Mathias nodded. "True."
"Governments would pay billions for sure, even trillions... but could you sell it to them? Even the biggest players have trouble moving that kind of money unseen. Plus it would be dangerous to try. You could start a war instead of merely profiting from one."
"Carl, my dear friend, you're completely correct, of course. It is true that our many clients have, at most, but millions to spend each. But, together, well, that's a different story..."
"I don't understand."
That same mischievous smile flickered once more across the German's lips. "This is a once in a lifetime opportunity, Carl, even for me. The value of a weapon such as this is without limit. That said, the finances of our customers, as you point out, sadly, are not. So, I can sell Loose Thread only once, but once is not enough to make it worthwhile. A conundrum, yes?" At this, Mathias reached over and raised the dome from the silver platter, revealing two more identical canisters that winked in the light as the lid was lifted.
"You've made more of them?" said Carl with amazement.
"Not quite. Sadly how Loose Thread works is far beyond me and any scientist I could find. And we could hardly open it up to take a look as we would all be destroyed. We tried x-rays, gamma rays, and every other method of detection imaginable, but simply could not see its contents. I'm told nothing larger than a neutrino can penetrate it, and that hardly helps us. So, as a weapon, it is intrinsically unique."
Carl stared at his friend, baffled. "Then what...?"
Mathias was clearly enjoying himself. "We couldn't duplicate the device. We can, however, duplicate the shell that contains it. These, my friend, are old fashion German Doppelgängers."
"Forgeries?"
"See for yourself," said Mathias, offering him one of the fakes. "They're completely identical to the nearest atom."
Carl placed the original carefully on the desk before accepting its counterfeit twin.
"Same materials, same weight, cast from laser-cut moulds," boasted Mathias, like a proud father. The arms dealer then turned to pour himself a drink at the wet bar behind the desk. "Can I get you anything?"
"No, thank-you, I'm fine," said Carl, clearly struggling with the implications.
"Of course these are only the first two prototypes. There are dozens more on the way."
Carl picked up the second fake to compare it to the first. He found that, as promised, they were absolutely identical. "But people will find out. I mean once they start to issue threats, they'll know they've been duped!"
"Of course," said Mathias. "Cheers."
Carl, still confused, dutifully clinked one of the canisters with Mathias's glass.
Mathias took a measured sip of vintage port. "Each sale comes with a contractual agreement that they will not publicly reveal that they even possess the device, let alone threaten to use it, for at least six months."
"Isn't that suspicious?"
Mathias waved off his friend's concern. "Nothing is suspicious when you've got the world's most awesome weapon in your hands. Power is a blinding light."
Carl wasn't so sure. He put down the first fake, to examine the second more closely. "Regardless," he said, "Sooner or later they'll know they've been duped."
"Indeed. That is why this is my last hurrah. I've spent forty years building an impeccable reputation, and will blow it all up in the greatest confidence job the world has ever seen!" Mathias paused to take in the look of shock on Carl's face. "Oh come now, my friend, our customers are warlords, dictators, and terrorists. Weep not for them!"
"I just... I just can't believe it. Your reputation..."
"You'd have me sell the actual device to one of them? Some of our customers are just crazy enough to actually use it!"
Carl considered this and had to admit it was true. Selling the real device even once was simply too dangerous. Mathias's plan to sell forgeries, even if it cost him his business, was really the only way to go. No one would ever do business with him again, but Mathias wouldn't need them to. "You know," said Carl, "they'll try to hunt you down to kill you."
Mathias shrugged and turned to refill his glass. He was starting to feel a little drunk. "Perhaps, but I think not. They say, in a swindle, a mark will be too embarrassed to admit himself a victim, so will simply let it go. Besides, once they realize I still have it, who would dare come for me? I have the most powerful weapon on Earth, after all."
Carl opened his mouth to express doubt, but found himself staring at the two canisters on the desk before him. One was the original, while the other was the first duplicate he'd put down a moment ago. The problem was, he wasn't sure which was which. Panicked, he looked at the second duplicate in his hand and frantically tried to find a flaw that might help him discern the original from the fake. He glanced up to see that Mathias had turned his back to him. His friend was at the wet bar and was busy fumbling in the ice bucket with a pair of tongs. The slightly inebriated warmonger picked up a chunk of ice, unsteadily. He then squeezed too tight and sent the cube ricocheting across the back of the bar, off the wall, and onto the floor. "Damn it," said Mathias, in German, "who knew ice was so slippery?"
Carl, panicked by the possibility that his friend would turn around and see what a fool he was, snatched up one of the canisters from the desk.
"Absolutely indistinguishable, no?" said Mathias with a crafty smile and a sip of his refreshed drink. For a moment, Carl thought his host had turned around in time to see what he had done but, after studying his friend's face, he knew Mathias had seen nothing.
Carl desperately scanned the two canisters in his hands, once more looking for a clue that might reveal the truth. He'd grabbed the one on the left, which felt right, so it must be right, he told himself, before looking at the one that was left.
"Hmm?" said Mathias.
"Yes!" said Carl, "Absolutely indistinguishable. Quite... amazing."
"Don't feel bad, dear friend. If an electron microscope couldn't tell the difference, then how possibly could you?"
Carl nodded and placed the two canisters on the silver platter, and watched as Mathias replaced the lid. They're the fakes, he tried to reassure himself, I'm sure of it.
Chapter 11
"Watson, come here I need u, #phone"
– Alexander G. Bell
Somewhere past the depletion region, where the heliosphere meets the edge of deep space, flew the Voyager I spacecraft. Launched on September 5, 1977 and weighing roughly the same as a Renault Le Car, the unassuming probe had since roamed far beyond its original mission. Four decades later both it and its twin, Voyager II, continued to function, largely forgotten by the now middle-aged men born at the time of its departure. Of course, its creators did envision the idea that it might someday reach interstellar space, and even be found by alien life forms. To this end, they included in it the Golden Record, so named for being a phonograph record made of gold. It would not have qualified as an official 'Gold Record' in terms of numbers sold. Its sales were non-existent. Only two copies were ever pressed and those were just given away. The metal itself contained images, directions to Earth, and instructions for how to play the record. All of this was in non-lingual form, making it an IKEA instruction manual for aliens. The musical tracks included Mozart's Magic Flute and Chuck Berry's Johnny B. Goode. Most scientists on Earth declared Voyager I to have officially left the solar system as of August 25, 2012. Some disagreed, preferring to define the solar system as including the outermost comets circling the sun. By that definition, Voyager I would have a mere thirty-thousand more years to go. One is reminded that the universe, in terms of pretty much anything, is really quite large. Voyager I itself held no opinion on this. With its cameras disabled to save energy, it was now blind, unable to see the now distant star that served as Earth's sun. Its other sensors, however, meant that it could still perceive, its high-gain antenna meant that it could still speak, and its three radioisotope thermoelectric generators, powered by plutonium decay, ensured that it would do so for years to
come. The sixty-four kilobytes of computing power that served as its brain was less than what could now be found inside a Tickle Me Elmo doll, but had steered it with astounding aptitude from planet to planet. In the time it takes you to read this sentence, Voyager I would have traveled seventeen kilometres. In the vast scale of space, however, it would appear almost frozen in place. If Voyager I could feel, it would also feel frozen. Temperatures here approached minus two-hundred and seventy degrees celsius. Still, the spacecraft, far ahead of its twin, Voyager II, continued its relentless journey into the void, inching towards eternity—ever further, never closer.
Chapter 12
"Cloudy with a chance of rain."
– M. Nostradamus
Faith tore the wrapping from the present with sheer joy. She knew what was inside, but was excited in the way that only a six-year-old could be. Charlie exchanged a glance with Lisa, basking in the light of their daughter's delight. Faith gasped and squealed as she pulled the box free from its wrapping. Inside, of course, was the artist's set she'd so desperately wanted. Charlie had read the reviews to make sure it wouldn't disappoint. Faith took a moment to examine the colourful box, as if making sure it was real. "Thank-you! Thank-you! Thank-you!"
"It's from Santa," said Lisa, with a wink to Charlie, "Thank him."
"Thank-you, Santa!"
"But we're glad you like it," said Charlie.
Faith opened the lid of the box, spilling the contents at the foot of the Christmas tree. Inside was a folded easel, artist's palette, brushes and a complete set of water colours. It was meant for children "10 and up", but Faith insisted she could handle it. Charlie knew she could.
"I'm going to paint everything!" said Faith.
"Except the walls," said her mother.
"Except the walls."
Ping. The 'fasten seatbelts' light came on. The sound of airplane engines intruded into Charlie's consciousness. It was the ever present, underlying white noise of reality. Charlie, forced back to the present, wiped his eyes and drew a deep breath. He knew these daydreams were like a drug, intoxicating in the moment, but so painful to come down from. Like any addict, he didn't want to quit. He wanted instead to escape there forever and never come down again.
The flight from New York to Edinburgh took over eight hours. It did so traveling at fourteen-hundred kilometres per hour, a relatively pokey speed compared to the Voyager I spacecraft. He glanced at the boy asleep in the seat beside him. Alex Graham was years older than Faith would ever be, but still a child. With his eyes closed and his chest rising and falling, he looked more childlike than ever. Charlie forced himself to look down the aisle instead, its long blue carpet illuminated by floor lighting. Someone in the row ahead of him was watching a movie called Master of Tai-Chi. It was a low budget comedy consisting mostly of the main character getting beaten up a lot, but being at peace with it. Charlie had read somewhere that Jack Black had turned down the title role.
* * *
Edinburgh International Airport was nothing if not remarkable—and it was not remarkable. Despite being Scotland's busiest airport, it was a completely pedestrian terminal. Of course, all airports were pedestrian, in that they required enormous amounts of walking. Like every other major airport, EDI was a vision of ostentatious minimalism consisting of interminable terminal hallways, fitted with moving sidewalks connecting the gates. These were then interspersed with overpriced dining areas to ensure patrons did not actually perish from starvation en route to their flights. The idea was similar to the base camps on Mount Everest, only with more Cinnabon locations. In this sense, Edinburgh was just like every other airport, only more so.
Charlie and Alex navigated the crowded corridors, dragging roller-bags behind them. They were following signs to the car rental locations. As major airports went, Charlie noted, this was a small one with only a single time zone. Deciding they needed food for the road, they paused in the departures area at a sandwich shop called McHegel's Bagels. The two waited in silence while the shop's owner, Hrundi Bakshi, prepared their kosher Scottish smoked lox on rye. Standing still in an airport longer than necessary always had a certain sense of wrongness to Charlie and he remarked on this to Hrundi. Hrundi, who fancied himself an amateur philosopher, said he understood completely. "An airport isn't a destination but a transition," he explained, "so being here is like not being at all. The only way to be in an airport is to be leaving it, to maintain your 'terminal velocity', if you will." Hrundi then asked Charlie if he wanted the complimentary dill pickle. Charlie indicated that they did, as well as some of those tiny packets of salt and pepper. Moments later, they were once more en route, bags of 'nosh' in hand.
"Shouldn't I be in child services or something?"
Charlie looked at Alex in surprise. "You want to be in child services?"
"No."
"Okay then."
"But shouldn't I?"
Charlie shrugged, "Probably. Yes. But you're the only person we have who has actually seen and touched the canister. That's more important."
"More important than my welfare?"
Charlie looked to see whether Alex was joking. He was. After telling the boy of his mother's death, there had been a lot of tears and confusion. The following day, Alex became functional again. Charlie knew from his own experience that this in no way meant Alex was okay, or that he'd already put his mother's death behind him. That would take years. Still, the boy was remarkably resilient. He demonstrated the same sort of dry humour that Charlie enjoyed, and found refuge in. Charlie told himself that it was his own presence that was helping Alex cope. He knew, however, that might simply be what he wanted to believe. He had already pulled up a couch in his mind to ask himself if it was really he who needed the boy, not the other way around. He liked to think the answer was both. "It's the same thing," said Charlie.
"Because if the world ends it doesn't much matter how screwed up I am?"
"Exactly."
They continued their pilgrimage to the car rental desk. En route they passed a contingent of Pō Lights. The relatively new religion had joined the Hare Krishnas in taking up residence in airports around the world. While they also dressed in robes, they were far more reserved. Unlike the joyous Hare Krishnas, Pō Lights shunned celebration in deference to their mission. "Are you the chosen ones?" they asked Alex and Charlie as they passed. "No," said Alex. The acolytes nodded graciously and turned to ask an elastic band salesman behind them the same question.
When Charlie and Alex reached the car rental booth, they faced the final task of waiting in the queue. The queue consisted of themselves and the customer currently being served, an American named Donald MacDonald. Don was on vacation to find his family's ancestral roots. Budget Rent-A-Car had lost Don's reservation and was in the process of trying to find it. Alex was of Scottish descent as well, being a member of the Graham clan. He didn't know this, however, as no one had ever told him. Alex assumed all Scottish names either began with "Mac" or ended with "son". In Alex's mind, his family was American and always had been.
"So, why did you tell the customs guy I was your son?"
Charlie hesitated. The CIA had supplied a fake passport for the boy, but it was Charlie's idea to take him and pass him off as his son. "It's easier that way. You're a minor, and the truth is too complicated. The UK doesn't know why we're here. The fewer who do, the better."
"Oh. So, you lied."
"Yup."
"Do you have kids? For real, I mean."
Charlie considered lying again. "Not anymore. I had a daughter, and a wife."
"They died?"
"An accident."
"Car accident?"
Charlie nodded in the same detached way he always did when asked about the crash.
"My dad left us," said Alex bluntly.
"I know." They had tried to locate Alex's father following his mother's death and continued to do so. He had effectively fallen off the grid. Despite people's assumptions about the all-knowing CIA, FBI and NSA, it was still poss
ible to disappear, provided you were prepared to make the sacrifices necessary to do so. Of course, finding the boy's father was not their top priority. To the agency, the boy's role in this whole affair was largely over. Indeed, Charlie's own role had been greatly diminished as diplomatic efforts were underway to locate and apprehend Mathias Boltzmann. Despite his infamous reputation, Interpol had no records of him. Still, the demotion of Charlie and Alex's importance came with a certain degree of freedom. Charlie had been able to convince the necessary people that he should fly to Scotland to locate Project Loose Thread's creator, Dr. Rupert MacGuffin. He had argued that, if he found the scientist, he might tell them how to stop it. Convincing people to let him take Alex along had been a trivial matter. "It was in your file," said Charlie."We did try to find him."
Alex nodded. After a moment he said, "You're lucky."
Charlie stared at him incredulously. Nobody had said that to him since the accident. Even coming from a thirteen-year-old boy, it was offensive. "What?"
"I'm sorry, I don't mean for what happened. That's horrible. What I mean is... you're lucky in that... well, you know they'd be here with you if they could."
The desk clerk had now cleared up the confusion with Donald McDonald. His reservation, had incorrectly listed him as 'MacDonald'. They were really the same name, she told him, historically speaking. 'Mc' was an abbreviation of 'Mac' for people who found the extra letter simply too much. Donald found it all very interesting and saw it as a part of his quest to learn about who he was. "Next!" said the desk clerk.
Chapter 13
"All gay people look alike to me." – V. Putin
Fluß Ruhr Industrial Park, Germany
The black limousine wound its way along the narrow side roads that divided the grey cinder block buildings. It was dawn. The air was clean and crisp. The early morning light had all the nascent promise of a new day. The car's route was intentionally inconspicuous, its destination clandestine. The limousine was escorted by a black BMW X3. The luxury SUV was the perfect vehicle for a family of four, or a contingent of heavily armed henchmen. Inside the back of the limousine, Mathias Boltzmann sat with hands clasped. He was nervous for the first time in over three decades. That was when, at the age of twenty-three, he sold one hundred barrels of cyclosarin gas to a certain Middle East dictator. It had been his first major deal in violation of international chemical weapons laws. It was not his last. He'd sold a lot of sarin, tabun and soman gases over the years and had always done so with a certain degree of patriotic pride. All were invented by the Nazi's in 1938. Originally developed as insecticides, with typical German efficiency, they killed everything else as well. The German word for poison was 'gift'. As Mathias used to tell his customers, Sarin gas was the gift that kept on giving. It wasn't violating the law that had made him nervous that day. Nor was it the large sums of money, or even the possibility that the dictator might use the stuff. What made Mathias nervous was that he'd decided to go on the cheap with the barrels used to contain it. Sitting through a seven-hour flight aboard a transport plane stacked to the ceiling with a compound capable of killing a man in parts-per-million was risky enough. Storing the gas in cheap plastic containers bought in bulk from Real Hypermarket was just plain foolish. From that day forward, Mathias had committed himself to quality full service, including free delivery on all orders over one million euros. Still, when he thought back on those days of shipping nerve agents in an overstuffed cargo hold, he couldn't help but smile. It was a more innocent time. Today was different. Back then, there was only a chance his career might end, albeit with himself flopping on the ground like an asphyxiating fish. This time, he knew it would. With this deal, he was crossing the Rubicon. Once completed, he'd have no other course of action but to continue with the plan. In a matter of months, his reputation would be in tatters. He would have enemies everywhere. These would include the most dangerous men in the world, many of whom he currently counted as friends. He'd also be ludicrously wealthy. Ironically, he mused, his subterfuge could leave some of these organizations so financially depleted, he'd actually be leaving the world a less dangerous place. Of course, his own exit from the stage would help accomplish this as well. Such was the law of unintended consequences. Not that another arms dealer wouldn't soon take his place. No one is irreplaceable, he thought, I'm just a cog in the machine. His grandfather had told him that. His grandfather had been a Swiss banker in World War II. There were an estimated 875 million guns in the world. Mathias had sold maybe ten million over the course of his career. On that scale, Mathias lamented, it was hard to feel as if one were making a difference.
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