Shiva

by Simon Sloane

  Once again, Hugo ran through the facts they had discovered, building permutations of possibilities: Mumbai or Delhi. Brahman, Vishnu and Shiva. Darwin and the countdown … and only twenty-three hours until the end!

  Hugo adjusted his new smartwatch to Indian Standard Time—a weird time zone three and a half hours ahead of Central European Time. Diana had taken the waterproof timepiece from the on-board electronic cabinet. Hugo had initially disapproved of her tracking his location with it, but he didn’t want to stoke her suspicions again.

  He checked the timetable he had written on his phone. Nine and a half hours until the next catastrophic incident, assuming the timeline was still intact. If the disaster failed to materialise, the ATF would consider their job done, convinced as they were of Hugo’s death.

  But it wasn’t going to be that way. The countdown would march on relentlessly until the puppeteer had what he or she wanted. An accelerating pile-up of calamities would transform the world. But who was behind it? His mind crunched the riddle over and over, frustrating him while also compelling him to think harder.

  Hugo remembered his conversation with Sarah about the sequence of catastrophes. Through the satellite phone, he checked the crop prices on the Chicago commodities exchange, where trading would soon cease for the weekend. In the wake of the Casimir-Perier assassination they had edged up to reach a new all-time high. Hugo wondered where they would stand when markets reopened on Monday—if they opened at all.

  Hugo felt as if the seat disappeared underneath him when Sarah’s words rang in his ears. “The Big Three would win only in the short term. Soon reduced output will eat up the profits that Cropscientor, Syngenetiq and Akasha might have earned from higher margins.”

  Fortunately, Diana didn’t notice the spasmodic reaction of his facial muscles. What if there was no long-term? Maybe the short term was all that mattered to the hidden eco-terrorist.

  Hugo remembered the countdown’s first interval they had discovered when analysing the weather anomalies that the ATF had informed him of: 108 hours, then 54, 27, and so on.

  Now it made sense. Hugo remembered what he had read on the religions of the East. He ran a quick online search on one of the deities from the “Room of the Three Gods” as well those who believed they were acting in its name.

  “Diana!” Hugo exclaimed, grabbing her arm in despair.

  Chapter 34

  La Pute

  Friday, 6:45pm CET

  Khaled felt excited. Sarah had unveiled the murderer of Christian Casimir-Perier and more than fifty innocent bystanders, but where would he find the criminal?

  “Listen,” Sarah said when she reconnected with him through the encrypted video call. She appeared right in front of him courtesy of his glasses’ smart projection capability. Sarah seemed to be hurrying along the Thames. “Etienne Saint-Clair is a millionaire ten times over. Why would he take such a risk? At his age, a man of his ilk should be playing golf in Saint Tropez or sipping cocktails with escorts.”

  “I have no idea what he’s up to,” Khaled replied. He walked briskly toward Basilique Notre Dame des Victoires and pulled the heavy walnut door of the church. He checked his watch. Five or ten minutes should be enough to map out his next steps.

  “Neither have I,” Sarah said, panting.

  “How did Saint-Clair earn his fortune?” Khaled asked, his voice echoing from the ceiling of the deserted baroque basilica. Nassor Sharkhor had proven how large amounts of cash could be acquired within a decade, if one wasn’t too concerned about their origin. Saint-Clair struck Khaled as cut from the same cloth as his adopted brother. He felt like an avenging angel whom Allah had sent to Earth to root out corruption, starting from within his own family.

  “Saint-Clair is an influence peddler,” Sarah said. “I’ve read he’s one of the most notorious ones in Europe. They call him ‘La Pute.’ It means ‘The Prostitute.’”

  Khaled laughed as he crossed the sandstone tiles and exited the back door near Place des Victoires. It was an apt name.

  “Unlike most lobbyists,” Sarah said, “Saint Clair doesn’t lean left or right. He’s on a first-name basis with lawmakers across all parties. And he’ll work for anyone who’ll pay him—petroleum giants today and solar panel manufacturers tomorrow.”

  “Where do I find this scum?” Khaled asked, tapping his smart glasses to launch an online search of the wretched man. But he knew Sarah would be better at uncovering information on their suspect, and he resumed the video call.

  “Saint-Clair’s address isn’t listed,” Sarah said, standing in front of a huge building that Khaled had once seen in a film. “However, he’s often seen in L’Esplanade on Friday evenings. It’s the favourite restaurant of the more refined members of the Assemblée Nationale,” she added with a hint of irony.

  “I know.” Khaled cut the call, even though Sarah must have thought him rude. Soon he would stand face to face with the traitor.

  Chapter 35

  Oberoi

  Friday, 7:00pm CET (10:30am Indian time)

  “MECCA needs to remain airborne,” Diana explained when Hugo looked confused. “We’ll land on a helipad, so we won’t lose time in Mumbai traffic.”

  “Not again!” Hugo groaned, his face turning pale at the prospect of another helicopter ride. “Isn’t there another way?”

  “Don’t be a pussy!” Diana nudged him toward the corridor. “You didn’t even bother to explain about Akasha Limited. So, now you’ve got to trust me.”

  She programmed MECCA to circle above the city before descending gently into the Indian Ocean at a safe distance. To Diana, sacrificing the A400 wasn’t half as difficult as witnessing the deserted corridors they walked through to reach the chopper. Now there was only one way to ensure her fellow soldiers hadn’t died in vain. Hugo seemed confident that they would find their antagonist on the premises of India’s largest agricultural conglomerate: Akasha Ltd.

  Diana wished she had more time to research the business empire, which belonged to the reclusive Singh dynasty. Hugo had only shared a photo of their deceased patriarch praying at a Shiva temple, and Diana wondered how this had convinced him that Akasha Ltd was behind the weather disruptions.

  Hugo took his seat in the helicopter next to Diana. She flipped the switches, and the rotor started whirring.

  Slowly, MECCA’s rear hatch opened. A gust of wind caught them the moment they flew out, but it didn’t take Diana long to stabilise the chopper.

  Her view was far from pleasant. Smoke arose from various districts of the sprawling city, which filled the peninsula. Derelict vessels trawled the coast. Using her binoculars, she spotted fire engines and ambulances.

  Lack of nourishment brought out the worst in people. India was now the most populous country in the world and had recently turned from a net exporter of calories to a net importer. In a food crisis, it would be one of the first dominoes to fall.

  Hugo crinkled his nose at the urban maelstrom below. He looked as if he could smell the slums from several hundred feet up.

  “That’s the Oberoi Hotel.” Diana pointed at a tall building close to the city’s southern tip. “We’ll regroup there in case of a mission abort.”

  “Only if we get the honeymoon suite,” Hugo said with a straight face.

  Diana smirked. Centuries earlier he might have passed for a court jester. “Anyway,” she said, “it’s a great story you thought of there, explaining to the Singhs why I’m bringing you to Mumbai.”

  “Thanks,” Hugo said without a trace of irony. “You inspired me.”

  Diana spotted a triangular glass spire looming over an array of Victorian residences, Hindu temples, exotic gardens and lush pools. A quick glance at their onboard map of Southern Mumbai revealed it as their destination.

  The owners of Akasha Ltd had built an oasis of luxury in a sea of bedlam, but the deprived population failed to admire its grandeur. “Look how many beggars and protesters have assembled at the gates!” She jerked her head at the luxurious compoun
d. “We must be careful not to miss it.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Diana saw a light flash on top of the Oberoi Hotel a moment before three whiplashes jolted her.

  The helicopter window cracked. She barely managed to shield her eyes when it burst into razor-sharp pieces.

  Chapter 36

  Pierced

  Friday, 7:15pm CET (10:45am Indian time)

  Hugo’s face was hit by the blood spraying from Diana’s shoulder. Sniper bullets had hit them, but from where?

  “Diana!” he shouted, slapping her cheek. Her eyes remained closed.

  Out of control, the helicopter plunged toward the buildings below. Although unconscious, Diana still held the control stick. Hugo’s muscles flexed beneath his suit as he pulled it as hard as he could.

  They avoided the hexagonal glass tower, but Hugo failed to stabilise the aircraft. They were teetering toward the mob that had gathered in front of the Singh compound. He closed his eyes as the rotor scratched Oberoi Hotel’s facade.

  It took only seconds for the cabin to hit the ground, hurtling down the street. Sparks flew up from the asphalt as the helicopter broke apart. A few yards behind them, their fuel tank exploded. Hugo saw horrified locals knocked out of the way. Then what remained of the chopper ground to a halt in front of a concrete wall with a leaden door.

  “Diana!” he screamed. He wanted to shake her back into consciousness, but the wound on her shoulder made him recoil. He touched her neck, but he couldn’t feel a pulse. Her business clothes were in rags, revealing her breasts and thighs.

  Hugo knew he would do anything to rescue the young woman. Diana had abandoned the ATF, because she trusted him. Only together could they resolve the crisis. Diana’s defiance had brought them so close to its solution.

  He tried to remove his seatbelt, but he had become entangled by the straps. He couldn’t move as starved young men inched toward the smoking debris, sizing up Diana with greedy eyes. Two of the thugs grabbed her arms and feet while a third one slid his hands up her toned legs.

  Hugo could no longer control his revulsion at the beasts that had caught them right in front of their destination. He wondered what had turned young Mumbaians into such monsters, but it was not the time for a discussion about their motives. Flexing his arms, he pulled hard to dislodge a piece of metal from the broken cabin frame.

  The grin disappeared the assaulter’s face when the sharp object pierced his neck. Hugo screamed, summoning all his force to save Diana from the rapist. Then he pulled back his bloody weapon and pointed it at the others.

  The depraved men shrank back in horror, only to have their desire for revenge resurge. Hugo’s act of valour had been pointless.

  Now he regretted not telling Diana that the fate of humanity would be sealed when the countdown ran out the following day. He closed his eyes, surrendering to death, when a barrage of bullets swept the street.

  II. DESTRUCTION

  “If quantum mechanics hasn’t profoundly

  shocked you, you haven’t understood it.”

  Niels Bohr

  Chapter 37

  Pawn

  Friday, 7:30pm CET

  Khaled took another southbound bus, but he got out at the second stop. Having spent most of his cash, he hoped to snatch a purse from a tourist. He walked toward Musée D’Orsay until he reached the eponymous station. The area combined the vices of pseudo-artistic kitsch and mass tourism in a particularly repulsive manner.

  He scanned the crowd queuing up in front of the museum. A flock of American exchange students stood out. They weren’t difficult to distract, since Khaled’s Egyptian accent made the weirdest questions sound legit. This time he scored a purse that was almost bursting with credit cards and Euro bills.

  Having cleared the scene, Khaled dipped into a pawn shop on Rue de Lille. It was run by a fellow North African, who greeted him warmly in Arabic. Khaled mumbled something about an upcoming job interview, only to receive a special offer on the pawner’s range of professional attire.

  Using the changing rooms, Khaled ditched his casual clothes in favour of a trade-in suit, a white shirt and a grey tie. Such an outfit was de rigeur in Etienne Saint Clair’s social circle. A baseball hat with the logo of football club Paris Saint Germain obscured half of Khaled’s face, but he would abandon it as soon as he got close to L’Esplanade. Now he could even pass for a plain clothed detective. The authorities had realised long ago that they would catch more Muslim perpetrators only if they employed more of their own, paving the way for Khaled’s career with the SSI.

  Khaled turned his head when he heard excited chatter on the store’s tiny television set. The camera cut to frowning opposition leader Jean-Marc Tanguy, who answered rapid-fire interview questions. Khaled still hadn’t forgotten the politician’s zeal of exterminating not just him but also Hugo’s entire team the year before. While Tanguy amped up his anti-immigrant rhetoric, he deflected questions about his past scandals.

  “Politics!” the merchant grunted. “Nothing changes, no matter who’s in charge. I’ll switch to the sports channel.”

  “Wait a moment,” Khaled said. “I’d love to catch up on the news before evening prayer.” On any other day, it wouldn’t have been a lie.

  “Okay,” the shop owner grunted, raising the volume. “I heard that Casimir-Perier deviated from his manuscript during his final speech.”

  “Really?” Khaled could tell from the clapping and the cheering in the Assemblée Nationale that Tanguy’s representatives had been defeated by Henri Charenton’s party. And indeed, the news channel displayed a smiling image of Charenton above a blinking headline: “Parliament Approves Emergency Counterterrorism Bill.”

  Chapter 38

  Spa

  Friday, 7:45pm CET (11:15pm Indian time)

  Hugo felt a gush of warm water running down his back. Tender female hands rubbed his skin, leaving a scent of orange and tamarind lingering in the air.

  “Relax, Hugo!” a familiar voice said, cutting through the heat and humidity. “You’re in Jyran Singh’s private spa. There’s no safer place for you in Mumbai.”

  “Alex?” Hugo asked. “Is it you?” Images of fire, bursting glass and broken metal flashed on his mind. Had he died and met Alexander Popov in the afterlife? He rolled onto his back to see who was talking to him.

  “Yours truly,” his former colleague said with a confident smile. “I picked you out of the wreckage. Your bird’s okay too.”

  “I’m so glad!” Hugo was relieved to hear about Diana’s survival, although he would have preferred to check on her himself. Slowly, he remembered why they had come to Mumbai, wondering how close they had gotten to the artificial intelligence that orchestrated apocalyptic plagues and terrorist incidents.

  “I read about your return on geek-o-matixx,” Alexander said. “I’d never thought that just a few hours later you’d be here in the flesh. What happened?”

  Hugo’s head still buzzed so fiercely that he couldn’t get his story straight. “Miss Holborn will explain everything. She has a very promising idea about using a quantum computer to boost the crop yields of Akasha Limited.”

  “Jyran and Yogi will be excited to hear that,” the man from Saint Petersburg said. “It was Jyran himself who asked me to bring you to the lounge as soon as you’re ready.”

  “How come you’re based in Mumbai now?” Hugo asked the man who had saved his life the year before. The burden of gratitude felt twice as heavy now.

  “The French fired me. Because of inappropriate behaviour.”

  Hugo laughed. “I can imagine.” It was hard to forget photos of Alexander framed by busty brunettes in the Nuits Fauves club on Quai D’Austerlitz.

  “Yogi Kapoor made me an offer,” Alexander continued, “as soon as word got around that I was on the market. Seems he couldn’t get enough of my stories about you, Hugo!”

  “Who’s Yogi?” Hugo asked, although he had come across the name before.

  “He’s running Akasha Limited on b
ehalf of Jyran and his sister.”

  The dark-skinned masseuses turned Hugo around to dry his back with a tent-sized white towel. “I’m sure the French secret service already regrets letting you go,” he told Alexander. “Look what happened in Paris today! Is Khaled still working there?”

  Alexander shrugged. There was some static when he answered his wireless. “Okay,” he said, motioning the girls to finish up. They handed Hugo fresh clothes before they disappeared without a word.

  Dressed in a grey suit, an azure shirt and black leather shoes, Hugo followed the six-foot-four Russian out of the bath. Scented candles lit the marble-tiled corridor. High-resolution videos of a wrinkled Indian businessman with a full head of white hair appeared on wall-mounted interactive displays.

  “That’s Sorokan Singh,” Alexander said. “He passed away last year.”

  The founder of Akasha Ltd was depicted walking down Wall Street, steering his jet, hugging his son on a cricket court and strolling the English countryside with his family. Despite his wealth, not a single image showed him smiling.

  “He’s still held in great esteem, it seems,” Hugo said, pointing at the screens. All the videos carried the same caption: “Sorokan Singh—1938 to infinity.” One of them showed him shaking the hand of Jawaharlal Nehru, India’s legendary post-war prime minister. The politician congratulated young Sorokan for having come first in the nationwide IQ test, which was mandatory for all high school graduates. With a smile, Nehru handed Sorokan a letter of recommendation for Harvard University.