by J M Leitch
So that’s it. On to the next leg of this adventure we call life; on to a reunion with my dear, dear man; and on to a future that holds who knows what.
And the only thing now left for me to write is:
Rachael … I love you.
PART IV
APRIL 2068
‘When was your mother’s letter dated?’ Scott asked.
Rachael fished in her bag for a tissue to dry her eyes. ‘The day after they announced my father’s arrest,’ she said, ‘the day she left England to meet him.’
‘And how old were you then?’
‘Less than two months. I was born on the 20th April.’
‘Tomorrow’s your birthday?’ Scott said, raising his brows.
‘Yes, I’ll be fifty-five.’
‘And what did your mother say in her letter? If you don’t mind me asking.’
‘She said she wrote the book as a gift for my father. A gift of love. And that I should have it if anything happened to them.
‘She told me not to believe the people who discredited him. She said they spoke filthy lies. She wanted me to know what a wonderful man he was and that she loved him very much. She said he was selfless and passionate and might end up losing everything he loved, all because he’d wanted to save the planet from destruction.’
Scott shook his head and sighed. ‘I never for one minute believed Dr Maiz was guilty. On the contrary, I thought he did everything in his power to help humanity rather than harm it.’
Rachael looked into his eyes and saw the truth. ‘Thank you for that,’ she said. ‘You know I can’t begin to imagine what a dreadful time it must have been for everyone back then,’ and she glanced past him out of the window and stared at the branches being whipped and whirled by the storm. Not a sound penetrated from outside. It was like watching a film with the sound turned down.
Scott leaned back in his body sculpting chair and sucked in a deep breath. ‘It was, well, it was catastrophic,’ he said, and she noticed his hands which earlier had been resting relaxed on the arms of the chair were now gripping them, the knuckles turning white and the veins standing out a pale milky blue. He wrinkled his brow and closed his eyes at who knew what memories replaying in his mind. Then he slowly exhaled and tapped the flats of his hands on the arms of the chair. ‘But somehow we came through it,’ he said with a finality tinged with wonder.
SUNDAY 25th MARCH – MONDAY 30th APRIL 2068
CHAPTER 1
When Rachael read Rebecca’s letter for the first time, the shock of discovering she was the daughter of Dr Carlos Maiz shook her to her very core. Then seconds later she found herself weeping. Weeping for sorrow… and for joy. Joy for knowing her mother had been a writer just like her, and sorrow for knowing so little else about her.
She took a container of red wine from her food store and carried it with a glass and the manuscript into the bedroom where she curled up under the covers.
Eighteen hours later she finished reading everything – the book and the diary.
She lay in bed thinking how her mother’s words had fleshed out a virtually tangible image of her father that she could conjure up in her mind any time she wanted. She admired who he was. She was proud of what he’d done. And had she met him, she would have loved him with all her heart.
All the same, it was a shock to find out her conception hadn’t been planned… and that her mother had considered aborting her. But, of course, there was her mother’s letter. There was no mistaking the sincerity of the love it conveyed. There were also the words her mother had written in her diary. What were they now? Rachael searched for the entry and read it aloud. “…right now I could never imagine the world without Rachael being a part of it. I love her so much.” She shook her head and smiled as she pressed the page to her heart. It was clear by that time Rebecca hadn’t regretted having her at all. And what a wonderful mother she would have made. Gentle, sweet and caring.
How amazing that she’d been a writer too. A journalist. It was obvious from the book she’d had an instinct for a good story, as well as the tenacity and mettle to run it down. How Rachael wished she’d known her.
She reread the letter. It had her reaching for the tissues yet again and she was overcome by sobs so violent she found herself rocking and keening as she despaired at not having one single real-time recollection of her birth parents. She wept for the lack of family memories they should have shared.
Hungry, she took out two food packs from her store. Once opened the rise in ambient temperature automatically activated a special film inside that in seconds heated the contents to the perfect temperature for consumption. Then she sat down and ate the bread roll and bowl of chicken soup – the comfort food she craved.
She went to the bathroom to clean her face and teeth and then curled up on the bed again. She was tired but her mind was like a monkey playground and she didn’t think she’d ever be able to sleep. But she did drift off and when she woke hours later she felt refreshed.
She began leafing through her mother’s diary entries again but her stomach growled and she couldn’t concentrate, so she ate breakfast and opened a large pack of liquid coffee. That’s when she gasped. Rachael loved coffee – Rachael was addicted to coffee – and tears pricked her eyes as she realised she’d inherited that trait from her father.
After eating, she collected up the sheets of paper scattered round her bedroom, took them into the living room, sat down on the sofa and read everything again.
It was unnerving to know she was the daughter of the main player in the lead up to the global massacre of 2012. Of course, as a child she’d been taught about the holocaust at school but now, after absorbing her mother’s account, it had taken on a personal dimension she’d never identified with before.
Everything she’d learned came flooding back. How Dr Maiz had been taken into protective custody, how the UN Security Council set up the International Criminal Tribunal and how they’d arrested him three months later, accusing him of creating Zul and the theory of evolution as a cover for his despicable plan.
And how he had never been found guilty since the trial never took place because Dr Maiz, her father, was shot dead the day after the Tribunal announced his arrest, killed by a sniper with a bullet to the head as he hugged his girlfriend on being transferred from protective custody to the arresting officer. The girlfriend, Rebecca Marshall, her mother, was also shot. She died of her wounds as she was rushed to hospital.
A man was caught and tried for the murders. What was his name? She couldn’t remember. Was it Johnson? No… Johnston. That’s right… an Englishman… William Johnston. She put on her dead-head and scoured the Internet searching for articles and court reports that she copied to virtual memory.
She read them off the holographic screen incorporated in her sitting-room wall. One article quoted Johnston as saying he couldn’t wait for the judicial process to run its course and seeing that he and countless others knew that bastard Maiz was guilty of murdering six billion people, he’d taken it upon himself to execute the bigoted arsehole and his whore of a girlfriend. Ex-SAS, Johnston had got himself an emergency permit and driven from his home in the South of France arriving in Vienna on the 28th December with the intention of killing Maiz there and then, but on reaching the flat and discovering Maiz had already gone into hiding, he’d had to wait.
Buried in a couple of other reports, Rachael discovered it was never satisfactorily established how Johnston discovered the exact place on the outskirts of Brno where the meeting was to take place. Johnston said he chose the spot to set up his long-range rifle with telescopic site after hearing two men talking about the rendezvous in a bar in Vienna, but this evidence was never corroborated and neither the men nor the weapon were ever produced.
Because Johnston confessed to the crimes, the court found him guilty and sentenced him to prison for life. However, Rachael came across another report dated two years later of an appeal, where he claimed he’d been suffering with mental trauma resulti
ng from the effects of the global massacre when he’d admitted to the murders. An expert witness, some famous psychiatrist at the time, confirmed this was feasible and their testimony, substantiated by a watertight alibi that magically appeared, led to his immediate release, although Rachael could find no mention of it in the media.
She wanted to smash something. Two years for committing a double murder, for killing two innocent people. Only two years for executing her father and mother. She scraped back her chair to search for more tissues.
She used the dead-head to trawl for articles about Carlos. She found a handful written immediately after he died, claiming his innocence and insinuating his arrest and murder were part of a conspiracy, but they were later swamped by the hundreds implying his guilt.
The final word on the subject was a press release dated a week after the murders and issued by the Tribunal announcing it had based its arrest on compelling evidence. In addition to the Klystron, it also claimed to have uncovered a link between Carlos and a vitamin manufacturing laboratory in Switzerland.
The Tribunal accused him of taking advantage of the “shock doctrine”, a phrase coined in the early 2000s. It referred to the phenomenon when policy makers deliberately orchestrate events such as wars and economic upheaval or cash in on natural disasters to distract citizens, so policies or reforms that would never normally be passed can be hustled through with the minimum of attention, normally for economic gain.
She shook her dark curls. These people hadn’t known him. They hadn’t known him at all.
She shivered. Even though the heating was turned up full, somehow she couldn’t avoid the icy reach of the blizzard howling outside. She opened another pack of coffee and mulled over her situation.
She was the daughter of the most despised person ever born. Her father and mother had been assassinated when she was a baby. The woman who she’d always thought was her mother and who had died five days before was in fact her aunt. She’d lost one mother and gained another, but neither was alive to give her the hugs she needed right then.
But Rachael was strong and self-pity wasn’t a quality she admired or could tolerate for long, especially in herself. She began to realise that what she’d discovered gave her a sense of place she’d never had before and feeling a little better she finished the coffee and caught a grip on herself. She gathered up all her mother’s papers and sat down on the rug in the living room tucking her legs underneath her. She needed to reassess her life in the light of what she now knew.
Rachael applied for leave from her job when her mum… or rather her aunt… first became sick and it was clear she had little hope of recovery. While Rachael nursed her during the weeks leading up to her death, she debated whether she should go back to work or embark on something completely different, something she’d always wanted to return to, a writing career.
Now she found herself sitting in the middle, literally in the middle she thought, as she gazed at the manuscript on the coffee table and the loose leaves of her mother’s diary entries scattered over the floor, of the most detailed account of the lead-up to and events following the global massacre ever written… the biggest mystery in the history of mankind… the Zul enigma.
Although personally it was a tragedy, on another level it was thrilling.
And Rachael knew exactly what she would do. Forget the massacre happened fifty-five years before and the trail was cold, she would find out the truth behind Zul.
Just as her mother had wanted, she would track down the perpetrators and exonerate her father’s name. Then she would finish writing Rebecca’s book.
CHAPTER 2
‘Tell me more about the letter,’ Scott said. ‘What else does your mother say?’
‘That my father went into protective custody because of death threats. That she visited him twice before she left Vienna. And that she didn’t know when she’d see me again.’
Scott furrowed his wrinkly brow.
‘I know… it’s so sad. In her diary she says the Tribunal was compromised. And that the day before she went to meet my father she’d discovered something she thought might help him. But she was too scared to tell anyone or even write it down.’
Scott pursed his lips. ‘I see.’
‘She said she couldn’t risk anything happening to me, which is why she left me with her parents. They were in hiding.’
‘When did your aunt and uncle adopt you?’
‘I don’t know. I thought they were my parents. Why didn’t they tell me?’
‘They were protecting you. I’m sure they meant to tell you one day. But Rachael, you can’t imagine what the world was like back then. The majority of people were shocked senseless and speechless… others were filled with such intense rage… well… they needed to keep you hidden for your own safety. Over time, I guess, it got harder to bring the subject up. Your poor grandparents. Do you remember them at all?’
She nodded. ‘They died when I was twelve. But…’
‘What is it?’
‘How did Mum and Dad, I mean my aunt and uncle, get their names on my birth certificate?’
‘You have to remember that when you were born the whole world was in chaos. Hospitals were badly affected, as was anywhere that had traditionally employed a large percentage of low-income staff. Then the Registries of Births, Marriages and Deaths all over the world – well – they didn’t know what had hit them. Everyone was told to register with Survivor On Line and later the new records were cross-checked against the old ones. But for a while it was mayhem. Total mayhem. See, all your aunt and uncle had to do was say your on-line registration was done wrong. Or perhaps, since your mother was scared for your safety, she decided not to register you straight away.’
‘Obviously she was paranoid the wrong person would find the manuscript. In her diary she said that before she left England to meet my father she wiped her computer clean and passed the only paper copy on to Mum. And in her letter she said one day she wanted to set history straight, tell the world the truth and vindicate my father’s name. But, if for any reason she wasn’t able to, then I should do it.’
‘And I guess that’s why you’re here,’ Scott said, not exactly frowning but then not exactly smiling either.
‘You used to work for National Intelligence… I’m hoping you can help me.’
‘Tea’s ready,’ Scott’s wife announced, as she opened the door.
After they’d finished, Rachael helped Diane take the dishes into the kitchen.
‘I’ll help you load,’ Rachael said, walking towards the dishcleaner that vapourised food remains whilst simultaneously disinfecting the plates.
‘No, dear. I can do it. I have my own way. You go back and talk to Scott,’ and she shooed Rachael into the living room where Scott had already settled in his body sculpting chair. He motioned Rachael towards the other one.
‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘Are you warm enough? I can turn up the heating.’
‘I’m fine,’ she replied.
‘You know ever since you called I’ve been racking my brains to see what I can remember about your father. I met him twice, but only very briefly both times. I’m afraid I’m not going to be much help.’
‘Anything you can tell me is better than nothing. Just being here now, knowing you actually met him, I can’t tell you what it means to me.’ If only she had known it, the way she looked up at Scott from under her lashes was exactly the way her mother would have done.
‘To put what I know about your father in context, let me give you a bit of history. Some of it you’ll already know from your mother’s book I guess, even so, I’d like to tell it from my side.’
He leaned back in his chair and, with the air of a man about to relate a bedtime story, he began.
‘Back in early 2012, the then US President ordered our agency to investigate Dr Maiz, insisting Barbara Lord, the Director, handle it personally. It was so hush-hush she used contract employees for much of the data gathering. I was pretty low down on the totem pole b
ack in those days – just a messenger boy really trying to learn the ropes – but after Zul appeared on the UN satellite TV broadcast later that year and Barbara got fired, she took me into her confidence.
‘Despite my junior position, she’d always taken an interest in me and after Anderson canned her and she set up her own business she got back in touch. She was a very smart woman was Barbara, and I was flattered when she approached me. See, it was useful for her to have an ear listening out at the old firm and we’d get together now and then to chew the fat. Sometimes we traded information… but there was never any conflict of interest you understand,’ Scott said, shaking his head, delivering the words in such a way Rachael would have felt guilty doubting him.
‘Over the years we developed a solid friendship. I liked Barbara. I trusted her. She had integrity. Unlike her successor.’
He shifted his position in the chair, adjusted the cushion at his back and crossed his legs at the ankles.
‘I apologise. I digress,’ he said, ‘that’s what happens when you get older. You get sidetracked. But Rachael guessed he’d kept very much on point. He wanted to make sure she understood the back story.
‘So,’ he continued, ‘for NI, it all began when your father and the then Secretary-General of the UN met the President, Bob Anderson his name was, to tell him Dr Maiz had received e-mails from Zul. Anderson was convinced it was a plot to discredit him and that your father was behind it. See, he hated Dr Maiz for regulating US interests in space so closely and believed the feeling was mutual. Based on circumstantial evidence, he manoeuvred your father into committing himself to a psychiatric hospital in Madrid. It was a convenient way to gag him until NASA completed its investigation.’