"Your media talks constantly about AIDS as the late twentieth century plague. But Malaria kills more people in one year than AIDS in five. Of course, most of these deaths occur in Africa, so who cares?
"Is Africa only a laboratory for Western civilisation? You come here to find vaccines for diseases, manufacture them at home then try to sell them back to us. If we can't pay, we rarely see any medicine. But then, where should we get the money? From corrupt puppet governments intent on their own enrichment, who steal as much from their country as they can before scurrying for exile?
"As long as you tolerate and help such governments, the common African will hate you.
"For these reasons, we, the OPA, have come here, to Europe, to settle the score. Each of your governments will pledge, on national and international television, one year's military budget to helping the victims of wars, which, directly or indirectly, you are responsible for. Since your governments have financed most of these wars, it is about time you paid for the damages.
"Each of you will use your military power for humanitarian purposes. None of the money will go to any puppet government, but straight to the people. In the coming year, you will send medicine, doctors and surgeons, install water purifying plants, and provide food for the starving millions of Africa.
"To start with, each government head will give a press conference to the world media. Public opinion in your own countries will be your judges. If you pledge now, but deny it later, you will have your fellow citizens to contend with. Also, as I said earlier, any Head of State refusing to pledge will die.
"Mrs. Bourgmestre, we trust you will have the sense to pass this message on to the proper authority. By this time, and taking into account security checks on suspect packages, every leader should have seen this message.
"Thank you, ladies and gentlemen for listening. We give you three hours to plan the greatest and most comprehensive humanitarian aid package the Black continent has ever seen. Past that deadline, be prepared to reap the African Whirlwind."
Just before the picture faded, I noticed a small flicker round the edges of the African's face. No one said a word as I got up and replayed the disk. It took a few tries, but finally I was able to freeze it on one particularly revealing image. One side of the face, instead of being smooth, was made up of small, clearly visible triangles. The edges of the mouth were unfocused, making it look pasted on. Upon closer inspection it was obvious that the face was not that of the leader of the OPA, it was a computer-generated image.
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Chapter Ten
9.44 a.m. (2 hours 45 minutes to OPA deadline)
Each of us kept silent, alone with his or her thoughts. If, as Maria had said, the OPA were deadly serious, then we were in deep, deep trouble. Although the TMC is essentially an apolitical organisation, as much as one with a Bourgmestre at its head can be, we had just been thrown onto the international political stage.
It was no longer just a matter of helping the city out of gridlock. Now, somebody else would have to make the decisions that would either save or destroy this city. Sadly, the latter seemed the most likely. Three hours to get a consensus between so many political heads of state was not going to be enough.
Come to think of it, placing bombs in each head's hotel was a masterstroke. There would be no endless talks between governments going over countless options and responses. Each country's leader would be on his own to consider his situation and the personal danger he was in. The hostage was going to have to make the decisions, and there would be no question of 'acceptable losses'.
Maria was the first to stir. She called her boss and explained the situation, insisting on the fact that no one must be seen entering any of the hotels.
"I don't know that face."
"It's a fake," I whispered harshly.
"Hold on please, Sir."
Although she gave me an unconvinced look, she followed me over to the screen where I had frozen the face of the OPA spokesman. Once I had directed her to the jagged edges of the picture, she pursed her lips, and emitted a small, sharp hiss as she drew air in between her teeth.
"Sir, it's a computer image. At best, it's a composite. It may be a good idea to try to identify each component of the face, but I doubt the OPA will have given us any leads." When she had finished, she placed the phone on the table beside her, and stared at it.
Lyens had sat at the desk, with his arms sprawled over the armrests, glumly observing Maria in conversation with her boss. He rubbed some sweat off his forehead, then slowly gazed around at us.
"Well, now we know what they want," he said. "Any comments? Ideas?"
The events of the day were depressing enough on their own, but the OPA speech had reminded me of Sarah and the painful way she had left me. My personal tragedy had got mixed up with the terrorist's demands, and urged me to speak my mind. I couldn't think of a better time to say what I felt.
"Maybe they've got a point."
Everyone cast me a horrified look. Everyone, that is, except Maria and Lyens. He frowned questioningly at me, while Maria looked thoughtful.
Martin's head whipped round as he stuttered, "You have been watching the same thing as us?" He stabbed his finger in the direction of the television screen, his mouth open as if to speak, but he just closed it and shook his head.
Nys continued for him. "The OPA are ready to kill twenty heads of government and destroy some buildings unless we give in. And all you can say is they may be right."
"I didn't say they were right. No sane person would admit that. I only meant that their reasons for doing this are not difficult to understand."
"What do you want to understand? They're mad, they're fanatics. And you're mad."
"Nys," said Lyens calmly, "there's no need to insult Hugh. We may not agree with him, but I did ask for opinions. And, if you don't mind, I'd like to hear him out."
"Thank you, Sir." At the moment I was thankful for any support I could find. For a year and a half, I had gone over in my mind the reasons for Sarah's death. My taking her to Africa against her will was the first cause. The second was the scarcity of good medicines and their availability outside of main cities. That was why the speech of the OPA had struck a chord. And now, because of my outburst, I was going to have to expose thoughts that had plagued me for so long, and that I had never shared with anyone before.
"Don't thank me yet, Hugh. I'm as intrigued as Nys to know what brought you to say what you just did."
I took a deep breath. "It's true we export humanitarian aid to Africa as well as other countries around the world. But it's not our governments that do so; in each case, it's a private enterprise. The Red Cross, Medecins sans Frontieres and people like that. They work for a pittance, but they have a burning desire to help, no matter what. Every so often, to cleanse our national consciences, we run a campaign to help the starving millions of Africa or the refugees of Central Europe. We're shown the picture of a starving child, and made to feel guilty until we send some pocket change.
"But shouldn't we be looking at why the camps and the famines continue? Don't forget, it's been more than thirty years that we have been feeding them. We're onto third, or fourth generation, starvation victims. Shouldn't we stop sending them crumbs, and begin, once and for all, a campaign to get those countries in need back on their feet? So that everyone can benefit from the kind of lifestyle we in the West enjoy so much, one of luxury and opulence that we take for granted?"
Seeing the reactions around me, I regretted it, but I knew that I had to get it out.
The look in Maria's eyes had changed; now it contained respect and just a hint of surprise. Without trying, I had impressed her and that raised my spirits.
Nys couldn't contain himself any longer. "Whose side are you on, anyway?"
"Excuse me, Mr. Nys," Maria said, "but Hugh is right. We need that kind of attitude right now. Deep down, you know that nothing they said is fundamentally wrong. However, their methods are pure terrorism on a large
scale.
"That said, a reaction like yours, Mr. Nys, is the best way to ensure the destruction of this city. As I see it, we have two options. One -- convince our leaders that, for once, giving in to terrorists' demands may, in fact, save millions more. And that includes the millions stuck in traffic jams around the city, at this very moment. Two -- and it doesn't exclude the first, is to neutralise the OPA with the tools we have at hand." She waved her hand lazily about the TMC for emphasis.
Quickly, Lyens ran a comb through his hair and straightened his tie. Lifting the receiver of the videophone nonchalantly, he dialled.
"Bourgmestre Gaultier's office, good morning." A young, smartly dressed blonde woman answered at the third ring.
Giving her his best smile and speaking softly, but firmly in French, he got right to the point. "Good morning, this is David Lyens at the Transport Authority. I need to talk to the Bourgmestre urgently."
"Mr. Lyens, I'm afraid she's unwell today. She caught a bad cold. Maybe I could---"
"Well, I'm sorry, too. This is a major emergency. Could you please give me the number of her GSM?"
"Yes, but we can't give it to---"
"Honey, I'm not just anyone. I'm head of network management at the Transport Authority. I'm sure the Bourgmestre has made you aware of our importance."
The secretary, ruffled by Lyens patronising tones, swung out of view. "Just hold on, Mr. Lyens. I'll call her to see if it's all right."
All of thirty seconds later, she came back to the videophone, a nervous grin plastered on her face. "Mr. Lyens, it's okay. She says to contact her on the following number."
Lyens dialled the number on the second videophone as she gave it to him. The screen came to life. A dishevelled head of hair appeared. Delicate, well-manicured hands pulled the strands away to reveal the Bourgmestre's face. Red-eyed and runny nosed, she glared at the department head. Sniffing loudly, she warned him, "Lyens, as you can see, I'm a little under the weather. Also, I'm very busy. But I've been expecting someone from the Transport Authority to call." With that, she turned her head suddenly, and sneezed into a tissue.
I do not know how he did it, but Lyens kept his cool. That he had kept it until now was already quite a feat, but then again, I suppose there had to be some reason why he was department head. Not everyone deserved the kind of salary he had.
"Good morning, Mrs. Bourgmestre."
"I wish it were good. First of all I had to come in early to check that everything was fine for the conference. Unfortunately, as you are going to tell me, it isn't. Right?"
"Yes, Ma'am. The city is at a standstill. All modes of transport are out of order. We have power failures on the train and metro networks, and every major crossroad is blocked. On top of that, we now have a group of terrorists holding the city centre hostage---"
"We received an e-mail, also. Could you tell us why they send e-mails, not the most direct form of communication?"
"No, but it surely has something to do with tracing calls."
"I suppose that, like us, you got a laser disk with the terrorists' demands?"
"Yes, Ma'am."
"Well, for your information, I've already passed this on to the Minister; he's handling things from now on. We're in touch with each head of state. They've all seen the OPA show, and they're scared. How serious are they? The terrorists, that is."
"Deadly, Ma'am. Here, we have Sergeant Depage, who is liaison officer with the anti-terrorist squad. Together with a traffic controller, she has ascertained, without the shadow of a doubt, that the OPA paralysed the city."
"I thought so. Fortunately, I have already informed the minister. It's out of my hands now. The minister is urging all countries to make the pledge."
Behind the Bourgmestre, a phone rang. She moved off screen, probably to check the calling number. "I'm sorry, Mr. Lyens, but I have the minister on the other line. Thank you for the information. If you think of anything else that might be useful, please don't hesitate to call my mobile."
She was about to end the communication, but Lyens raised a finger.
"Ah, Mrs. Bourgmestre, there is one more thing before you go. A colleague of Sergeant Depage is coming here. He is well versed in telecommunications, security systems and ways around them. He will probably be able to trace the e-mail from the OPA."
"Good thinking. Why tell me? Please proceed. What are you waiting for?"
"For your permission, Mrs. Bourgmestre," Lyens replied, tight-lipped.
"You don't need that, surely, Mr. Lyens."
"Mrs. Bourgmestre, you must realise that there could be repercussions if they notice our trace. I cannot, officially, give that order, especially as Sergeant Depage and her colleague are under police authority."
"Ah, I see your problem. Well, then, trace the call. You have my permission and my blessing. Find the OPA for us, and then maybe the minister will forgive me for not answering his call."
Ron, Maria's colleague arrived shortly after the phone call with the Bourgmestre. He was dressed in a new pair of jeans with a heavy woollen pullover reaching down to just below the belt. His hair was cut short, army style, and in his arm he cradled a laptop PC case as if it were his baby. Maria made introductions, but Ron seemed keener to get to work. With the situation at hand, we couldn't blame him.
The Internet address tagged to the OPA's first message turned out to be a foreign bulletin board that offered a limited messaging system. The system operator of the bulletin board in question was being unhelpful.
The Internet was notorious for being a free-enterprise zone, with everyone doing just about anything that took their fancy. Regulations on the Internet were still being heavily debated in the international courts. Home-grown filtering programs, which gave sex, violence and religion ratings to each Website, were very successful, but only in the country for which they were made. Restricting or penalising services offered in foreign countries was still a major legal headache for most so-called civilised countries.
That was just the trouble. The OPA had sent their message through a foreign country, meaning they could be anywhere in the world. The Internet had revolutionised the idea of contiguous countries. It was always possible that a country on another continent could seem like next door, if it was reached by way of a high-speed link.
Unlike the phone system the Internet works on the basis of distributed intelligence, with many paths from one site to another. Any message or call is split into many packets of information, each one tagged with the address where it should go. The computer where the call originates sends the packets down the closest link to the Internet. The messages are then sent on their way by routers, computers that have a vague idea of what address is where.
The path the packets take, from originator to recipient, depends on the routers. Each time they receive a packet, they pass it on, down the best path at the time. This can change at a moment's notice, so that two consecutive packets can, conceivably, be sent along two completely divergent paths to the same destination.
With voice calls, a person calling abroad uses a pre-determined prefix for the country he is trying to reach. His call is sent to the local Phone Company who sees it is addressed to someone abroad, and transmits the call to the Phone Company of that country.
On the Internet the carriers--the companies responsible for the transmission of calls--are unable to open the 'envelopes' or packets of information to see who is the final recipient. Since the Internet is made up of computers on every continent, geography becomes meaningless, and tracing an Internet call is a more complex matter than tracing a phone call.
We had left Ron to chase after his ephemeral prey while I took the opportunity of pumping Maria for information. Back in the smoking room, with yet more coffee, we continued where we had left off.
"Is your boss, Nys, always so insufferable? He was getting on my nerves back there."
I smiled. Maria and I appeared to have a lot in common. Ever since the department head before Lyens had appointed Nys, I had had trouble. A
lthough I can be a pain on bad days, most colleagues I can get on with reasonably well. Nys and I, though, took an instant dislike to each other. Any conversation ended up in a shouting match that got us nowhere. The only thing we had in common is a stubborn streak. When we're convinced we're right, we try to make the other see the error of his ways, even though we know it's a lost cause. Nowadays, we tried to avoid each other, and it seemed to work.
"Always," I replied. "I'm glad to see you can't stand him, either."
"If that's so, why don't you talk to Lyens, and get Nys transferred? I mean, for incompetence or something."
"Ah. Well, you see, because of his incompetence, Nys has handed practically all his management duties to us. Between us, we run the TMC, as we see fit. He goes along with us because he knows that, at management level, he can take the credit for our work."
"All the more reason for getting rid of him."
"Maybe not. You see, management might think he's good--"
"Management? But I saw for myself that Lyens dislikes him, as well."
"Yes, quite true. Like the department head before Lyens, someone protects Nys in higher management. Lyens has nothing to say about it; he tries to work around it.
"Lyens knows who does the real work. So do other departments we depend on. If someone has a clarification or a new system to install, they never contact Nys. They always call one of us, the real management of the TMC. Nys's incompetence gives us more power in the rest of the Transport Authority. And, in any case, isn't it better to have the devil you know, than the one you don't?"
Maria smiled at me. What was this? The third or fourth time we had had a coffee together? And each time we talked half the time about work, half about private matters. I don't know how much the situation was helping in this, but I was beginning to need these talks with her.
"Talking about devils," I said, "what about Ron?"
He really seemed to enjoy his work, and with that kind of enthusiasm, I had no doubt he was good. I am not a particularly good judge of character. However, after seeing someone at work for only a few minutes, I can determine with a fair amount of certainty their level of competence.
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