhead will lean back in the armchair, displaying her ample form. “In London, I imagine.”

  “And by whom?”

  “The Holy See. That’s what they tell me. Looks like those bigots got upset by my book, forcing the government to withdraw it immediately. They say it violates the image of the Catholic Church. A real barbarity. We might as well be in the Middle Ages, I tell you!”

  “But excuse me, haven’t you protested? Written to someone?”

  “I told you. A rubber wall. Nothing. They told me they’re evaluating; they’re hearing from lawyers. Believe me, they’ve even threatened my publisher with lawsuits. We don’t understand anything.”

  “Look, but this is a novel that tells of the killing of a Pope by poison, if I’m not wrong. In a palace conspiracy, right?”

  “Of course. A power struggle within the church. Discovered because when they open the coffin, the old man has a black tongue. They investigate and find out he’s been poisoned. Well, I won’t tell you the story, maybe you’ll read it.”

  “And that scandalized them?”

  “The book, taking cues from historical facts that really happened, tells of all the murderers of popes in history, proven and only suspected.”

  “And then you hypothesize a contemporary fact.”

  “It’s just a work of fantasy. I didn’t write that they’re all a bunch of corrupt plotters in there.”

  “So, are we saying that our man, if it’s a man, is planning to shoot with a rifle at a distance more than 30 percent higher than the maximum recommended in practice?”

  The young man will think for a second.

  “Right, I didn’t find any experiments on shots at a distance with a rifle around three thousand meters. In no archive and no specialized site. At least, I didn’t find any.”

  “And you have searched well?”

  The young man will let slip a melancholy smile. “Well, I managed to get into the military archives of half the world.”

  Then he will look at the two men and ask in an alarmed voice, “But I didn’t have to say that did I? It compromises my position.”

  Captain Jankowski will smile under his mustache. “Young man, you have my word that if you go on as you are doing, to collaborate with us, your position will be much lighter. Trust me.”

  The Italian Commissioner will be circling the interrogation table. “And do you have any idea why Janus’ client would need a weapon far above the average standards of the world’s best armed forces?”

  “Well, Janus indicated one thing. But I don’t know if it’s relevant.”

  “Well, you answer the Commissioner and let us judge.” Jankowski will say.

  The young man will nervously rub his hands. “In one of our meetings, he said something about having to try this way because they had already failed with another.”

  Twenty-seven hours later, the Magistrate will take notes on the young man’s statement and raise his head to look at Cervetti. In the middle of the darkened room, Cervetti’s hologram will question the young man in front of them.

  The hologram of the redhead will raise her voice. “I mean, maybe I think so, but I didn’t write it. The novel tells of a secret organization called the Illuminati that maneuvers the election and sometimes the killing of the Pope when what he says or does isn’t appropriate for the organization’s hidden purposes. In short, it’s not a news article, it’s a novel. It doesn’t claim to be reliable or necessarily truthful, you see?”

  The blonde will look at Whiley, who will point out the titles of the other publications in a holographic sheet out of sight.

  “Look, ma’am,” Madison will continue, “you say that in the novel the Pope is murdered with poison. In his book, does this story have some connection to some current medical research? Cancer treatment, maybe?”

  The redhead will seem to be thinking about the question. “No. What connection could it have?”

  “Have you ever heard of Dr.... wait...,” the blonde will say, looking at the name that Whiley will be pointing to on the screen next to her “Wang Xiaoming.”

  “Who? How is it spelled?”

  “Never mind. And does your book mention Koonz’s curves?”

  The redhead will laugh.

  “What?” she will ask, surprised. “What are those?”

  “Population aging curves. It doesn’t matter,” Madison will interrupt.

  Whiley will make gestures with his hands, as if to say to move on to something else.

  “Lo
ok, I’ll take advantage of your availability to ask you one more question, Mrs. Rosbow. In his book, by chance, it’s hypothesized some connection with the text of Russian... aspects” Madison will read another open holographic sheet in the space on the glass table from Whiley. “Cheslav Golubev.”

  “Who?” the redhead will ask, opening her eyes wide.

  “Cheslav Ivanovic Golubev. Theories about the connections between energy sources, agricultural systems, and food production.”

  “Are you joking?!” Rosbow will laugh. “Look, what are all these questions... And what do they have to do with my book?”

  Whiley will shake his head and let himself sink onto the sofa, looking at the ceiling.

  “The meaning of the sentence, in your opinion, was that they had already made an attack on the same target, but that they had failed in another way? That is, using another method of attacking the life of the same person?”

  The young man will nod.

  “Aloud,” Jankowski will remind him.

  “Yes. That was the point.”

  The magistrate will continue to write notes, looking out of the corner of his eye at the holograms on the table, the expressions of the young man questioned in front of them.

  “And when the weapon is ready, thanks to the software that you helped create, will that man be able to simply shoot the target, or will other things be needed? I mean, it’s all automatic and software-managed, or something else is needed?” Cervetti’s hologram will ask.

  “Oh, no. It’s not that simple. If the software works, and if Janus manages to make a program that contains all my algorithms, even having it manage the mechanical parts that someone produces, he won’t be able to shoot simply as if nothing had happened.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s set. You have to do tests at different distances and in different climatic conditions, altitude, positioning, height, and so on. The software must store the deviation between the theoretical parameters I gave and the experimental proof of the real weapon. Reality isn’t the same as theory.”