Zulu

by Caryl Ferey

  Three clouds passed beneath the intermittent moon. Brian was starting to sweat inside his ski mask, which stank of mothballs. The security guard finally reappeared at the corner of the building. Brian tightened his grip on his baton, his back up against the wall of the garage. The beam of the torch passed in front of him. The man didn’t have time to make a move before the baton hit him on the back of his head, at the top of the spinal cord. Brian held him as he fell and pulled him under cover. The security guard, a white with a crew cut, looked as if he had fallen asleep. Brian took a handkerchief from his pocket, soaked it in chloroform, and pressed it over the man’s nose—that’d leave him feeling woozy for several hours. Two minutes forty seconds—avoiding the camera, he ran to the south wing.

  The windows on the first floor were barred, but not those on the second floor. He tightened the straps of his small backpack and, supporting himself on the rim of the gutter, hoisted himself onto the balcony. Then he took out a crowbar, and wedged the end of it under the wooden window frame. The wood yielded in a terrible splintering noise. He grimaced, and climbed in.

  The second-floor room was obviously used as a junk room. There were two padlocked trunks against the wall, piles of crates. No noise. Brian softly opened the door. At the end of the corridor, there was light coming up from the first floor. One minute. He walked softly to the stairs, forgetting about the seconds. He could hear voices from downstairs, a man and a woman, laughing in front of the TV monitors. He walked down the stairs, gripping his baton.

  “How about the blonde who sees a boat in the desert, know that one?”

  “No.”

  “Well, this blonde and this brunette are in a car, and they see a boat in the middle of the desert, and the brunette says . . .”

  The security guard was sitting on a swivel chair, with his back to the door. Standing by the monitors, the switchboard operator was drinking in his words, smiling in advance. She suddenly opened her eyes wide in surprise, cried out with her hands raised to her mouth, but too late—the baton hit the back of her colleague’s neck. The man swiveled in the chair and collapsed at her feet, small feet squeezed into moccasins with pompons, which didn’t dare move.

  “No.” She tried to struggle. “No!!!”

  Easily controlling her feeble writhing, Brian grabbed her by the neck and pressed the soaked handkerchief to her face. She twitched for a moment, then fell like some bold princess into his arms. He laid her out on the floor, administered a dose of chloroform to the security guard, and at last took off his stinking, sweat-soaked ski mask. He felt a little dizzy, but he had no time to waste—if they couldn’t make radio contact, one of the patrols would come straight back.

  The central computer was in an office on the first floor. Janet Helms had already visited it. He searched in the files stored on the shelves, came across figures, reports, client lists. It would take hours to go through them carefully. There was a ringing from the switchboard in the adjoining office. He went upstairs. The metal crates he had glimpsed earlier were lined up against the wall, two big trunks without names or destinations. With the crowbar, Brian forced the padlock on one of them. Inside were rows of tubes neatly laid out and protected by foam rubber, hundreds of samples with incomprehensible labels. He extracted one of them and took a good look at the liquid. Blood.

  He put the sample in his pocket, glanced unnecessarily at the window, and forced open the second trunk, which immediately yielded. In it was a hard disk, packed in polystyrene. Brian lifted it out and placed it on the wooden floor. Then he aimed his torch at the other contents of the trunk. Sachets of powder, hundreds of doses wrapped in plastic. Same texture, same color as the drug found in the mobile home. He thought he heard the sound of a car in the yard. At the same moment, the telephone rang downstairs.

  Brian looked feverishly at his watch. The quarter of an hour he had given himself had passed. He put his stinking ski mask back on, stuffed the hard disk in his backpack, took two of the sachets of powder, and left.

  *

  (1) Persons suffering from a deficiency of neurotransmitters (NTs) are especially susceptible to many of the conditions peculiar to Western man: obesity, depression, anxiety, insomnia, menopausal problems, etc. In depressives, several areas of the brain, relating to mood, appetite, sleep, sexual desire, and memory, are disturbed. Apart from the hypophysis, all these areas are part of the limbic system and usually receive signals from the neurons that secrete serotonin and noradrenalin. A decrease in the activity of the serotonergic and noradrenergic circuits contributes to the establishment of a depressive state. According to our studies, many depressions seem to be the result of disturbances of the cerebral circuits that use monoamines as neuromediators. The most common antidepressants on sale in Europe and the United States, such as Prozac, work by artificially increasing the level of serotonin in the synapses of the neurons affected by these conditions. Find the gene that makes it possible to achieve a sufficient regulated level of this NT and you will have “supermen”: no more obesity, no more anxiety, depression, insomnia. In the same way, we could be subjected to the most extreme stress without the mind being affected. This is a potential goldmine, with customers numbering in the hundreds of millions.

  2) In our research, we focused on the intracellular enzyme MAO (monoamine oxide), which modulates synaptic concentration and degrades the monoamines (serotonin and noradrenalin). Its gene was cloned, as were the prior areas that allow its regulation. The pieces of the DNA corresponding to this enzyme were therefore successfully introduced into an AAV. This viral vector was successfully tested on monkeys. We used gene therapy in vivo, which consists of injecting the vector carrying the gene of therapeutic interest directly into the bloodstream in such a way as to specifically reach the target cells.

  As the side effects of this kind of substance can only be seen on human subjects, we prepared and tested these recombinants on specified persons.

  After much trial and error, linked to the problems of hypertension and, above all, of increasingly violent suicidal reactions, we can now state confidently that these tests were positive.

  3) In addition, we selected a strain of HIV-1-4 before proceeding to the obtaining of viruses mutated into the gene of gp41. This glycoprotein possesses the peptide corresponding to an area responsible for the interaction with caveolin, a protein of the cellular membrane which, in association with other constituent parts of the membrane, is involved in the internalization of external elements, such as viruses. This area of gp41, known as CBD1, plays a major role during the infection of cells by HIV. The mutation, unlike the research developed by our colleagues, allows a larger and more effective penetration of the T4s. The virus thus becomes capable of infecting and destroying 80% of the T4s in a matter of weeks. Persons infected by this “supervirus” die from opportunistic diseases before they have even been found to be HIV positive.

  The virus was successfully introduced into 100% of the subjects treated.

  Brian read the document for the third time.

  His adrenalin had dropped since his nocturnal excursion to Hout Bay. The computer was purring in the bedroom at the back, David’s room, which had been empty for ages—there was still a Nirvana poster on the wall, in the upper-left-hand corner hanging at half-mast, as a sign of mourning.

  It was 5:43 by the alarm clock. He was starting to feel sleepy. He was supposed to be meeting Ali and Janet in a couple of hours and he wasn’t sure he had grasped all the ins and outs of the case, let alone the technical gibberish written by the director of research. Charles Rossow, his name was. A specialist in molecular biology. Brian had clicked the icons on the hard disk he’d stolen from the trunk at Hout Bay, and found files with cryptic names, containing series of charts, details of experiments, and various analyses, in a jargon that was almost incomprehensible to a layman. But he had understood the gist. Goldmine, virus. This file was dynamite.

  He made two copies of the hard disk, and stuffed the memory sticks in the pocket of his black fatigu
es. 5:52 now by the old alarm clock. Brian still stank from his earlier stress. As he contemplated taking a shower, his eyes wandered over the posters in this room that he had transformed into an office. David. The prodigal son. Top of his class. He was jolted out of his lethargy by a strident beep from the fax machine next to the printer. Yawning, Brian peered at the machine. There was no sender’s name, not even a number. A list of names soon appeared on the glazed paper. A message from Janet Helms—three pages detailing the structure and membership of Project Coast.

  He tore off the roll and looked through the document. There were two hundred names in all, with the skills and specialties of Wouter Basson’s various colleagues. Brian went straight to the letter R and found what he was looking for. Rossow. Charles Rossow, specialist in molecular biology.

  Neuman had been right. Terreblanche had recruited the scientist to develop a revolutionary new kind of chemistry. They had conducted secret experiments, enjoying protection and collusion from all sides. He sent a text to Janet Helms’s cell phone by way of reply, confirming the Rossow lead—she still had two hours before she met them at the Waterfront. Epkeen reread the fax in detail, from the top. Burger, Du Plessis, Donk . . . Terreblanche, Van Haas, Van der Linden . . . He was just lighting another cigarette when his eye fell on a name at the bottom of the list. Van der Verskuizen. First name Rick.

  “Shit.”

  Rick van der Verskuizen was on the Project Coast roster.

  That toupéed fashion plate had worked with Basson and Terreblanche . . . Kate Montgomery. The dentist. It was him, he was the accomplice, the man who had been waiting for Kate on the coast road.

  A slight noise made him prick up his ears. A creaking in the rafters, his imagination, exhaustion? The wind was blowing outside. He held his breath. Silence. Brian was about to take a shower when he heard another noise, this one much nearer. His heart started pounding. This time he was sure of it: someone was coming up the stairs. David? The floorboards creaked, somewhere very close. He flattened himself against the wall of the bedroom. The steps had come closer, they were in the corridor—at least two people. He saw the hard disk connected to his computer, the holster on the Red Indian bedspread, contemplated diving for his .38, thought better of it as the door burst open and thudded against the wall. Two figures rushed into the room, Debeer and another man, and began spraying the room with bullets. They were using Walther 7.65s with silencers. The feathers from the pillow on David’s bed went flying, while Debeer demolished the computer. The killers looked for their prey through the shower of plaster, saw the figure climbing through the window, and opened fire at the very moment it threw itself into the void.

  A bullet whistled past Brian’s ear and hit the wall of the house next door. He landed in the flowerbed and ran across the lawn. Four more bullets decapitated a few innocent stalks and pursued him toward the garden. He felt a pain, and took refuge behind the corner of the wall. He heard muffled voices cursing above his head, then the sound of boots rushing to the stairs. He ran toward the gate.

  Debeer jumped from the second floor but, not being very agile, twisted his ankle as he landed and yelped with pain. He waved his gun in the darkness. All he could see at the end of the silencer was flowers.

  Brian dashed into the empty street and ran to the Mercedes, parked ten yards away. He had the keys in his pocket and fear in his belly. Feverishly, he opened the door, switched on the ignition, and put the car in first gear. A stocky figure came running out through the open gate. The tires of the Mercedes screeched on the asphalt. The killer stood still and fired from twenty yards. The rear windshield shattered as he was pressing his foot on the accelerator. The other shots were smothered by the clatter of the firing pin.

  Brian turned right at the first corner. He didn’t have his gun, or his cell phone. Cold sweat was trickling between his shoulder blades. Shards of glass from the rear windshield had flown as far as the dashboard.

  It was 6:01 by the clock. That was when he saw bloodstains on the seat.

  Ruby couldn’t sleep. After endless talking and torrents of tears snatched from the nothingness surrounding her, she and Rick had ended up fucking. He had convinced her that she was the only woman in his life, and in his bed. It wasn’t that she had believed him, not completely, but she felt guilty. She was going to spoil everything again with her impetuousness. Just like when she’d had her label and dropped her top group because in her opinion they’d stopped playing rock and were producing popcorn, and they’d switched to one of the majors and had a big hit. That was it—she had to calm down. To concentrate on her happiness. Rick was a good guy. He loved her. He had told her that tonight. Several times. Rick wasn’t her father.

  The sky was still pale above the garden. Ruby was drinking her coffee on the stool in the kitchen, staring in front of her, when she froze—Brian had just appeared on the other side of the plate-glass window.

  She got down off the stool like a sparrow going to pick up a crumb of bread and pulled open the sliding door that led out onto the terrace.

  “Is Rick up?” he breathed.

  “Fuck off.”

  “This isn’t a game, Ruby,” he said in a low voice. “Your Rick worked with the intelligence services in the apartheid days on a top secret project called Project Coast.”

  “Blah blah blah.”

  “Shit!” Brian whispered. “Two guys just came to my house and tried to kill me.”

  Ruby saw the sweat on his forehead, and the handkerchief he was pressing to his left side. Was that blood?

  “What’s the catch this time?” she asked, intrigued.

  “There’s no catch. I want you to leave. Now. Rick is mixed up in Kate’s murder. I know I’m the wrong person to tell you this, but you have to believe me.”

  Ruby’s head was buzzing with all this information. “Do you have proof?”

  “It’s only a matter of time.”

  Ruby tried to close the door, but he put a foot on the sliding rail and grabbed her by the arm. “Shit, Ruby, don’t argue!”

  “You’re hurting me!”

  Their eyes met.

  “You’re hurting me,” she said softly.

  Brian released his grip. The handkerchief he held pressed to his side was dripping—the bullet had left a deep gash.

  “Rick knew your schedule, which means he also knew Kate’s, and—”

  “Rick didn’t kill Kate,” she cut him off. “He was home with me that night.”

  “He was with you at the time of the murder, yes. You took your band of metalheads back to their hotel, you dropped by the riding club, and you got home around nine. Rick’s clinic closes at seven. That left him two hours to get to Llandudno, intercept Kate on the coast road, and hand her over to the killers before going home to establish an alibi. Damn it, why don’t you just open your eyes?”

  A man appeared in the doorway of the kitchen. “What’s going on here?”

  Rick was wearing shorts and a beige sweatshirt. He must have heard them arguing, or maybe he was another one who couldn’t sleep.

  “Don’t try to fuck with me,” Brian growled. “You’re going to come quietly down to headquarters, or I’ll tear you to pieces.”

  “You have no right to be here,” Rick retorted. “I warn you right now I’m going to call my lawyer.”

  “Wouter Basson, Joost Terreblanche, Project Coast. Mean anything to you?”

  Rick kept his cool. “Ruby’s right,” he said. “You’re crazy.”

  “Really? ’86-’91, Johannesburg military hospital. What were you treating? The few teeth the political prisoners still had left? Or were you trying out Basson’s new products, testing them on human guinea pigs?”

  “Jesus!” he said, heated now. “I’m a dentist, not a torturer!”

  “And I’m a cop, not an idiot. You’re sweating like a pig, Ricky, and I know that smell. It’s the smell of fear.”

  Rick went red beneath his sweatshirt. He was lying. Not only to Ruby.

  “You don’t even
have a warr—”

  Brian grabbed him by the neck and threw him to the tiled floor of the kitchen. “I’ve heard enough from you,” he breathed, hands tightening on his tendon.

  Rick squealed with pain. Ruby was looking at them, too stunned to move, when a man in a ski mask suddenly appeared on the terrace. A powerful hand grabbed her before she could even lift a finger. Letting out a cry of surprise, she took a step back and felt the cold steel of an automatic weapon against her temple.

  “Don’t move, cop!”

  Brian saw Ruby’s face, paralyzed with fear, and the Walter 7.65 pressed to her head. He let go of Rick, who was moaning at his feet. There were two men on the terrace now, armed to the teeth.

  “Hands on your head!” the man in the ski mask screamed, his gun still trained on Ruby.

  Feeling nauseous, Brian obeyed. Rick stood up, massaging his neck, his head down, and retreated to the breakfast bar in the kitchen. Another man now came into the room. He had a thinning gray crew cut, and a firm body that belied his sixty years. Joost Terreblanche wasn’t wearing a ski mask, but he was carrying a gun under his beige military jacket. Brian, his hands raised, was looking for an unlikely way out when a blow in the small of his back with the grip of a gun sent him sprawling.

  He stifled a cry. The kitchen floor was soon stained with blood—his wound had reopened.

  Terreblanche gave Rick a piercing look with his metallic eyes: “You’ve done well for yourself, V.D.V.”

  Rick met Ruby’s eyes. She was looking at him in utter dismay. This was no time for explanations. Terreblanche looked down at Brian, who was lying at his feet, unable to get up. He lifted his foot, and brought his boot down on Brian’s liver.

  A long moan escaped his throat as he rolled toward the breakfast bar. Terreblanche took a step toward him.