The Machine had projected a 97+ percent probability that when his pride was the object of a full frontal assault, Soares would not be able to prevent himself from confronting his assailant in person. The loss of the nuclear weapon and then a sizeable portion of his wealth to forces completely unknown to him had been the gauntlets thrown at his feet. A half-hour prior to initiating my call to Soares’ cell phone, the Grid had launched a Hypersonic to a position out at sea, off the western coast of Mexico. When Soares had stormed from his office, with Ramirez, Mendoza and the Grid’s Device in his wake, the Machine had accelerated the aircraft to maximum velocity, vectoring it at phenomenal velocity toward Mexico City and at a precise longitude, latitude and altitude that only it and its brethren could calculate in the time allowed, the Machine had directed the aircraft to eject a guided canister. The Hypersonic had then turned and streaked back at ultra-low altitude to the open sea, a mirage in the air, accompanied by the sound of distant thunder. The canister had fallen, guided by gravity and the Machine’s adjustments to its body fins. Fed by information from the Device on the location and relative speed of the target, the Machine had ejected the projectile from the canister at another precise four-dimensional space-time location. An explosion inside the canister had disintegrated it, the many dozens of pieces falling into a wooded area on the outskirts of the city. The Machine had guided the projectile as it hurtled downward to the place where it would meet the target, who had no idea whatsoever what was approaching, what was about to happen to him - wrapped up in the comfort of his ego.
I had watched Soares, Ramirez, Mendoza and the bodyguards move down through the building. Soares did not say a word. He appeared completely lost in his own thoughts, perhaps imagining what he intended to do to me to get all of his money back and avenge his pride. The Device stayed behind and above him and his entourage.
The projectile asked for commitment. I queried the Grid for any last-second abort signal. There was none. I committed the protocol and observed.
A very short time later, Soares approached his armored limousine. One of his bodyguards held the vehicle’s right rear door open for him. As he walked below the 10-centimeter opening between the roof of the limousine and the slanting roof of the armored enclosure that opened onto the vehicle, I watched Soares suddenly move both hands to the top of his head. His eyes were closed as his head jerked backward, his back arched – a grimace on his face. He staggered. Rodrigo Gomez Alfonso Soares collapsed at the opening to the back seat of his limousine. I watched him fall.
Never forget that it is not systems or processes or governments or organizations that affect the course of human events. It is the decisions of individuals and groups of them that do that. Soares and Khan had formed an alliance through which they had hoped to change the course of human history in a more unkind and intolerant direction – each for their own personal reasons. The global balance would have shifted and global entropy increased, Pandora’s box opened, from which uncontrollable things could emerge. Hundreds of thousands would have perished. All of this simply to satisfy their addiction to power. All of this taking place in the shadows, unknown by those hundreds of thousands – they would never have known. If not for the Grid, they would likely have succeeded. You would be right to think that it had been an unfair fight, heavily favoring the Grid. After all, it is difficult to strike what you cannot see, what you do not know is there. I think the Grid has a conscience. It is not immoral in the end – from its point of view. But in a down and out street brawl against truly dark forces that exist in this world, the Grid never fights fair.
As I watched, Soares’ men and his old friend Ramirez rushed to his side. Mendoza was on his cell phone calling for a doctor. One of the bodyguards put his fingers to the carotid artery on Soares’ neck then his head to Soares’ chest, then ripped Soares’ shirt open and began cardio-pulmonary resuscitation. The bodyguard’s efforts went on for 15 minutes. Then I heard the Machine’s communication tone. “The Device reports that there is no cerebral functioning in Soares’ brain, nor any cardiovascular activity.”
I thought of the hundreds of thousands of people in this city - who did not know, who would never have known. I thought of the woman with the raven-black hair in the Yemen.
I felt no remorse.
Chapter 18 - Sevilla: The Gardens of the Alcazar
(Two weeks later)
We walked hand in hand, like husband and wife or perhaps lovers, the Controller and I, our heads close together. Her fragrant blonde hair brushed my face from time to time as it moved in the slight breeze. We were in the southwest section of the lush gardens behind the marvelous palace, its origins going back nearly a thousand years – a magnificent testimony to another time when one culture had impinged on another, yet both had shared parts of themselves to alter the other – a serious time. I have always enjoyed the tranquility and history present within its walls: the patios, salons, fabulous arches, pools, corridors, stairways, cool and shadowed alcoves, and the pavilions, fountains, terraces, trees, bushes and flowered plants of its gardens. I have always admired this place and felt at home here – a kind of refuge from the heat of the day and the outside world where I work.
She had allowed me access to her OGS and Ops Machine mind. Those dedicated to me in the Yemen, Pakistan and Mexico had been reassigned following my departure from Mexico City, a week following our assassination of Soares. I had felt naked for a short time. You get used to them, believe me. It is always the Operator’s responsibility to protect the Controller when meeting anywhere in the field. An experienced Grid Operator knows the field: what it sounds like, what it smells like, what it feels like, and most importantly, when it doesn’t sound, smell or feel like it should. The use of her dedicated OGS and Machine were only to help me ensure I got it right – to protect her. One of the holy grail.
I had used her OGS and Machine to scan the environment for two days before her arrival. I continued to scan it now. My five PDs were deployed at various locations in an expanding protective perimeter around us. I had no idea where her PDs were nor how many, but I knew they were there.
She had communicated to me in advance that she wished to meet with me simply to see how I was doing after New York, the Yemen, Pakistan and Mexico. No need to worry, she had said – only being attentive to the dangers of accumulated stress from periods of severe exertion, over time. She said she was always concerned for my wellbeing – one of the Grid’s foremost Operators, and so forth. I had told her that I looked forward to seeing her, as always. This was very true.
Much of the garden, where we strolled hand in hand, was a mixture of sunshine and shadow. We walked in and out of them. A peacock strolled toward one of the fountains, where other birds were attending to their thirst. The Andalusian morning already warming. I smelled the fragrance of the many flowers about us. I smelled the fragrance of her hair and body, close to me. I took in her extreme beauty. I thought of her brilliant mind. I found it all very soothing, very appealing. I was paying very close attention to her: her voice, her posture, her facial expressions, her every word. You must.
She briefly leaned her head on my right shoulder – for appearances’ sake. I had her walking on that side nearer the external garden wall and away from the larger expanse of the garden, better to limit the angles of approach to her.
She spoke softly. Her enunciation was like crystal. “You look no worse than when I last saw you in Lisbon. After your recent efforts – physical and mental – I admire your resilience. How are you, my dear friend?” At these last words, she gently squeezed my hand and then released the pressure - like family.
I looked slightly down at her, admiring the exquisite features of her face, like perfectly chiseled, soft marble. Not a blemish. You could not help but be captivated by her. When walking in public, she wore large, dark glasses and broad-brimmed hats to hide her allure. She had that effect. You remembered her – immediately, forever. She knew this, of course. I could not help but smile. They are so very good.
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“I feel fit – both physically and mentally. Thank you. The physical exertion wasn’t too strenuous this time and the therapy has erased the body soreness from the bullet strikes through the armor. The armor works very well, but there is still discomfort afterward – not really pain – that limits full movement for a short time.”
“Noted. And the shot to the head in the Yemen. Residuals?”
“Nothing significant. The jolt from the impact was – I think – not more than we were briefed.” In my mind, I saw Khan’s man raise the Russian rifle to his shoulder and fire, a smile on his face. I saw the muzzle flash. “I had a headache for a few hours afterward. But I think this was from the stress of undergoing the experience for the first time, more than anything else.”
She looked at me, holding my eyes with hers. “I know that when I heard and saw what was about to happen – what you intended - I did fear for you.” She dropped her eyes very briefly, then locked them back onto mine. “Of course, we had all had the briefings, witnessed the tests and seen the results. But that was in the laboratory. You were looking down the barrel of an assault rifle firing a real bullet in real time – at your forehead. Something altogether different and meaningful. It took a large amount of gumption to stand there and wait, my dear friend – an infinite amount of faith.”
“Not faith. I think trust - trust that your technology would work again. The same trust that Grid Actual’s decision in the Yemen to modify the operating instructions for the atomic weapon would work – that when Khan pushed the button in Mexico City nothing would happen. Your technology has never failed me. I trusted my experiences. A certain risk, yes, but a calculated one.” I paused briefly, looked away and then back down into her eyes. “In the warehouse, when the rifle was pointed at my forehead, I needed her to believe in me – to see me as something not normal, something that could help her vanquish her demons and restore her ravaged pride, save her from oblivion – to move the mission forward. I took the risk as much for her as for you or my own ego, perhaps more.”
She stared at me, not saying anything. A deeply thoughtful look came across her face. “How very lucky we are that you are on our side.”
She turned toward me, letting go of my hands and stepped back away from me two paces. Her gaze was direct. It did not waver. “And mentally?” She looked at me intently. “Since we last met, you have looked death in the face, trusting in our technology to save you, and dozens of men have died very violent deaths at your direction, some of them at your own hands. How many this time? Seven, eight?”
“Eleven,” I answered. I returned her gaze. We stood there appraising each other: I, her amazing beauty and intelligence; she, my operational status.
“Doesn’t it wear on you, after all this time in the field? The things you have undergone and done at our behest.” She would be listening very closely to my response. When you are addicted to the types of adrenalin rushes that only something like the Grid can give you, you learn to be very careful in your words and actions, so as not to risk being thrown into withdrawal.
I didn’t move my gaze from hers. Such a simple action would have been fateful. I spoke in as balanced and level a voice as I could muster. “Look, you ask me to confront people, frequently violent people, who sometimes are intending violent things - sometimes in very cruel ways – for ordinary people. To do this, you give me remarkable tools that enable me to act even more harshly than my adversaries, if I need to - all in a controlled, surgical way to protect what you believe is important. I have always believed your goals admirable. You have always told me the truth – though not always all of it – about what you want me to do and to whom and why, about the risks, and you have always allowed me to say no. I know that I often act outside the law in what I do for you. But you hold me accountable, and more importantly, I hold myself accountable for what I do. I do not relish taking human life. Still, I have no remorse over my actions – not so far – and I do not yet feel the weight of the mental stresses that my work assuredly causes me. I’ll tell you when I do.” I gave her my best sincere look.
My single mental concern was that the ego drugs that she and the Grid fed me in my work would eventually distort my own sense of accountability, that one day, should they get lost among their lofty goals and ideals and stray off the path and out onto the moor, she would be able to talk me into doing whatever they wished done out there. No one is perfect – not they and their Machines and not I. But I wasn’t about to share all that with her. I didn’t trust her or them that much. Probably never would. Perhaps you are gaining some appreciation for the bed I’ve made.
She stood there, looking at me, as if waiting for me to continue, reasonably anticipating more. When I wasn’t forthcoming, she shook her head slowly, softly, from side to side. “You have always been a bit of an enigma to me, not like most of the others. I understand that you are driven by your sense of daring, of challenge. But we think there is a deeper side to you, one that needs to protect the underdog, the helpless. The Grid has always admired that in you.”
I stood there, admiring her brilliant mind. I felt exposed – that they had glimpsed inside me. They were the providers of the drugs of my addiction. I didn’t look away from her. “Thank you for your regard.”
She looked into my eyes a moment longer, then took my right hand in her left and pulled me toward her to continue our stroll. After several paces, she looked up into my face and said, “Jamila and her brother should be nearing home about now. I’m certain they will never forget their protector.” She squeezed my hand more firmly this time, as we moved further through the light and shadow and soothing scents of the gardens of the Alcazar.
The flies followed us.
Epilogue: Pakistan
The two people walked away from the narrow paved road and began the trek up into the hills on a dry, dusty, dirt track toward home. A few minutes ago, an old, rickety taxicab had deposited them at the intersection of the paved road and dirt track. The driver had asked for no payment and had said only, “Take care of yourselves” in local Pashto dialect before turning the cab around and beginning his two-hour long journey back to the distant town.
The two people – brother and sister - had spent some weeks together in a large villa on the coast of somewhere. The climate was pleasant; the vegetation semi-tropical. The large house and expansive surrounding grounds were maintained by a large number of individuals, men and women and some children. They spoke many languages. A few spoke Pashto, the language of the two guests; most spoke Chinese or French or Arabic or Spanish or English or other languages. Some spoke more than one or two. The two guests could have been almost anywhere. They had no idea where. They were treated luxuriously and with great respect, though they were not allowed to leave the large property. When they had asked where they were, they had been told politely that that information could not be shared with them. When they had asked out of politeness for the names of those that were caring for them, they were only ever given a first name. The two guests were never called by their names, always simply addressed as Madam and Sir.
They knew they had been taken there for their own wellbeing. They knew they had been saved in extraordinary circumstances by the man who had called himself Michael and that he was connected to that place near the sea and the people who watched over them. Michael had asked both of them – though separately – to trust the people he took them to at the airport in Al Hodeidah and in Mexico City. He had told them that the people he introduced them to would take them somewhere secure and watch over them until it was safe for them to go home. After what he had done for them, how could they refuse or doubt him? What choice did they really have? Later, at the large house near the sea, when they had periodically asked how much longer they would be kept there, they were politely told to be patient, that it would not be too very much longer. They had waited in the quiet luxury of that place.
Then, one bright, sunny morning, as the light breeze came in off the open ocean, a very elegantly dressed woma
n, wearing large, dark sunglasses and a broad-brimmed hat – her face obscured in shadow – had come to them. She had told them that it was time for them to go home, that it was safe.
The woman who was a guest had asked, “What does that mean, please – safe?”
The other woman had looked down at her and answered in a soft, but crystal clear voice, “Your demons have been vanquished.”
The woman with the raven-black hair heard these words and went still. She had some idea of what they meant. She then asked about Michael: where was he; how was he? The young man echoed her interest. They owed him much. The taller, elegantly-dressed woman had told them that she did not know anyone by that name.
The young man turned to his sister. “What should we tell them when we arrive home?” They had been walking for nearly an hour and would be coming to their village soon.
“What I saw was beyond belief,” she said in response, still looking at the dry dirt track in front of her feet. She turned her head to look up at her brother. “If I described what I saw, no one would believe me. He told me that – ‘no one will believe you,’ he said. Still, I did see it. I do not know who he was or from where. Sometimes I do think he was a Djinn sent to save me. He said he was not, when I asked him. But I still wonder. You should have seen what I saw, brother! What I do know is what he did for me, for us. We will not place him in jeopardy by speaking of what he did, even if no one will believe us.”
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