Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter I

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Epilogue

Antonio Traficante

ESCAPING FATE

Black dreams

 translations from Italian by  
Carmelo Massimo Tidona

www.quellidized.it / zedlab

www.0111edizioni.com

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Escaping Fate

Copyright © 2013 Zerounoundici Edizioni   
ISBN: 978-88-6578-292-7   
Cover: image Shutterstock.com

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real things, people or events   
is purely coincidental.

To Karen, who lit my flame

and to Daria, because she always believes in me.

Every man is the architect of his own fortune.

Appius Claudius Caecus

### Prologue

The most disturbing thing was the air. It was becoming thick with a smoke smelling like burnt rubber, making the dark thicker and more opaque.

The shattering force of the explosion had pierced the night with flashes of bright light, after the blinding flash and the roar. Some fragments that looked like scraps of paper were left as if suspended, waiting to finally surrender to a gravity that seemed to linger in front of such brutality.

Then all shards and shreds fell, raising little puffs of dust when they impacted on the ground.

A single drop of sweat was running on the forehead of a man sitting on the edge of a sidewalk.

Making fun of the unbearable heat, and intimidated by having to cross such a troubled face, it decided to stretch toward the nose and fall on the men's chest, thus leaving the scene.

Slowly the man opened his eyelids. The flames painted weird reflections in those emerald eyes, standing out on a face covered by a thin layer of gray dust.

Needless to wander with the eyes, trying to understand. It was not stars that shone in the sky, but a myriad of glass shards illuminated by the glow of a car on fire.

Moving was not an option.

With his head enveloped by muffled sensations, the man tried to move an arm, realizing that he has been in the center of a bloody storm, or whatever the hell that had been. Every little gesture brought along a pang of pain, which ran unabated through his poor body, always for too long a time.

But he was alive.

Or at least, so it seemed.

Aware of the pain that would follow, the man raised his head, looking with a blank face at the house in front of him.

The blackened facade and a portion of the ledge, only kept together by a couple of metal rods, were there to show the scar, while a sinister glow lit up the glass shards still stuck around the windowpanes.

A yellow house with no windows.

He finally remembered.

It was the result of a dream.

None are more hopelessly enslaved than those who falsely believe they are free.

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

### Chapter I

Fourteen days ago.

Frankfurt am Main Central Station (Germany).

Wednesday, September 1st, 2010, 9:00 a.m.

It was hard not to be impressed by the imposing complex of the station.

The main building, the only one in the neoclassical style, was the extraordinary main reception hall, packed at every time with three hundred thousand people that crowded every day hundreds of surface and subway trains.

Benaski looked at the building that, starting from the large steel columns secured to the ground, branched to the roof, completing its covering with sheets of glass. The myriad of voices contained within the hall seemed to be suspended in the air, waiting for other words or sounds whose goal, as in an endless game, was to never leave the emptiness.

That was it.

There was no silence in that place.

In the end it was safety, because all of that enclosed space evoked the oppressive atmosphere of a cathedral, in which an obscure liturgy exhorted the thousands of people passing by to listen to what was immediately useful, such as the announcement of the departure of a train or the call of a family member. Everything else was really silence, the brain removed it from the range of relevant sounds and archived it as a file of background noise.

Benaski approached the counter of the Starbucks, without ordering anything, straightening his regulation dark suit.

Two old ladies fell in behind him, one speaking emphatically and without taking a breath, as the other, wide-eyed, seemed delighted by what she was hearing. When they turned at the man a questioning look, he smiled and courteously gestured towards the counter, inviting them to pass.

Average height, dark hair and eyes, Hans Benaski, son of a German political refugee of the World War II, was born in the United States in December of 1965. His father Albert has been an activist hostile to the Third Reich, and a few weeks before Hitler invaded Poland, in September 1939, he had broken camp from the suburb of Berlin, where he was living clandestinely by then, and embarked on a cargo ship headed for the United States. Later he had obtained American citizenship and got married, taking residence in Hattotown, Virginia, where Hans was born.

Albert certainly would never have imagined how the proximity to the headquarters of the Central Intelligence Agency would later affect the choices of his only son, making him become one of their agents.

Suddenly Benaski felt pushed from one side, as if someone had waited for his distraction to hit him. His peripheral vision duly perceived the event well in advance, it was part of his training. But he didn't do anything to prevent it.

A man, about fifty years old, of a fair complexion and as tall as a basketball player, smiled at him, showing the same fake expression of a face printed on an election campaign poster.

Perfect. He matched the description sent in the usual way through an employee of the American Consulate in Frankfurt.

"Ten is the perfect time for a coffee," the stranger said while trying to straighten his tie with clumsy gestures.

Hans slipped his hand in the pocket of his trousers and pulled out a coin, which he handed at the waitress of the Starbucks. That stupid identification procedure was over, at last.

As soon as they had their coveted American coffee in their hands, they both walked toward the center of the huge room, occupied by shops, travel agencies and bank branches.

"Ah, finally my favorite drink!" the man sighed, greedily sipping the contents of his cup, "you know, coffee in this country is terrible, I'm having a hard time getting used to it."

Benaski's face broke into a genuine smile.

"I totally agree my friend. Uh, I would say from your accent that you're from some Northern state."

"Oh, definitely. I come from the land of the Pilgrim Fathers, New England, more precisely Boston" the stranger agreed, offering his hand. "I'm Peter Hawking, Pete will be fine."

"Oh well, someone from the East Coast," the American agent said, returning the handshake and introducing himself.

"I must say I ate the best lobsters I've ever tasted in your area, really excellent," he added.

"Uh... I don't like such treats full of legs. Anyway, I apologize for the inconvenience I gave you, but I always thought that there is no place more secret than a crowded place," Hawking grinned, encompassing with a vague gesture the surrounding confusion.

"In fact, I hadn't been using those procedures for years," Benaski confessed, stroking his freshly-shaven face.

"Well, I admit I enjoyed it," Peter smiled. Okay, you've already read my file, right?"

The man went on without waiting for an answer.

"I guess you already know that I've been collaborating with the Agency for five years. Previously I worked as a bioengineer at Rendox Laboratories. I was involved in the design and development of biochips, you know, those components used for clinical diagnostics, analysis of doping substances in athletes, and a lot of other stuff. In short, a rewarding research work. But it wasn't enough for me."

Hawking paused, taking the opportunity to swallow a little more of that delicious coffee. A boy pushing a swaying shopping cart full of parcels brushed the American couple, slipping into a nearby bookstore.

"It was only in the laboratories of the Research Division of the CIA that I could fulfill my dream, but..."

Peter went on with the explanation, trying at the same time to dodge two boys that were coming toward him.

"You know the Minerva project already? Well, of course you do. Practically we put up a device that will greatly enhance the performance of soldiers, officers... look, it could become the standard equipment of the third millennium" Hawking said enthusiastically, opening his very long arms.

"Yes, I read the file," Benaski admitted emotionlessly. "I must say that the Frankfurt laboratory really intrigued me..."

"Ah! Our gem!" the engineer said emphatically, straightening his department stores jacket on his bony shoulders, "We called it Boutique. It belongs to IntelReader Technologies Ltd, a company incorporated in the United States. My team moved here two years ago, splitting from the Research Division and developing the device... let's say autonomously... err, am I saying hogwash if I say that you have been sent to check that everything is running smoothly?"

With a gesture that seemed dictated by nervousness rather than real need, Hawking adjusted his tie, stretching his neck right and then left to facilitate the operation. Then he pushed back his glasses toward his face with his finger, to the position clearly marked by the grooves that had shaped on the bridge of his nose.

Benaski noticed that he was doing that all the time.

"Well, you'll know already that Jenkins and Thunder spoke about this," the agent agreed.

Thomas "Thunder" Bowdler, a retired three-star general, was regarded as a true legend for his ability to make a whole operation invisible. Officially his tenure did not exist, exactly like the project he was working on at present. For this characteristic he had been chosen by the Assistant Director of the Research Division, Scott Jenkins, to coordinate the Boutique and its staff in all the logistical and operational functions of Minerva.

For a moment, the white shirts of the two men were stained by the red light, as they walked under a huge McDonald's sign. Peter's stretched face, too, finally took a color different from his usual paleness. It was obvious that the engineer, completely engulfed in his work, easily forgot to go in the open air, have a social life and certainly even sleep. And the clearly interested look he reserved for the overhead of the fast food was a sure indicator of his food tastes.

"Anyway, the purpose of Minerva is relatively simple," Hawking pushed back the glasses on his nose, "We know very well that the Agency always sought to gain control of the mind and relevant emotions, starting from simple conditioning. For example, the one you have been submitted to. In short, it is a behavioral response to a very specific stimulus," Peter clarified as he kept walking.

Benaski was struck by that statement. This wasn't a typical conversation made in front of a coffee, but a principle that shouldn't have involved him in person. Didn't all the training he had been given respond to a specific request of "democracy" of the planet which coincided exactly with the interests of the USA? What had conditioning to do with it, then?

"Um, so?"

Hans took a deep breath, displaying a blatant intolerance.

Hawking took off his glasses and slowly rubbed his eyelids.

"In the end, the Agency always operated on individuals regardless of technology, meaning that mental and informatics processes have never been examined together. We did that, and it works! Imagine, a new generation of pilots directly connected to their planed, or an elite group of undercover agents in enemy territory, always connected to their base and informed in real time of all the developments. We are talking about an effectiveness infinitely superior to the current one!"

The engineer opened his arms again, barely avoiding to bring down the people walking in the opposite direction.

"Okay, okay. I'm not going to question the Firm's policies" Benaski scoffed, using the nickname a large number of employees used to refer to the Agency. He raised his hands to admit defeat. He wasn't exactly burning with the desire to evolve into an elite agent, he was fine as he was.

"It is not just that, anyway," Hawking slowly put his glasses back on. "In the past, some events led to shut down some projects, and we want to avoid this at all costs," the man said, staring at the clouds running behind the huge glass window of the station.

"What do you mean?"

"Here," Hans thought, "we reached the crucial point."

As usual, there was a lot of money at stake and nobody wanted to lose it, even if money spent on projects like that certainly was not included in the Agency's annual balance sheet, at least not in the official one.

"I guess you have been properly instructed, but I ask you to consider our work fairly. We are doing it for our country, just like you, right?"

The engineer stared at Benaski, looking for a sign of approval for that phrase soaked in rhetoric.

The agent nodded. He had been chosen for that job personally by Scott Jenkins. His record of service was remarkable. Many operations in Europe, under the cover of fighting terrorism, had brought Hans to identify members of alleged terrorist cells and even agents of hostile countries. Very often, those individuals had been made to quietly disappear, or sent to domestic detention camps outside the law boundaries. The perfect man for the job, with a fair amount of nastiness and brutality.

At the service of the Country, indeed.

The two Americans came near the exit of the station, and a bearded boy of obvious Arab origins handed Hawking a copy of a newspaper he was distributing for free, taking it from a pile stacked on the floor. Peter automatically took the paper, breaking the silence.

"Okay, let's keep in touch through Facebook messaging, using the usual writing rules of the Agency. Fine for you?" the engineer asked, reaching the square outside the station ahead of Benaski.

"Sure, Pete, I already know the procedure," the agent said, remembering that the CIA not only owned a major share of the most famous social network of the planet, but also used it to recruit, browse archives and create profiles to be used in undercover operations.

Outside, the sun was shining on the car windows, creating blinding blades that pierced the air, while the usual city noise replaced the muffled sounds of the station.

Through his sunglasses, Benaski lazily watched the clouds fleeing toward the horizon, then his eyes lingered on the awesome facade of the central station. The sun was highlighting its Renaissance style, illuminating the big clock supported by two female figures allegorically representing day and night, it all equipped with an adequate number of capitals and assorted decors.

Hawking stared at his cup of coffee, now desolately empty.

"Well then, see you tomorrow."

The engineer turned to walk away, then almost immediately thought better of it, going toward Hans again, his hands relentlessly torturing his poor tie.

"Oh, look... I don't know what they told you in your briefings, but here I am the director and I take the decisions. I say that because tomorrow we won't be alone, and I would rather not be contradicted," Peter hesitated a moment, then smiled a nervous smile, "I mean, if all heads started thinking... we wouldn't go anywhere, and I have to give an account of progresses, you know what I mean?"

"Sure, you've been very clear."

Benaski raised an eyebrow in puzzlement, considering whether this attitude would make his job easier.

Yes, probably it would.

***

Sandwich Restaurant - Kaiserstraße - Frankfurt am Main (Germany).

Wednesday, September 1st, 2010, 11:15 a.m.

"Punctuality is the thief of time, said a great English writer" the man said, settling in the orange chair.

"Dr. Hawking, you chose the wrong writer," the girl replied with a smile, "the great Oscar Wilde wasn't exactly a moral model, and in the end he even converted to Catholicism, do you remember?"

"Touché," the engineer admitted.

Peter was known in his milieu to be a fervent detractor of Catholicism and its so-called moral principles. But some sentences – he often said – do not belong to their author but to the entire humanity.

"And you know perfectly well that I love punctuality", Helen clarified, her eyes lingering on Hawking's poor tie.

Born in Providence, in the U.S. state of Rhode Island, twenty-nine years ago, Helen Vidali had been pushed by her father to enter the United States Military Academy at West Point, and had emerged four years later as a Lieutenant, assigned to the American base in Wiesbaden, Germany. During that period she had plunged into an abyss of which she did not even remember the beginning. The damned drug had cajoled, aggressed and nearly destroyed a life full of expectations, giving her only the relief of a second chance.

The typical dark clouds of that latitude were giving way to a timid sun, increasingly bright, which was about to strongly enter the day. The two people were sitting just outside the best sandwich bar in the area, in the shade of an orange parasol that painted a shade of the same color on their faces. A pretty waitress with a business hat left two menus on the table, disappearing quickly in the direction of a stout lady who was waving her arms.

"How's Garrison?" Hawking asked, wiping his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief.

"Not well."

The smile on Helen's lips faded away.

"What's wrong this time?"

"I don't know. Probably some kind of infection."

"And what are you going to do?"

"Order something to eat, I'm starving."

The girl picked up a menu, then ran her finger on the first page, stopping exactly on a sandwich shaped like a donut, which had attracted her attention due to its curious name: Bread Pitt.

"Hmm, not bad."

No, it was no good, there was paprika in it and she couldn't stand it.

"So, have you decided?" the engineer asked impatiently.

"Oh, I've chosen. Here, I'll have the chicken Sunrise and an orange juice."

"Okay, I'll have the same."

The couple managed to attract the attention of the waitress, and finally they ordered.

After fumbling a couple of minutes, Peter decided that at that point any kind of knot would do for his stupid tie.

"How are you, rather?"

"All fine, Dr. Hawking. I'm much more worried about Garrison."

"Did you have someone see him?"

"Maybe today."

"Yes, maybe it's better. Well, what the heck, after all he's just a cat!" the engineer ventured, shrugging.

As soon as he uttered that unfortunate sentence, he felt embarrassment overcome him. And it was as light as a hammer blow on his head.

Helen turned on the canvas chair and gave the man a furious stare, so meaningful that it made him raise his hands.

"It's clear that you understand about feelings less than your damned computers!" she stated, shaking her head. Then she angrily grabbed her purse and pulled out her cigarettes.

The girl took a first deep breath, watching the sinuous maneuvers of the smoke fleeing upwards, then she closed her eyes for a moment, thinking about the events that had threatened to annihilate her.

Her addiction to cocaine dated back to the time in West Point, but Helen had managed to hide it even in Wiesbaden, thanks to the complicity of her direct superior, Captain Richard McConnell. He had endangered himself covering many of her paranoid behaviors by virtue of his parents and his friendship with the Vidali family.

That drugs circulated among U.S. military, even among high-ranking officers, was no news. After all, in almost all of the eighteenth hundred U.S. bases across the planet there was a department to take care of drug abuse, but Helen obviously had never had any intention of entering some fucking rehab program of the army.

"No sir," the girl thought, reopening her green eyes "no sir."

The waitress placed on the table a tray containing the two orders and a few packets of assorted seasonings. Helen was tempted to continue smoking, then decided that it was useless to perpetuate the same mechanism, inevitably reaching the same results.

"Let's see if this stuff is worthy of its name," she finally said, biting into the chicken.

She had met Peter Hawking at the U.S. Army Headquarter of Wiesbaden, not far from Frankfurt, that she had joined in the support and logistics department. When her drug addiction had reached an intolerable level, incompatible with her duties, she had accepted the advice of her family friend Richard McConnell, her direct superior, becoming part of Peter Hawking's team. The alternative would have been a damn rehab program for junkies, or the dishonorable discharge from the army.

"Holy shit, was there ever a choice?"

A prolonged honking almost woke her up with a start. Helen found a piece of Sunrise chicken in her hand, and automatically brought it to her mouth. Chewing slowly, she turned to look at Peter, who was also intent in scrutinizing her, trying to cajole the doubts and suspicions in her eyes.

"Well, this chicken's not bad at all!" the engineer said with fake enthusiasm.

"Delicious. You know, I finally decided to take your advice."

"Um... about what?"

"Garrison. Later I'll have someone see him, I happen to know a healer that..."

"Helen, please!" Peter made an impatient gesture, more theatrical than heartfelt. "And you still have to explain why you called a cat like that."

The girl had been inspired by the name by which the U.S. Army base in Wiesbaden was called, i.e. Garrison. That name was there, stuck into her head, to remind her of the worst moments of the rehabilitation, and calling her cat like that had been a way to exorcise that period, warding off the possibility of committing the same mistakes again. She wanted to remember.

"It seemed patriotic..." Helen said sarcastically, crossing her legs.

"You have a really inexhaustible vein of jokes," Peter nodded. "Speaking about patriotism, how long it is since you last spoke to your father?"

Michael Vidali was virtually retired, but he kept practicing his profession as a drill sergeant at West Point.

It was really difficult to determine where her father's responsibility ended, concerning the choices she had made. Even as a child, she had been subjected to a covert persuasion so that she would take the entry exam for the academy. Besides, Michael even resorted to beatings to get what could be called his personal goal; projecting on his daughter his never soothed ambition to become an officer, a true obsession for him.

"Dr. Hawking, you knows all too well that my father thinks he's tough," Helen said tiredly.

"If you don't call him, you evidently think the same of yourself, don't you?"

"No. Mine is just weakness. Honestly I don't feel ready to face him."

"What about your mother? Have you spoken to her recently?"

"My mother!" Helen echoed, accompanying her exclamation with a meaningful gesture of her hand, as if to physically cast away that thought.

"Okay, this is the right time to light another cigarette."

Her mother, Brigit, despite having Irish blood in her veins, had never been able to oppose a strong resistance to Michael's impetuous Italian attitude. They simply did not feel the same kind of love toward Helen. Her mother had applied, at least nominally, a collaborative upbringing that her father did not see as part of his role. He had replaced upbringing with training, in the military sense of the word, banning feelings somewhere else. There was no place for them inside an officer uniform.

"My mother called me cat's eyes... she was really beautiful. Perhaps my father married her just for that, who knows."

Helen raised the cigarette to her mouth with deliberate slowness and tried to explore that thought for the umpteenth time.

"Well, if you really want to know, I haven't been speaking to her for quite a bit," the girl said, tilting her head. "After all, my mother's used to long silences. She's fine in silence. She's been silent for almost my entire life", she concluded, nodding all the time, as if she could not find the words but still her mind kept processing that chilling thought.

"I have a feeling you will put aside your reservations and try to forgive."

"Holy shit! No, Dr. Hawking, I don't think so!" Helen interrupted, shaking her head, her dangling earrings waving wildly.

"Look, forgiveness, in the end, wouldn't even be for them, but for you. You could get rid of resentment and obsessive thoughts. Nelson Mandela, after almost thirty years spent unjustly in jail, said that resentment is like drinking poison and then hoping it will kill your enemies. Think about it. "

"And what's this, a taste of your psychoanalysis?" Vidali answered in a mocking tone.

Peter smiled.

"No, go figure. In this field I feel like an amateur, so to speak."

Peter felt his tie and went up with his finger to what was left of the knot. The tactile sensation confirmed that there were no definite shapes that could be compared to that male accessory.

"Did you go take your new credit card?" he added.

"Yes, this morning".

Helen waved to attract the attention of the waitress, asking for the bill.

"I'm going to buy something for Garrison". The girl shyly exposed her face to the sunlight, outside of the protection offered by the parasol. "Thanks for the lunch!" she winked mischievously, preparing to cross the street.

Walking alongside the shops, the girl watched her slender profile reflected in a shop window, then tidied her long blond hair that the wind had ruffled. Further up, the road became a tree-lined driveway smelling of lilac, the wide stone sidewalks already covered by the first dead leaves.

Helen watched the smoke of her cigarette dissolve in the crisp air of that morning, as she browsed the pages of her thoughts, looking for the reasons that had allowed her not to succumb to fate.

"Fate. A damned thing that only exists in our minds."

Helen let that thought cross her mind as she pulled again, probably for the last time, from that cigarette.

Then she put out the cigarette and the stream of unnecessary speculations, watching a shop window full of perfumes and jewels.

With a credit card to inaugurate, any place would do.

***

Mainlustraße, Frankfurt am Main (Germany).

Thursday, September 2nd, 2010, 10:20 a.m.

After reading Peter Hawking's message on Facebook, Benaski found himself staring at the "IntelReader Technologies Ltd" engraving on an aluminum tag. Near the relevant entrance there was no trace of an intercom, but Hans did not doubt that the camera above had already framed him.

The meeting of the previous day had triggered in Hans a spontaneous distrust for the engineer, mainly due to an ill-concealed lust for domination. As William Shakespeare would have said, Peter liked the idea of being surrounded by asses so to be the lion.

The dark wooden door opened with what sounded like an electrical click, and Hawking's face emerged from the doorway. At the same time that the agent entered, he handed him a mug with a picture of Sylvester the Cat.

"This is the house coffee," the man said with a smile. "Don't have too many expectations, it leaves much to be desired, but drink it anyway. Oh, one more thing. If you need to use the toilet do it now, because there are none where we're going."

Hawking turned away, regardless from any answer from his guest.

"Shit, now I have to drink and pee on command, and this man is like a train pulling straight" Benaski thought, perplexed, not realizing that he already had Sylvester's cup touching his lips, the dark liquid fouling his mouth.

Hawking pointed with a vague gesture of his hand at the entire room. The area of about fifty square meters was occupied only by two large desks, partially cluttered with computer equipment and stacked binders. A metal cabinet and a couple of wheeled chairs completed the furnishings.

"This is IntelReader office."

"Well, I didn't expect it to be so minimalist" Benaski said, absently looking at the engineer's casual clothing; jeans, a black turtleneck and a Boston Celtics cap.

"No tie to torture today," the agent thought, giggling.

"The Boutique is in the basement. We go?"

Peter pointed to the only inner door of that room, going first through a hallway with spotted walls and bulging plaster.

They went down a flight of stairs and came to a basement composed of a single, poorly lit environment, taken over by chaos and cobwebs.

"This place should remind you something," Hawkings murmured, fumbling around an electrical panel as large as a door.

"Yes, of course. It's a black hole, one of those inaugurated during the Cold War," the agent confirmed, meaning a site that simply did not exist on any map. Putting a nosy Soviet in there was the same as having him disappear, just like in a black hole.

"Correct, Hans. Before IntelReader Technologies turned it into a laboratory, it seems it was recently used for drug couriers and alleged terrorists. There, we go in..."

The engineer punched in a code on a keypad that had popped from the electrical panel as if by magic, making it open just like an ordinary door.

"As you already understood, this old junk hasn't seen any power in a lifetime," he grinned, inviting the agent to follow him through that passage.

Once through the door concealed by the panel, they found themselves in a sort of tunnel, narrow and lined with bricks.

"Here they used a passage built in the sixties," Peter pointed at the tunnel in front of him with the beam of a flashlight, "this was a functional connection to the realization of the U-Bahn, the famous and super-efficient Frankfurt subway. Once all lines where completed, these passages were closed, but not forever, because they could still be used for maintenance and such."

"No one ever comes here?"

Benaski advanced cautiously, careful not to brush those damp walls with his jacket.

"Not anymore. The Agency isolated this section of the tunnel. Here, we're almost there."

Hawking went on, staying slightly bent.

While walking through that short section of the tunnel, they could hear a constant muffled rumble, louder at times, caused by the ceaseless passage of trains, causing an endless rain of wet dust from the ceiling.

And the smell!

Hans thought he couldn't stand it much longer. He coughed only for an excuse to put his hand in front of his mouth, hoping it could filter the stench somehow.

"Christ, the cursed mice might even be accustomed to this, but can people work down here, with this fucking fragrance of dry shit?"

Peter had expected that reaction.

"Inside the Boutique, of course, the air is purified, don't worry", he grinned, stopping near a wall-mounted equipment, properly hidden by an half-scraped door.

It was a vascular hand-scanning device, the last check before accessing the Boutique through a side door, leaving rats and stench outside.

***

Sitting in her armchair, Helen Vidali felt perfectly at ease.

The small semi-transparent helmet that enveloped her head made her look like a bizarre alien in jeans and pink shirt in the center of that bare room, only lined with white bricks.

Each of the posts at her side was occupied by an operator.

Carmen Gonzales de la Cuesta was in charge of the bio-IT desk.

A native of Santa Cruz de Tenerife, a Spanish municipality in the Canary Islands, the raven-haired girl had graduated in IT engineering at MIT, the prestigious Massachusetts Institute of Technology, where she had also attended a specialization post-graduation course at the Artificial Intelligence Laboratory, laying the groundwork for a future as a researcher.

Right at the best moment, she had broken. A bastard in white coat had abused her, exploiting the confidence normally existing between colleagues. Now the seed of distrust had been planted and no one, in that overtly sexist environment, and had come to her defense. Carmen had preferred to resign and devote her time to some independent job, becoming a hacker.

The many tentacles of Thunder, the general who wanted to form a team for the Minerva project, had wheedled and eventually captured the thirty year old Spanish girl, tenacious and with an hardened soul.

"Fine guys, I'm back!" Hawking announced with a smile, putting one hand on the shoulder of Steve "Speed" Henderson, the bio-systems guy, who mumbled a "welcome back Uncle," using the nickname by which Peter was habitually called by his associates.

Henderson, a burly man of forty with a strong southern accent, had graduated in Biomedicine at the University of Florida in Gainesville, his hometown. Then he had attended a post-graduation course on nanotechnology applied to medicine, finally joining the Research Division of the CIA. A real laboratory dweller who avoided physical activity at all costs, earning himself the nickname Speed due precisely to the sloth-like speed of his body, in sharp contrast with that of his mind.

His presence at the Boutique was justified by the express request of general Bowdler, who had led the CIA, sole sponsor of the IntelReader, to "lend" Henderson to the Minerva project, confirming a usual modus operandi of the Agency.

Hawking introduced Benaski as a CIA observer, authorized to examine the operating procedures, then he glanced irritably at Speed's desk, containing little more than a monitor. Several discarded envelopes of snacks and biscuits were amassed under the chair fastened to the floor, giving an impression of chaos that contrasted with all the rest, clean and white.

"Steve, after this shift please remove your unpleasant collection of trash from under the seat."

Hawking started to turn, not showing any interest in a possible reply of the technician.

"And not only that, por favor," Carmen added, repeatedly touching her nose with her forefinger and clearly hinting at Speed's reluctance to wash.

Peter nipped Henderson's predictable reaction in the bud when he was already on his feet, a definitely unusual physical activity for him.

"Okay, that's enough!"

The engineer took a chair, inviting Benaski to do the same.

"Have you ever heard of DNA-Computers?" he asked point-blank, settling almost at the bottom of the room, not larger than fifteen feet but long no less than sixty, with a vaulted ceiling. That made clear the origin of the laboratory, obtained from an old service tunnel that did not officially exist anymore.

"Uh... the Firm has not delved into all the details with me."

Hans hardly ever pronounced the name of the Agency, preferring the nickname.

"Thought so. Well, we use the DNA molecules because they possess the ability to duplicate and store massive amounts of information. Combining them with carbon nanostructures we obtain microcircuits to be applied on biochips. We are talking about magnitudes of the order of millionths of a millimeter, remember."

Hawking put his forefinger and thumb, almost touching each other, under the agent's nose, trying to emphasize the concept.

"The DNA-Computers that Carmen and Steve are using from their posts do not need RAM, or even hard disk drives" the engineer gestured vaguely in the direction of the two engineers "information is stored at molecular level and immediately available. In the few occasions when a keyboard is needed, a virtual one appears at the bottom of the screen."

"So we're talking about a computing power greatly exceeding the usual one" Benaski nodded, frowning.

"Of course!"

Hawking became suddenly impatient, it could be seen from the incessant movement of his finger pushing his glasses back.

"You're wondering about Helen's helmet, aren't you?"

As usual the engineer did not wait for an answer.

"So, a thought generated in the brain is propagated using organic bioelectric fields, right? Well, all we did was miniaturize a DNA-Computer in the device we implanted in her head, allowing her to translate these impulses and convert them into a recognizable language for another similar device, you see?"

The man stretched his legs out, looking for a more comfortable position.

"So she thinks something and someone in front of a computer can read her thoughts?"

Benaski opened his hands, staring into Peter's eyes.

"Uh, lacking imagination, are we?" the engineer grinned. "You can do better than that, of course. Why should Helen only converse with a computer, when she could as well do it with a colleague equipped with the same device?"

"Of course. Using a satellite link, it seems obvious," the agent thought aloud.

"That's right, Hans. And the device can communicate with the nervous system in both directions. So we can get information, but also stimulate the subject in turn, by connecting directly to her brain without passing through her ears or eyes," Hawking said.

"Very useful if you want to give direct orders," Benaski chuckled, while accurately exploring his ear with his little finger, "How is the device powered? Not by a battery, right?"

"No, of course not! Well, we exploit the electric differential of her body at a molecular level, a truly inexhaustible source of energy" the engineer became enthusiastic.

Helen moved her head perceptibly, still staring at the inside of her helmet visor.

"Dr. Hawking, target framed. Ninety seconds to recognition. Flight plan confirmed."

Peter urged Hans to approach the center of the Boutique .

"With the device I just described, she interacts directly with a plane that is flying at this very moment about thirty miles from here. Let's say that it's a cerebral remote control, with the aid of her helmet which in this case is an integral part of the device" the engineer explained, referring to a drone, a small unmanned aircraft usually remotely controlled.

Benaski was perplexed.

He was realizing that those were not minor details, and no one had told him about them. He had never been in a mission with that type of plane, but a couple of colleagues boasted of having "squeezed the trigger" from another continent, physically eliminating targets thousands of miles away, while a pilot maneuvered the drone from the base.

Hawking bent over Carmen's monitor, examining the data flowing on it.

"In a moment we will see the images from her camera."

"So Helen is a pilot and the instructions come directly to her, without intermediaries. Not bad at all!" Benaski said.

He knew for sure that the use of a drone required the presence of a CIA analyst and a graduate member of the titular body of the mission. This way, instead, all the necessary information could be intercepted – and manipulated – directly at the source, by officials of the Agency and the Armed Forces.

"No, Helen is not a pilot, but she learned well. Excuse me a moment..."

The engineer moved threateningly toward Speed.

"Intensity value?" he asked, an inch from his face.

"All fine, Uncle," Henderson mumbled, swallowing yet another cookie and aware that his sweet tooth would give him trouble sooner or later.

Probably the intensity value was the most important clinical parameter for Helen. All of the inputs she processed created an almost uninterrupted electrical flow in her nervous system, in addition to the normal activities of her body. In order to avoid an overload, there was a limit to the usage intensity, after which her device decreased the release of hormones – such as adrenaline – always keeping her parameters within the norm.

A large screen lit up in front of the former lieutenant's armchair, showing the panoramic offered by the camera of the drone called Fat Boy, the squat but efficient aircraft she was flying remotely. It was practically the very same view she could see directly in her brain, without the need of her eyes.

The same satellite transmission was received by Thunder, the general in charge of the Boutique. He would follow the whole operation from his hangar at Edward Air Force base, in California, reserving himself the option to issue orders to the girl talking directly to her brain.

The screen displayed the image of a black Mercedes SUV.

"Okay. I designated the target Alpha One."

It seemed unusual to hear Helen's soft voice in that silence, as she assigned a codename to her target to define it unambiguously, with no possibility of confusing it with others.

The vehicle was driving along a stretch of back road toward Weilburg, about thirty miles from Frankfurt, bisecting the dense forest of beech and lime trees.

Helen decided to zoom on the driver's side window of the SUV, and the camera of Fat Boy performed this without the need of other commands. The scan of the plump face of the target, surrounded by a thin goatee, was now shown full-screen after passing through the girl's brain, confirming that it belonged to Henning Fitch.

He was an accountant connected to substantial imports of hallucinogens to Lower Saxony. The mission was to "recognize" him and trace his movements for thirty minutes. On the basis of the wiretaps obtained by the Agency for National Security, his was soon going to meet an important contact, whose identity was still mysterious.

An absurd silence reigned in the Boutique. The only orders to be executed came silently from Thunder, while the two engineers ran their fingers over their DNA-Computers, imperceptibly recalling data and parameters.

Benaski adapted, trying in turn to appear impassive. Like his wife Elizabeth kept saying, he would have been able to hold a course on phlegm. The problem was that he took that as a compliment.

Then the agent folded his arms across his chest and shifted his weight from a foot to the other. Looking at Carmen, he certainly wouldn't call her a beautiful girl; with her aquiline nose and close-set eyes, she seemed to come straight out of a Pedro Almodóvar film. His gaze eventually lingered on Helen, the source point of the Minerva project.

"So this blonde girl is the famous 'subject' of which we spoke in the briefing. The famous hybrid woman. Much more beautiful live than in a picture" he assessed.

"Okay, maybe it's time."

The voice of the former lieutenant preceded by a moment the picture on the screen, breaking the brief interval of silence.

Fat Boy camera had zoomed out, moving to a broader perspective, which also included the stretch of road before the position of Alpha One.

The traffic was almost non-existent at that time, and the SUV proceeded fast, aggressively facing curves as if it were late for an appointment.

In the vicinity of the first houses of Weilburg, a dark sedan seemed to be waiting, its engine running, turned to the same direction as Alpha One. Suddenly a man with a pair of binoculars came out of it and started to watch the road in the direction of the SUV, now less than a mile away. The stranger kept one foot inside and one on the ground, seemingly ready to leave at a moment notice.

Helen named the new target Sierra One and zoomed out. On the Boutique screen, the distance between the two vehicles appeared, currently nine hundred meters.

Thunder asked the former lieutenant for the detail of the new target, and immediately a new picture frame popped on the screen, showing an Audi sedan and the silhouette of the man, wearing a Los Angeles Lakers cap.

The distance had decreased to eight hundred meters.

Hawking raised an eyebrow at the sight of that hideous hat, right the team that had beaten his beloved Celtics in last championship.

Six hundred meters.

Five hundred.

Suddenly in the middle of the screen, right where a moment before Alpha One had been, a giant flower bloomed, orange in the middle, with blacks petals.

The SUV had exploded.

"What the hell...?"

Hawking turned pale, his hands groping the air.

"Madre de Dios!"

Carmen Gonzales took off her headphones and put them very slowly on the floor, as if in a trance. Henderson's eyes followed the trajectory of the shreds of Alpha One on the screen.

The explosion ripped the air from the lungs of Henning Fitch, later taking his life as well.

The shock wave expanded into the surrounding air, whipping the branches of the nearest trees and making a large number of startled birds flee. Smoke and debris seemed to be sucked into the center of the blast, before being finally scattered everywhere around it. Burning, smoldering scraps lied randomly around the two sections into which the powerful SUV had split; the engine and little else on one side, the suspensions, still attached to what was left of the frame, on the other.

"Go, go, go! Speed, check the datalink and the subsystems. You, Carmen, put those damned headphones back on!" Hawking cast away from his mind the latest incredible moments. "Helen, are you there?" he asked apprehensively.

"Okay, okay. I'm here, holy shit!"

The girl stood motionless in her armchair, only her fists clenched so tight that her knuckles were white denounced the tension she was feeling. Through her device, Thunder was reminding her that there was still a target to follow, Sierra One. "Find and identify," was the order.

"It's... Sierra One is not there anymore!"

Helen felt more angry that really worried. She had focused for a long moment on the explosion, losing visual contact with the Audi sedan, and now the camera returned her a desolately empty landscape, except for what was left of the SUV.

In the tense waiting silence of the laboratory, the former lieutenant gave quick neural orders, opening a window on the Boutique screen where the last ninety seconds of footage from Fat Boy camera started to play.

With her thought alone, Helen paused the movie at the desired point.

Stop the picture.

Unfortunately that damn binoculars in front of the eyes prevented a useful scanning of Sierra One's face.

"He's a damn soldier!"

The girl felt the image directly into her brain, before everyone else could see it in the window on the Boutique screen.

Zoom in.

The stranger wore a kind of k-way over what looked like the uniform of a non-commissioned officer of the U.S. Army, thus hiding stripes and flashes. Helen would have been ordered to identify Sierra One anyway? None of those who were there had the authority to do so, only Thunder, thousands of miles away from that place, could authorize the continuation of the mission.

Forward slow.

"Come on, don't make me beg you," she thought, wrinkling her lips "show your pretty face and smile."

Nothing. The man had kept the binoculars glued to his face up to the moment when it had been lit by the explosion of Alpha One, then he had gone back inside the car, without ever showing a portion of his face large enough to scan it.

No! He had come out again before leaving, and without binoculars and cap.

So Thunder was interested in discovering the identity of the mysterious man, since he was allowing Helen to continue the mission.

Stop.

The few moments in which the man had shown his face were enough to obtain the desired scanning, but not just for that. The man had left the car to take off his k-way, showing the stripes of a U.S. Army sergeant. It was clear that he had not used any precaution, clearly he did not expect to be under surveillance.

Suddenly, the window closed without notice.

Reopen window.

Nothing happened.

Reopen window.

Nothing. The screen only showed unnecessary real-time images of the landscape, with the first cars stopping on the explosion site and the mobile phones close to the ears.

"Mierda! We were disconnected!" Carmen said furiously, raising her arms to the ceiling.

"Well, I'm under the impression that they don't want us to know who Mr. X is."

Benaski took note of the almost embarrassing situation that had arisen and, meeting Hawking's puzzled eyes, he had the impression that he was sharing the single thought hovering in the Boutique.

Everyone knew that general Bowdler was in control, but now that that control had been exercised, wiping out any trace of ambiguity, the bitter taste in their mouths was overpowering.

"I'll bring Fat Boy back home, Dr. Hawking. I just received the order."

Helen's listless tone clearly showed her disappointment.

But she wasn't blaming herself for the outcome of the mission, neither she felt frustration for not having been able to share the identity of Sierra One.

With a shudder that made her shiver, Helen had to admit that she did not need that information to identify him.

She already knew the sergeant who drove that Audi sedan.

***

The most boring part for Tom Stalker was enduring 75 miles in his car, even if the sunny day invited to enjoy the wonderful view. The road wound in the wide wooded areas outside Frankfurt metropolitan area, in the direction of Weilburg.

Tom looked at his watch for the umpteenth time, without really looking at the time. He felt nervous as never before, and all the cigarettes he had smoked until then had only increased his anxiety. He reviewed in his mind the instructions he had received, by then he knew them by heart, exactly like the path he had been pointed to.

"It's all right. Take a few deep breaths and ignore the stupid tremor of your hands."

Stalker clenched his jaw and searched into his mind the reasons which had led him on that road.

Three years ago he had been transferred to the Logistics & Transport Department of Wiesbaden U.S. Army Garrison, and everything seemed to be going well.

He liked the job he had been assigned, and had the opportunity to work alongside a nice colleague, who had become his direct superior; lieutenant Helen Vidali, coming from West Point Academy.

Tom's work consisted in sorting out part of the huge amount of spare parts of the base vehicle fleet, that would be later assigned to the internal workshops who had requested them. This allowed him to move freely inside the base, but also outside of it, because some spares were directly purchased from local stores, without waiting for the delivery plane.

Lieutenant Helen Vidali acted instead as a liaison officer with the director of logistics, Captain Richard McConnell, and had to make account for the budget allocated to the Light Vehicles Department.

So the contacts between Helen and Tom had become almost daily, and a certain confidence had been established between them, to the point that he had thought it was a good idea to invite her to a kind of party taking place a few days before Christmas 2007.

She had felt flattered by the invitation and accepted. It was implied that there would be joints and, who knew, maybe some coke. The number of participants was limited, and lieutenant was the highest accepted rank, but Helen believed that he would have invited her anyway.

Stalker lit yet another cigarette and couldn't help laughing.

"Jesus! How many laughs, with Corporal Butler mimicking the base commander!"

John Butler had padded his clothes with toilet paper to imitate Commander Tyler's appearance, and climbed on a table, putting on one of his typical outbursts. Alcohol flowed freely in that basement, and after midnight the number of participants had dwindled to a dozen soldiers, passing around hard liquors and joints.

The road sign Stalker passed said fifteen miles to Weiburg.

"When did I start losing control?"

A shiver ran down his back, even though almost three years had passed.

Helen had no intention of smoking joints that day, but she had withdrawn with a couple of colleagues to another room, inviting Tom along to what she had always considered the real party. For him it had been the first time ever, he had never sniffed coke before, but her seductive look promised big things for the remainder of the party.

A few minutes later, Helen was completely gone. With feline moves, she had delivered herself into the arms of an excited Tom, who hadn't needed to be begged to possess her right there, even though he suspected that behind that fuck there wasn't really his appeal as much as the effects of the hallucinogen.

He would find out in the months to follow that he had been mistaken.

Ten miles to Weilburg.

"Shit, that evening hell began."

That first party was followed by others, with the same white stripes and the same ending.

But at that point everyone had to take turns to bring the bags with the stuff, and their price was higher than what Tom could afford. As if it weren't enough, he also had to provide Helen's doses. Now that they were an item, she considered it a sort of compensation, in return for the pleasure she gave him in bed as well as the gratification for having such a hot blonde at his side. His physical appearance alone would have never allowed him to have her. With his average height, extreme thinness and short black curls, he wasn't really the prototype of the heartbreaker. All this combined with a definitely trivial eloquence that forced him to ignore the sarcastic glances of their colleagues, not to mention their fierce comments, mainly coming from envy.

Five miles.

"That slut was only exploiting me. What a moron I was!"

When the salary had become insufficient, Tom had started stealing a small part of the base spares, selling them under the counter to a complacent workshop located at a safe distance from Wiesbaden. But it had become increasingly difficult to take them without arousing suspicion, and yet he did not want to give up Helen. In the end he had been persuaded by the accountant of the workshop he smuggled spares to to buy the stuff directly from him since, he said, he already supplied several officers of the base for the best prices in Lower Saxony.

His name was Henning Fitch and he would never have moved for so little. In fact his goal was to become the main pusher of Wiesbaden.

The situation was becoming hard on Tom.

Helen looked like a leech and she never had enough, while Henning Fitch kept a close eye on him, and finally managed to convince him to make a weekly trip as a courier inside the base.

Three miles.

"Jesus! I tried with all my might to stop with that shitty life."

After a couple of trips, Tom could not take it anymore. Helen had let herself go and she looked ugly, always embarrassing him and herself.

Henning Fitch had stopped asking and started demanding. New customers, more frequent deliveries, and most of all payments in euro.

Tom had put an end to it. His salary of three thousand dollars per month vanished under his eyes, and anyway all of that turmoil could not pass unnoticed. After the summer of 2008, an internal investigation had begun, ending with the suspension from service of five non-commissioned officers, including him. Tom was well aware that if they could prove he had been trading cocaine and smuggling spare parts they would arrest him and strip him of his rank of sergeant, in addition to discharging him with dishonor. So he had resigned to lose Helen and attend a rehabilitation program for eighteen months.

Some officers, instead, had been transferred to other locations, while Helen, hitherto protected by Captain Richard McConnell, had silently joined the Minerva project, which obviously also included a painful rehabilitation course.

Stalker reached Weilburg at 11:30. He turned and glanced at the binocular resting on the passenger seat, then parked his car at the end of a long straight road, near the first houses of the residential area. He looked anxiously at his watch and opened the dashboard drawer, pulling a blue plastic k-way and a Lakers cap out of it.

He put those clothes on immediately, then went down without killing the engine, keeping one foot on the car floor and the other on the blacktop, as if being ready for a rush breakaway.

"I was sure I had turned that page, but was it true?"

He hadn't seen Helen since, nor Henning Fitch. After rehab he had felt free again, especially inside. He had faced the psychological tests with genuine enthusiasm and finally had been reinstated in his rank.

But fate was not in tune with Stalker.

A few weeks after his return, a chilling voice had started haunting him on the phone, threatening to reveal all of the events that had not emerged from the previous investigation if he had not accepted to pick back up the old customers list and the package delivery.

"Henning Fitch. He'd waited almost two years, that bastard son of a bitch!"

Tom was again on the brink of an abyss, but just when desperation seemed to have gained the upper hand, an intermediary had contacted him. He spoke in the name of three of the base officers, willing to physically get rid of Henning Fitch. They too had a past best kept hidden, and the bastard was threatening them. Set aside the initial uncertainties, they had decided to put under the seat of the pusher's SUV an adequate quantity of civilian explosive, with a detonator controlled by an crypted-signal remote, for the minimum chance of errors.

It would have looked like a settling of accounts, or a revenge within the drug world.

One of the officers had called Henning Fitch and set a meeting in Weilburg, speaking also on behalf of his colleagues, saying that they were ready to pay a sum of money to repay him for the damage suffered, and end it there.

The binocular Tom Stalker grabbed, pointing it at the road near Weilburg, also incorporated the remote control that would put an end to threats and suffering.

He only had to wait for the SUV and make sure that it really was the bastard driving it. Then the simple pressure of a button would have ended that story forever.

Here it was.

The binocular was showing the silhouette of the powerful vehicle, which now had almost a mile of road ahead, right in the direction of Tom. No one else around, thankfully.

All the anxiety and tension accumulated in the last few weeks seemed compressed in every single moment, ready to free Tom's body and soul.

The tremor of a few minutes before had left his hands, and only his slightly sweating brow gave away the whirlwind of anxiety mixed with angst that was gripping him.

A second of lucidity would have been enough, but he couldn't even bring the SUV into focus with the binocular.

They said that to a soldier only the first kill was hard, all of the following would be, in a sense, "deprived" of the purely emotional side, and more so as the number of enemies killed increased.

But Sergeant Tom Stalker had never killed anyone.

He had never been in any action of war.

The things most closely resembling a war situation to which he had taken part were probably the fire drills at the base.

Tom found himself with sweaty hands, without realizing it.

"I have to keep control. I have to keep control!"

His thumb hesitated, almost caressing that button and exploring its thick milling.

The ideal time to press the button on the remote and activate the detonator had already gone by. Henceforth he would be running risks, who knows, maybe he could even be hit on the head by some shrapnel.

The display of the binoculars read four hundred yards between him and the SUV.

Amazingly, he was still trying to decide whether that was the right thing to do.

Three hundred meters.

"Jesus! You don't have to decide, you have to press the damn button! Now!"

Tom uttered a terrifying scream, and pressed the button.

***

Tapas Bar "Don Esteban" - Frankfurt am Main (Germany).

Friday, September 3rd, 2010, 10:45 a.m.

Helen's phone let out a feeble vibration and she hurried to fish it out from the pocket of her jeans. Contrary to almost all women, she preferred to have her phone at hand, without having to open her bag and search it every time.

On the display there was a Facebook notification. With rapid movements of her fingers, she opened a message from Peter Hawking. Only two lines: "Uncle throws a party. 11:00 Don Esteban."

Vidali smiled to herself. She loved the Mediterranean cuisine, especially tapas, small appetizers born in the nineteenth century in Andalusia to fill the saucer – the tapa in fact – that was put on top of sherry glasses to keep flies out. And the Don Esteban served the best tapas of that suburb, the girl recalled.

As usual she preferred to walk, proceeding along the road that flanked the Main, the river cutting Frankfurt into two halves. Accustomed by then to go to work without using public transport, with their schedules and all the people shoving you around, Helen was used to get up early and choose a path through one of the many public gardens of the city, or ride a bike to work, carrying a backpack.

Physical activity had fashioned her a breathtaking body and was functional for the complete rehabilitation from drug addiction, eliminating the last remnants of cocaine from her adipose tissue. In this respect, the implant of the device had turned out to be decisive, eliminating the addiction due to the activation of neural receptors and specific enzymes.

When two years ago Hawking had proposed her to join the Minerva project, assuring her total rehabilitation and a salary of fifty thousand dollars a year, Helen hadn't thought twice about it and had accepted, more than happy to forget Tom Stalker.

"I certainly wasn't in love. At that time we were using each other, that's all."

She had thought a lot about it, and that extreme synthesis represented everything that was left to her of that period. Nothing more than that. No regrets and no remorse. But neither a support or any true friend.

Helen winced and watched the slow hiss of the river, vexed only by the boulders that emerged along the shore.

"Dad didn't want to know, Mom wasn't there, here's my support, holy shit."

Over the past two years, her father had never called her directly, rather resorting to second-hand information from the family friend Richard McConnell. Her mother, instead, had filled sixty seconds of phone call with an uninterrupted weeping, prompting Helen to hang up.

Obviously, neither was informed of the new job of their daughter. Anyway, she was simply listed as a consultant employed by IntelReader Technologies Ltd.

"Uh, I almost took a wrong turn, Don Esteban should be here."

Helen quickly turned into a side street. A glance at her watch confirmed that she was early. Well, there was time enough for the first cigarette of the day.

"Hola querida!"

Carmen Gonzales always greeted Helen that way, calling her honey.

"Hola Carmen. Would you like a cigarette?"

The former lieutenant was certain of a positive answer, so she directly handed her the half-open package.

"Natural, never refuse a cigarette. So, what do you think about yesterday?"

Carmen was referring to the reason for the meeting that would take place in just a few minutes.

"Well, you were there," Helen said with a mischievous smile.

"You were the only one who didn't look surprised. Am I wrong?"

"Indeed I wasn't, in a sense."

"You already knew how it would end, didn't you?"

"No, not really. But I knew the two targets."

"Madre de Dios! Then the briefing before missions is worth shit!"

Carmen's cigarette smoke drew a large circle in the air, exactly like her hand, showing an impatience that was more theatrical than real.

Helen waited for a moment, then breathed in a puff of smoke and turned her face toward the sun, enjoying the pleasant warmth of its rays.

"In short, I would have told you anyway. The pig driving the SUV, that is Alpha One, was a drug dealer who sought to expand his damn business inside the base where I worked. Yes, I'm talking about a few years ago."

"Um... did he want to use you as a courier?"

"Not directly. His main contact at the time was the driver of the Audi."

"You mean Sierra One?"

"Yeah."

"And you know him because..."

"Let's say... we were dating."

Helen went on, informing Carmen about the events preceding her forced resignation from the U.S. Army.

"When we met, however, you were already out of that, weren't you?" Carmen seemed sincerely affected by the story.

The former lieutenant smiled.

"Yes, of course! The exact moment when I entered IntelReader and was put into the Minerva project, I started my treatment. The implant of the behind my year served at first to remove my addiction, then I worked twelve hours a day for two years, during which I was trained to fly Fat Boy, the drone I know better than anyone else by now."

Carmen threw the butt of her cigarette away, right in the middle of the street.

"Was it difficult?"

"Look, at the end of the day, flying Fat Boy is the easiest part of the job."

"Let me guess where the trouble begins..."

"You've already figured it out, I think. It took me two years to learn how to handle the, and it's not over yet."

"Bueno, I thought so. Pressing brain buttons isn't exactly like doing that on a computer, is it?"

The two women looked at each other. For the first time their relationship was not just a data exchange. The dialogue that was developing seemed to be the embryo of a friendship.

"Yes, it's not simple. But I am excited about what my device can do. Really."

Helen nodded, stressing the true conviction with which she had processed that concept.

"Excusa me for asking, but haven't you ever felt the need to... well, your previous problem, I mean."

"No, not at all! Well, the first two weeks were terrible, but after the implant I didn't think about it anymore, and I could devote myself one hundred percent to the project."

"It almost looks like a panacea. I wonder why they don't authorize it's use on junkies."

"Carmen, don't be naive. They already make very small biochips at low cost. Using one to circumvent a skin implant would become too simple and predictable."

Even Helen put her cigarette off, crushing it under her shoe.

In an unexpected move, the former lieutenant took Carmen's arm, starting in the direction of the Don Esteban, where the tall figure of Peter Hawking already loomed in front of the entrance.

"You didn't have other boyfriends after that one, did you?"

The Spanish wanted to take advantage of the last moments alone with Helen before entering the Tapas Bar.

"Uh, I really didn't have the time! And you? Do you have anyone?"

"Are you kidding me? Uncle's contract prevents me from that! And I'm serious!"

"So you too closed the door, huh?" Vidali felt the need to add a few more bricks, to build and strengthen that possible friendship.

"Yes, and anyway... I'm not ready yet."

A perceptible flicker of sadness passed over Carmen's face.

"Sorry, that was just supposed to be a joke..."

"Yes, a joke I could have spared" Helen thought, remembering the episode of violence her colleague had confided to her.

"Don't mind querida. Our moment will come, you'll see!"

A large Spanish flag framed the sign outside the Don Esteban, providing a perfect stereotype of gastronomic nationalism. In front of the entrance, Hawking invited the two girls to go in and join the rest of the Boutique team.

The interior of the restaurant was structured for quick snacks, to be eaten on tall tables surrounded by stools, or standing in front of a counter with glass panes displaying a fabulous amount of tasty and attractive tapas.

"I took the liberty of ordering for everyone, I hope an assortment of the house is fine," the engineer announced.

"Besides, we're not here to eat, right Speed?" he added, winking to the biosystems engineer, wearing the same smelly Ramones shirt as the day before.

"All right, Uncle, then we'll wait for you to tell us why we're here," Steve grumbled, reaching out to grab the contents of the first dishes that were coming to the table. It was a shrimp-based condiment laid on slices of white bread, his favorite tapas.

Benaski, rather quiet, waited for everyone to take a portion of the dish, then gripped with his fingers one of the tapas, bringing it straight to his mouth, exactly like he saw the others do. Good American that he was, he wasn't too accustomed to the customs of the Old Continent, but he was willing to learn, if the price to pay was tasting such delicacies.

An elderly couple, sitting nearby, had attracted the attention of the American agent. The two were commenting rather loudly the news reported in the newspaper that one of them kept open, about a presumed explosion that had destroyed a Mercedes SUV and murdered its driver. All members of the team displayed indifference, trying desperately to look busy with something else.

Benaski spoke while he wiped his fingers on a paper towel, "Well. I would like to reiterate a concept that you should already know. IntelReader Technologies is a privately held company that provides services, and as such it is not expected that its employees know more details than it is necessary, okay?"

The agent took a sip of water from a glass, watching the reactions of the Boutique team. It was understood that, as the CIA was the sole sponsor of the company, every employee was de facto working for the Agency.

Hans watched the sweat on the engineer's face, then studied carefully the hybrid woman.

"Well, she's eating normally," the man noted, almost surprised. Then he stepped aside to allow a big blonde girl to serve other dishes.

"From yesterday briefing, you already know that it concerned drugs, and I would add that it concerns a U.S. Army base," Benaski went on. "The phenomenon seems to be more extensive than it appears, and the Department of Defense wants to take care of this problem... let's say without noise. You can easily imagine what would happen if this kind of investigations were carried out officially. The media would thrive into them and the Congress would start asking a lot of questions. For instance about the morality and righteousness of military personnel and crap like this. The result would lead to cuts to the defense budget, and of course we don't want that, do we?"

Helen raised an eyebrow, ignoring the rhetorical question of the agent.

"It's just this what we'll do? Chase cheap criminals because they sell stuff to our soldiers?"

The agent chose to use a little sarcasm dressed up with a sheepish smile.

"Well, the technology available would fit many other uses, but it needs a test run with real targets. Moreover, you saw yesterday that there is no shortage of surprises!"

The former lieutenant shook her head, angrily throwing back in her plate the morsel she was about to eat.

"So we should just perform a fucking mysterious job without even knowing what we're doing, right?"

"Listen. The situation is this, whether you like it or not. If you wanted stars and honors you should have stayed in the army, so you'll carry on with your fucking mysterious job, okay?" Benaski growled, trying to get a grip on himself even though that petulant blonde was beginning to get on his nerves.

Helen held her anger only because the Don Esteban was overflowing with people.

"And you crawled out of your hole and came here just to tell us this?"

"That's right. Any problem?" Hans said, turning on his stool toward the former lieutenant.

Hawking opened his arms as if to physically divide the two contestants. He wished to avoid a confrontation that, he was sure, would have unpleasant repercussions on the Boutique. With a fierce look he managed to keep Helen's mouth shut, then he tried without success to decipher the grimace on Benaski's face.

"Okay. No problems, really!"

Carmen swallowed several times, thinking that that dick of an agent had managed to ruin her lunch, and moreover that he was mistreating her only friend. Henderson kept eating, undaunted. At the moment, not even Miss Universe riding a white horse would have been able to distract him from his food.

Helen kept staring at every detail of Hans' face, to imprint in her mind the appearance of yet another of those bastards.

She remembered well the two who had taken her away from her home a couple of years ago, throwing her into a dark room at IntelReader, mistreating and insulting her.

Later she would learn that they were two CIA sons of bitches, a couple of watchdogs set on her "to assess her progresses." They had the hideous habit of whistling the songs in vogue at the time while they transferred her from one place to another and when they put needles in her arm to administer her medicines.

She had dubbed them Blues Brothers, not only for their arguable singing skills, but also for their fixation of wearing dark clothes and keep sunglasses on even indoors. After the implant of the device, Peter Hawking had always kept an eye on the former lieutenant, trying to prevent the Blues Brothers from interfering with the progress of project Minerva.

At 1:00 p.m. the place was full of people. Many were waiting to take the seats that were being left, and in fact, as soon as Benaski stood up from his stool, the tables were readily seized by a gang of noisy kids.

While the engineer was taking care of the bill, Hans lead out the rest of the team and suddenly grabbed Helen's arm.

"Can I talk to you for a minute?" he whispered in her ear with ill-concealed irritation.

"Of course you can. Aren't you the Almighty?" the girl replied, looking at the hand that clawed her arm.

"All right, Miss Congeniality. You are not in the position to dictate the rules, you know, don't you?"

"What do you mean?"

"I know every detail of your past. Don't push your luck."

"Christ! There must be a reason why it's called 'the past', don't you think?" Helen said, drawing air quotes around those words.

"The child in you would like to remove it, right?"

"Look, the past is a treasure to me."

"Even Sierra One, aka Tom Stalker, is part of this treasure, I suppose!"

"I don't regret anything, you can take my word on that."

"All right. Stop the bullshit. We didn't invest on you to be repaid with your tantrums."

Benaski put on his sunglasses, not so much to protect his eyes from the lukewarm rays of the sun as to avoid the eyes that were staring at him.

The members of the Boutique team fanned out behind Helen, clearly showing their intention to protect her.

The agent raised his hands in surrender, stepping back.

"Okay, let's calm down. I might as well tell you right away. I was just talking about it with Thunder" the man took time, removing his sunglasses and wiping them on his white shirt, "we are not sure that the Research Division will confirm the funding for the Boutique," he said, without trying to soften the bad news.

"What...?" Hawking almost seemed to stagger, and the constant movement of his forefinger, pushing back his glasses against his face, betrayed all his anxiety, "we were assured by General Bowdler that..."

"No matter what you were assured" Benaski wore his glasses again, trying to avoid the gaze of the engineer, "as you might have guessed, the same technology that allowed yesterday mission also allows real-time assessments. And if anyone has to decide, probably he's already doing that," he said, finishing his sentence by pointing his finger at the sky, as if those who would decide the destiny of the Boutique team resided directly on the Olympus.

"Look, if this is about Helen, I assure you..." Peter had no chance to finish his sentence.

"I think she has to change her attitude, if she doesn't want to throw even this chance out the window."

This time Hans pointed his finger right at Vidali.

"I... I'm going to talk to..."

"You needn't talk to anyone. The order came straight from the Research Division."

"Why? Tell me why they want us to shut down," Hawking raged, threateningly approaching Benaski.

"I don't know. Maybe they don't need you anymore, or they achieved their goal. What the hell do I know?"

Even the agent took a step forward, then both realized they were attracting the attention of the people around, and offering an unseemly show to the eyes of the Boutique team.

Benaski started looking in a taunting way at the bright sky, spotted by a few white clouds, then put his hands on his hips, breathing deeply.

"I believe you'll be contacted shortly by the general" he snorted, looking at the sweat stains on his shirt. He turned to leave, then changed his mind.

"Oh, one more thing," he added, frowning, "it would be better that no one entered the lab until Monday. You know, we just want to protect the equipment from... improper use. At any rate there's one of our men at the entrance of IntelReader. Only to ensure the integrity of our equipment, of course."

Then Hans slowly walked away.

Carmen was slowly recovering from the shock, tidying back her smooth hair.

"Hijo de puta, he came here to shut everything down!"

"Look, Dr. Hawking... I have to apologize for how I acted with that moron of the Agency."

Helen's mortified expression collided with Peter's furious glare and was fatally crushed by it, like a bicycle hit by a locomotive.

"What's gotten into you Helen? You must have gone crazy!" The engineer waved his arms wildly, a vein on his neck was so swollen that it seemed about to burst open, "I don't know if you realize what you've done. Damn it!"

The man's face, naturally pale, had become red, his blondish hair stuck to his sweaty forehead.

"Calm down Uncle, everything had been already decided, didn't you realize?"

Gonzales tried to tame Peter's flowing rage, but it didn't want to be harnessed.

"Why, there's still a lot of work to do and they shut my lab down? Can't you see?"

The engineer looked at his colleagues one by one, except Helen.

Henderson was not of particular importance in that episode, sooner or later he would have had to go back to the laboratories of the Research Division anyway.

"Uncle, let's not jump to conclusions and wait..."

"Maybe yesterday we opened a can of worms, and no one wants us to see what's inside," Gonzales suggested, squinting because of the sun. Then she took Helen's arm.

"We're going," the Spanish said, then the two women left toward the river, smoking in silence.

The former lieutenant broke the silence, "You know, now I'd really like to scream."

"Do it, what are you waiting for?"

Carmen didn't know why, but she felt like laughing. Undecided about what to do, she put a hand over her mouth.

Helen raised her hands and, heedless of the passersby, let out a long, liberating shout, eventually bending forward to expel all the air from her lungs. A moment later, gasping and with tears in her eyes, she stared into the Spanish's eyes, and suddenly discovered a universe she had never seen before. Both burst out laughing, and Helen knew she had looked into the eyes of a friend.

A large number of people had stopped to watch the scene, considering them two tourist, already drunk at that time of the afternoon. The two friends could not restrain their laughter, and were forced to support one another so as not to fall. They ended up sitting down on the same cement block, one of those placed along sidewalks to prevent cars from stopping, back to back, struggling over the little room available. Then they finally started to breath again.

The former lieutenant took a tissue from her purse and wiped her tears, overwhelmed by hiccups.

"Holy Christ, if this therapy works I swear we patent it!"

"I say that we should do this more often!"

"You'll see that in the end everything will be fine, we always find a job..."

"Why, you know any bar looking for waitresses or something?"

"Actually I was thinking about lap-dance!"

Helen let out another roar of laughter, dragging her friend in another minute of "therapy." They spent the next two minutes recovering from the laughter hangover, then started walking along the bank of the river.

"You know what Jim Morrison, the late leader of The Doors, said?" Vidali wanted to share a specific moment, happened a little earlier, when she had looked into Carmen's eyes, "he said that sometimes you just need a moment to forget a lifetime, but sometimes a lifetime is not enough to forget a moment."

"That moment when we looked at each other, you mean? Yes, it was intense for me too."

"How did you 'label' me the first time we met, during the first test at the Boutique?"

"Madre de Dios... terribly arrogant!"

"Did I really give that impression?"

"Speed and I thought that you felt superior, some kind of bionic woman."

"In fact, I admit I am... a bit arrogant I mean."

"Tell me something. Is your device connected right now?"

"Probably if I had been under the direct control of the government or the army, I would not have had a chance. Well, there are marines who have been implanted microchips to make them permanently visible on an electronic map."

Helen tidied back her long hair and put her hands in her pockets, absently looking at the slow flow of the Main.

"But you..."

"Imagine how those CIA pigs would have wanted to do the same to me. But the device created by Dr. Hawking is only visible in two modes. The first you know, because you see the results from your desk," Helen said, torturing the West Point ring on her finger.

"And the other?"

"Using the brain buttons technique, exactly the same by which I connect, by means of the helmet, to Thunder and Fat Boy."

"So you would only be detectable when you wear the helmet. Are there other circumstances in which you choose to make yourself and your device visible?"

Carmen was able to relax her features thanks to a cloud that partially covered the sun.

"Well, I can choose to be traceable, regardless of using the helmet or not. You know, it a kind of last resort... and a warranty too. If problems arose, not only they would know where to find me, but one of the biosensors would inform them about my clinical conditions in real time."

Carmen suddenly looked at her watch and her eyes widened.

"Mierda! I have to run. I'll call you tomorrow morning," she snorted, raising on the balls of her feet and pecking a kiss on Helen's cheek.

The American girl left the bank of the Main and headed for her home. It was more than one hour of walk, certainly useful to tidy her thoughts.

But first she had something important to do.

***

Room no. 311 - Le Meridien Park Hotel - Frankfurt am Main (Germany).

Saturday, September 4th, 2010, 9:15 a.m.

Hans Benaski had just returned to his room after breakfast when his phone rang. He had been waiting for that phone call, so he sat on the little armchair right next to the bed. He stretched his legs, using his briefcase as a footrest.

"Good morning, sir, how are things in California?"

"It might be a good morning for you, maybe, I'm going to bed now because I spent the day discussing with your boss, and I've had enough of it."

Thomas "Thunder" Bowdler, sitting at his desk, stretched out his legs and loosened his tie. He was still in his office, housed in a hangar of Edwards base, in California, the headquarters of project Minerva.

"Yes sir, I'm sorry. Here the sun has just risen, I can hardly imagine it already set..."

Benaski was forced to move his head to avoid a blade of light coming from the window.

"Of course. How is the lady?"

Usually they both preferred not to say any names, despite their phones weren't traceable.

"Yes, all right. I must admit to having a wife with a lot of patience." That reference was dictated by the desire to get a permanent job in his homeland, something that would make his wife Elizabeth happy too. "Have you read my report, sir?"

Hans got up from the armchair, heading for the window on the third floor of the hotel, from where he could enjoy a perfect view of the square below.

"Great job, really," the general paused and took a sip of water from an open bottle "well, no doubt all years of experimenting cost millions of dollars, regardless of who paid them, and clearly any subject is precious to us. That's why I am perplexed when you say you don't agree with the choice of the girl."

Thunder put his open hand on his chest, feeling his heartbeat, then moved it slightly higher, near his collarbone, where the previous year they had implanted him a pacemaker.

It was the first of a new generation of pacemakers. In addition to traditional connections to the heart, that unit could program itself according to preset parameters, which could be modified through the connection to a remote computer, causing small electrical shocks if needed to restore the heartbeat.

"Yes sir, you're talking about the comments section. Anyway I informed the team of the waiting status. They did not take it very well... well I'm sorry, but the boss' directives were pretty darn clear," Benaski said, alluding to the precise orders he had received from the absolute master of project Minerva, assistant director Jenkins.

"Bah! I don't understand the decision to bring everyone into the Research Division and close the Boutique either..."

Eventually, general Bowdler decided to rest his legs on his desk, neglecting the massacre of documents that this caused.

"Okay, let's get to the reason that pushed me to call you," he announced, pushing a stack of folders with his feet to make room for his legs. "We have a problem to solve. I talked about it all day with your boss, and he insisted to entrust this task to you."

Thunder noisily put down his legs, taking them away from the desk top and causing the collapse of a stack of paperwork that had been right on the edge.

"What was that?" Hans was starting to worry.

"Nothing... nothing, I'd like to get some of that damn decaf the doctor ordered me, so I'll be definitely sure I won't finish this conversation awake."

As he spoke, he stood up, heading to the coffee machine.

"Okay, I'll explain the new situation and, as usual, all the details will be communicated to you in the usual way," the general went on. "So, an Iranian nuclear engineer chose not to cooperate with his government anymore. The original idea involved the expatriation of his family first – namely his wife and daughter – then, with a subsequent action, we would have taken him as well, reassembling the family in a secret location. But everything crashed and his family disappeared after they passed the borders of Iran. Our boys intercepted a couple of emails and a phone call, then came to the conclusion that you will receive shortly. We especially care about the engineer and what he represents, but it is essential to try and find his wife and daughter... wait a minute, let's see if this stupid machine has the decency to fill my cup with what they pompously call coffee..."

When he spoke about wiretapping, Thunder meant the listening centers of the Echelon network, scattered all over the planet and coordinated by the Command Centre in Fort Meade, Maryland. Every radio communication, fax transmission and phone conversation – as well as the Internet of course – was intercepted and selected based on some keywords, then agencies and government bodies acquired what they considered useful.

"So will I have to relocate soon, sir?"

Benaski was not keen on leaving for a new destination. He felt exactly like a basketball, always in motion, and by constantly bouncing all over the place he had developed a huge headache.

"Positive. For now you need to find that Iranian engineer. Then we'll think about the game with Minerva. I'm already working so that you can do it from here."

"Yes sir... very good. What about the Boutique team?"

The agent was tired of the view of the square and sat down again in the green armchair.

"Team and equipment will be transferred. Don't care about that for now."

The general hung up, sipping his cup of decaf. In his opinion, the only decent thing in that coffee was the nice warmth of the cup, and once that effect was over it was better to throw everything in the bin.

In his mind, the events of a few days ago resurfaced, when he had been forced to break the connection with Helen Vidali. Right that moment was continually harassing him without rest, because it downplayed the sense of the team, that is that they were all trying to achieve the same mission objective, with no exceptions.

The general stood standing, seized by his thoughts.

Yes, there had been a heated discussion after that order coming directly from Langley, headquarters of the CIA. Scott Jenkins had explained that the Jewish lobby sitting at the Congress did not want to lose the contracts for the renovation of a large number of U.S. military bases scattered across the globe. Several of these contracts had already been signed by Israeli companies, and decadent situations such as the one in Wiesbaden would soon be used as a display window into the hands of the increasing number of anti-militarists, inevitably leading to cuts to the military budgets.

"Was that the real reason that had prompted Jenkins to close the Boutique?"

General Bowdler felt the urgent need to sleep. He had been awake too long, and there was another operation to follow.

It would be almost a torture to go back home and be there alone, but he would make it. Anyway, it was still less difficult than banishing the constellations of doubt buzzing in his head.

***

Mainlustraße - Frankfurt am Main (Germany).

Monday, September 6th, 2010, 8:00 a.m.

A red van stopped near a porch along the Mainlustraße and a girl sporting Asian features came out, dressed in a pair of jeans and a gray hooded sweatshirt.

She walked to the rear of the vehicle and opened the door. After almost kneeling on the floor of the loading area, she finally managed to grab a black duffel bag that she heavily dragged out, leaving it on the sidewalk. Then the van pulled away, leaving her alone.

Just the time to take a breath, then she quickly walked the short distance that separated her from a porch. Ten yards made almost at a run and in apnea, her hand wrapped around the handles of her heavy burden.

Eventually she reached an entrance, where a plaque reading "Intel Reader Technologies Ltd" was set next to a dark wooden door.

With her hands on her hips she took a couple of deep breaths, just to not go in gasping. Taking a closer look, she noticed that the door was ajar, and thought it was a good thing, because she usually was left waiting under the surveillance camera even for a few minutes. When she had recovered her breath, and her breathing had become regular, she went in and stood by the door.

"Good morning," the young woman leaned toward the interior of the office, still standing in the doorway, "Anyone there? Dr. Hawking?"

Still nothing. The girl decided to go in, dragging her bag behind, then let her gaze wander, preparing to do her job.

She lowered the zipper of her sweatshirt and pulled out two earphones, which she diligently inserted into her ears. Then she took her iPod from an inside pocket and started shuffling the hundreds of songs on the device. She set a low volume, in case someone called her on the phone, and declared herself ready.

With quick movements, she took a roll of industrial paper from the bag and put it on the floor. It was followed by a couple of bottles with sprayers, which she hooked to the loops in her belt. Looking at the clock on the wall, she calculated that from that moment she had fifty-five minutes left to clean the premises, stairs included. After that time, the red van of the cleaning company would be back to pick her up, exactly from where it had left her five minutes ago.

"I'm starting! Isn't there really anyone?" she insisted, convincing herself that probably Dr. Hawking had left and forgot to close the door properly.

She bent down to pick up the paper roll and it was then that she noticed some vaguely familiar dark-rimmed glasses, starkly contrasting with the bright tiles of the office. She walked to the desk in the back of the room, the one always cluttered with paperwork and computer equipment, to take the glasses and put them somewhere, but it was weird, because the engineer would never leave without them. Not of his own will, at least.

Her little height had prevented her from seeing beyond the big screens placed on the desk, but when she was right in front of them, her breathing suddenly stopped.

Sitting on a swivel chair, his head resting on the desk, there was a man, apparently sleeping in an absolutely natural pose.

He was facing her, and she stood motionless, without even breathing, as she kept staring at the hole in the middle of the man's forehead, obvious cause of the relatively low amount of blood that soiled the desk.

Raising her hands to her face, she started to scream, with an absurd heavy metal music in her ears. Her cries attracted the attention of the agent who was supposed to be stationed near the entrance, and was instead buzzing around two comely girls nearby.

She kept screaming once, twice, three times, panting and backing away, unable to look away from that whitened face.

The face of Peter Hawking.

There are no fearless people, only fearless moments.

Peter Hoeg

Chapter II

Tuscan coast near Punta Ala (Italy).

Tuesday, September 7th, 09:00 a.m.

"You could have told me from the start that you would actually marry your freaking job!"

Vittoria Spadacci seemed at the height of exasperation. She raised her arms to the sky and waited in vain for the reaction of the man in front of her. Eventually she decided to sit down, yielding to the desire to finish her coffee.

"Vicky, I told you..."

Robert Masi could not finish the sentence, although he had used his wife's favorite nickname.

"Oh yes, you told me. But couldn't they send anyone else? Or are you the most gullible?"

Vittoria shook nervously the now empty cup in her hands, feigning interest in the wonderful landscape she could see from the window.

They were in the kitchen of their house overlooking the sea, on the Tuscan coast. The few houses that surrounded it were still under construction and they both liked that solitude, although the daily tasks, such as taking to school little Christian, their only child, imposed relatively long car trips.

"Vicky, I know that I've been here just for a week. But if they call me I can't just say no, you understand, don't you?"

Robert had just returned from Afghanistan, where he had been for an undercover mission in the frame of some NATO operations.

After over ten years in the Carabinieri, achieving the rank of second lieutenant, Masi had taken the opportunity to get an employment in the Information and External Security Agency, namely the Italian secret service, with the task to work outside the national territory.

Usually, agents who were married and had children were excluded from missions designated at "high risk", but Robert knew Farsi, the official language of a large area of Central Asia, and had memorized many sentences in Dari, the dialect in use in almost all of Afghanistan.

Vittoria considered the possibility of standing up and go take a shower, cutting short that fruitless conversation, heard too many times. She stared at the emerald green eyes of her husband, enjoying the features of his tanned face and his dark uncombed hair. Just the opposite of Christian, who had inherited almost everything from her, blonde hair, dark eyes, and especially the extroverted attitude.

"Come on, tell me something..."

Vittoria chose to take the path of dialogue, because Robert would never do that first. After all, he talked more with his contacts around the world, she thought wryly, pulling out a radiant smile and winking at him.

When they had got married, ten years ago, Robert was still wearing the uniform of the Carabinieri and sleeping at home almost every night. Five years later, after joining the ranks of the intelligence services abroad, the percentage had been reduced to insignificant levels. Between missions, training and briefings, the time he devoted to family was always less, besides his Farsi skill had made him almost indispensable in many occasions.

"Well, once again they sent me far away from home. Ugh, you know I shouldn't talk about this!"

Robert had sealed a pact with his wife, according to which he would tell her something about every trip, obviously except the events related to his work.

He did it to somehow repay Vittoria's patience and devotion, but also because he thought that it was therapeutic to describe at least part of what he experienced. Unfortunately, within the state structure, there were no scheduled meeting with a psychologist, probably because of an old but still resisting heritage of associating the soldier to some kind of Iron Man, without weakness and moods that could introduce ethical and psychological doubts.

"Well, there is a prize waiting for you, if you act cool..."

Vittoria carried on the game they always played at such times, sporting a languid look and running her tongue on her lips.

"This time it was harder than usual. You cannot just ignore the images that you see passing before your eyes, or forget them, as if they had never existed."

Robert played along, knowing that Vittoria was only interested in her husband's thoughts, and not in the technical-military aspects. They were silent for a moment, enough to reach out across the table and take each other's hands.

"You read the newspapers and the deception begins," Robert went on, staring at the dark eyes of his wife, "this is not a mission of peace but of real war, you know this already I guess. I'm not talking about me Vicky, you know that I am an engineer, not a soldier."

In fact, his cover job was generically "in charge of logistic", but of course his wife had never believed that.

Vittoria frowned and tilted her head to one side.

"Maremma Maiala... it's not a mission of peace. You already told me a million times, what changed this time?"

"I saw the effects of a bullet or a depleted uranium armor when they explode. If the dust they produce comes into contact with wounds or is inhaled, the effects are... fatal, there." Robert pulled his hand away from his wife's and made a vague gesture in the air, "I have seen in person many children born with deformities, shit!" He soon repented of having said the last sentence, and all he could do was look away from Vittoria's face, believing it would lighten the effect of those words.

Robert had been attached to a team of Italian paratroopers called Panthers, one of the many units trained to operate in depth in the western sector of Afghanistan. The purpose of the team was trying to intercept the opium traffic, mainly concentrated in the period of the poppy harvest in July and August. With the proceeds from this trade, the Taliban financed their war, intensifying their attacks and doubling the aggressions. Robert's task was closely connected to these latter aspects; he had to try and discover the origin of the weapons used by the bombers, especially the notorious IEDs, viz Improvised Explosive Devices. With the collaboration of local informants and a fair amount of courage, he had achieved good results, allowing units such as the Panthers to arrest and deliver to the Allies more than a few "technical" builder of booby traps. The freedom of action Robert could afford had allowed him to personally see some deformed babies born in their homes by mothers who had come into contact with depleted uranium.

"Say... might these effects also affect soldiers engaged in the war?"

Vittoria was well aware that this information was strictly confidential, even if there was material about them in the net.

"Yes Vicky. But the difference between us and the Anglos is that they protect themselves with masks and special clothing, while we don't."

Robert had used the name adopted by the various Italian teams to define English-speaking soldiers.

"Stupid! And how high is the risk for you?"

"I told you. Practically the whole of the risk for me is in the plane transfer, like for any traveler. Once landed, my technical job puts me at almost no risk", said the man, bringing his wife's hands to his mouth and kissing them repeatedly.

"Robby, I'm not sold on this..."

In fact, Robert had made a narrow escape when, a few weeks earlier, he had met with an informant who had later turned out to be an Afghan soldier trained by NATO but sympathizer of the Taliban.

Under the pretext to show him a laboratory where booby traps were built, the soldier, calling himself Bashir, had set a meeting with him at a place in the Herat province, home to the Italian headquarters in Afghanistan. A patrol of the Panthers had brought him with a Mangusta helicopter near the building indicated by Bashir, staying at a safe distance.

As soon as Robert had set foot inside, he had immediately realized that it was a trap; too many armed men in the only room of the ground floor and no trace of the mysterious laboratory. The next moment Robert had felt pushed aside, while four or five Anglos irrupted firing wildly. Later he would come to know that they were mercenaries, who by now represented the majority of the soldiers in Afghanistan. The Mangusta helicopter of the Panthers had then finished the job, chasing the last survivor escaped to the mercenaries and bringing Robert back to the base camp.

"Fortunately that action was agreed with the Americans. And it doesn't matter if they were mercenaries or not, I don't know if I would have made it that time."

Robert seemed to reawaken, stretched his shaggy features and gave Vittoria a smile, making her fight back the inevitable tears that by then were moistening her eyes.

"Anyway I'm here, come on, and the next job will be a walk in the park, I won't even have to take a plane!"

The man stretched his arms, mimicking the wings of an airplane, and stood up pretending to make a nosedive, stamping a noisy kiss on his wife's cheek.

"Would you like another cup of coffee?" he asked.

"Yes, another a cup of coffee..."

She wanted to scream, instead of holding back tears and words. That damn game forced her to hide her feelings, and that morning made her remember how hard life could be and how difficult it was to learn to take care of each other.

A wry smile escaped her, because those were some of the principles mentioned in front of the altar, on the occasion of a marriage.

"And it's just the right person reminding them to you, that is a bachelor belonging to a clergy that profited, manipulated and fucked for ever and ever. Amen."

Robert brought her coffee, pausing to look at the tears running on her cheeks, along with a strange smirk.

He was accustomed to deal with armed enemies and to get out from the most difficult situations, of course, but he saw in those tears the toughest opponents. He wanted to do the right thing, and in his uncertainty he stood still.

Vittoria suddenly stood up and grabbed a paper towel from a shelf, gently dabbing at her eyes.

"Idiot! You lost the moment and now she will accuse you of being insensitive."

Robert was furious with himself and tried the card of sympathy.

"What if we go out for lunch? The three of us alone, I mean..."

He felt a fool, if only because he was still holding Vittoria's coffee.

"Sure... we can as well talk about lunch," she said wearily, leaning in front of the old cupboard that sat in the kitchen and exhibiting a resigned look.

"From bad to worse, probably this idea of talking about my job isn't that great, damn it!"

Robert was still petrified in front of Vittoria, with the cup in his hand. Frustration had made him speechless, and he did the only thing appropriate in these cases. He put the coffee on the table and hugged his wife, strictly in silence.

"Enough poor figures for today," he thought.

They had met at the end of the year party of 1999 at Elba island. He was a second lieutenant of the Carabinieri, with the prospect of a brilliant career, she was about to take a degree in psychology at the University of Pisa. Curiously, they were both born April 25 in Montepulciano, in the province of Siena. Robert in 1970, Vittoria five years later. After a short engagement, they got married, and on the Christmas Day of 2000 Christian was born, a few weeks before Lieutenant Masi was transferred to the Information Services abroad.

Later he started going back and forth full-time, working in the Central Asian area and especially in Afghanistan, alternating trips to short periods resting at home. Robert's salary anyway had allowed the purchase of their current house, nestled on the beautiful central coast of Tuscany, close to Punta Ala. Vittoria managed a tourist agency in Castiglione della Pescaia, a small town nearby, were the school Christian attended was as well.

"Every time it's harder, you know, don't you?" Vittoria had wiped her silent tears on her husband's shirt and was trying to get her control back. "When you're not there I avoid watching the news on TV or on the Internet, I just can't do it... no way!"

"Um... anyway I have the distinct feeling that some destinations have become out of my reach," Robert broke away from the hug and approached the large panoramic window, admiring the breathtaking view of the sea, "From this time onwards, only domestic destinations."

"Maremma bona, seriously? And what were you waiting for to tell me?"

Vittoria opened her arms in a show of exasperation.

"I'm waiting for the official confirmation, but as you can imagine the final decision is mine."

"A step back in terms of professional intensity, but a definite step forward with regard to career," Robert mused.

"Oh well, Christian and I will be glad. And when will you leave this time?"

Vittoria's day had turned for the best, after finally hearing good news.

"Soon, I think. I'm waiting for a phone call."

He believed that at forty it was right to start thinking more about his family, and after all Iraq and Afghanistan had certainly put a strain on his marriage, more than he had wanted. In any case, he had always remained faithful to his wife, forfeiting sex during missions, although the opportunities to fuck some prostitute never lacked.

That was one of the effects of the so-called democracy that Westerners insisted on exporting, along with alcohol and pornography. In Afghanistan, even the chai khana, traditional tea rooms, were now equipped with back rooms provided with satellite dishes to access porn channels, for Afghan men only.

"So, before you get that phone call, I'd rather do something..."

Vittoria stood right in front of Robert, shoving her hands under his shirt and tickling his back with her nails.

Right when Robert was about to do the same, already savoring the soft curves of his wife, Christian made his triumphal entry in the kitchen.

"Hey! Is there anyone who could make me breakfast? I'm hungry," the boy announced, theatrically planting his hands on his hips and sending a reproachful look to his parents, who looked at each other and burst out laughing.

The ring of a cell phone brutally broke that sudden joyous mood, bringing them back to reality.

Robert waited a few rings before answering, not to make it look like he had been there waiting.

Anyway, it was time to leave again.

***

Schwalmer Strasse Apartment - Frankfurt am Main (Germany).

Tuesday, September 7th, 11:15 a.m.

Helen turned the hot water faucet and prepared to wait for the usual five minutes before she could take at least a lukewarm shower.

She had reported on several occasions to the apartment block administrator that the boiler was too lazy for her tastes, but the unpleasant fat man always shrugged and was never able to look away from her tits, regardless of how she was dressed.

She had just returned after an hour of light running, under a drizzle that tasted like autumn. She decided that, while waiting for the hot water, she would do a couple minutes of stretching, but her phone rang, forcing her to answer while dabbing the sweat from her face with a towel.

"It's Carmen. Donde estas?"

Her friend seemed agitated.

"Hello. Well, I just returned."

"I'll come and pick you up now. They eliminated Uncle."

Carmen's voice was trembling.

"Eliminated? When did it happen?"

Helen felt disoriented. She looked around for something to drink because her throat was suddenly dry.

"Don't ask questions! Put something in a bag and stay there, I'll be there as soon as possible."

"Hey, what does it mean eliminated? You mean killed?"

Helen realized that panic was seizing her.

"Mierda. Hang up and get ready, I'm on my way. I'll be there in two minutes!"

"But why should we run? Are we in danger? Tell me please... Carmen!"

The girl realized she had shouted in a phone that had suddenly gone silent.

Two minutes.

Taking that shower was out of question, of course.

"Holy shit, are we really in mortal danger? What's going on?"

Helen rushed into her bedroom and frantically opened her closet, grabbing her bag and starting to fill it with underwear and random clothes taken from the shelves.

Then she pushed the bag along the floor toward the bathroom and started to undress. There was no time for a shower, but it would only take her a few seconds to change, not more. She left the sweat-drenched sport clothes there and quickly slipped on a pair of jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, then she ran to the bathroom. Holding the bag open with one hand, she poured into it the entire contents of a drawer, then grabbed a few handfuls of cosmetics and toiletries at random, without selecting them.

"Christ! If they really eliminated Dr. Hawking, will they be looking for us now? But why? Is that CIA asshole involved?"

Helen hadn't thought even for a moment to activate her device.

She felt she could handle that situation, and anyway the equipment would probably deprive her of the adrenaline needed to overcome several obstacles.

"No, I no longer want to depend on something that is not my own will."

The girl gathered her hair in a ponytail and focused on the things she could not do without.

Garrison. At least he was safe. Last Friday, after parting with Carmen, she had brought him to the vet again, agreeing that he would keep the cat under observation at least for a week.

Helen heard a knock at the door and ran to look through the peephole. It was Carmen. Finally starting to breathe again, she opened the door, letting her friend in.

"Vamos? If you made a bag, take it rapido!"

The Spanish woman was wearing a motorcycle jacket and her hair was all disheveled, unequivocal sign that she had worn a helmet until a few moments ago.

Vidali kissed her cheek and nodded, running to pick up her bag and ignoring the water that kept flowing noisily in the shower.

"Take a jacket, it's raining outside."

Carmen was already out on the landing, casting quick glances to the stairwell.

"Now you have to explain..."

Helen did not finish that sentence. Her friend pushed her inside the apartment, lifting a finger across her lips to demand silence.

"If I remember correctly, there is a back door here, right?" Gonzales whispered, keeping her eyes glued to the door "ràpidamente!"

"Yes, you get there from the landing. Right here."

The girl pointed at a white door down the hall, staring at the eyes of the Spanish, that seemed to be pulsing as some kind of countdown timer. Then she took her bag and started to run towards the exit, while Carmen gestured for her to stay low.

Running down the stairs was hardly an easy task for Helen.

She believed it was the only negative effect of her device, which inexplicably manifested even when it wasn't active; an anomaly Hawking had never fixed, although he had apparently worked a lot on it.

Besides, the stairs of that exit were narrow and terribly slippery, forcing Helen to go down one step at a time.

"Try to be rapido, there are some friends looking for us!" Carmen urged her friend, although she knew of her limit in that situation.

That flight of stairs lead directly to a large inner courtyard, designed especially for the activities of children and kids. The area was almost entirely taken by a lawn that doubled when needed as miniature soccer field, while the perimeter was lined with rough stone tiles, with wooden benches placed at regular intervals.

The two women raced across the desert lawn, slimy for the effect of that not particularly strong, but steady rain.

"Who's chasing us...? Could you... tell me, please?"

Helen would have easily been able to talk while running, but anxiety was clenching her throat.

"Mierda... run now! Is that the way out?"

Gonzales was already breathless and she prayed that porch would lead outside.

"Yes, but we need the key to open the door. Wait, I'll go first!"

Helen started to lengthen her stride but, due to the wet grass, she found herself kicking uselessly, and ended up lying on the grass, watching in astonishment as her bag, partially open, ended its run a few feet away, leaving a trail of cosmetics and tampons.

The two women looked at each other just for a second.

"Shit! Sorry, I'll open now!"

The former lieutenant jumped up, watching with dismay at her front, now entirely green, while Carmen collected toiletries mixed with grass blades, tossing them angrily in the bag.

"Perfect. Christ, I must look terrible!"

Vidali ran toward the exit, fumbling at the same time to find her keychain, which, she remembered clearly, she had put in the pocket of her sweatshirt. But she could not find it.

"Hey, are these the keys?" The Spanish reached her, breathless, with the keychain dangling from her hand, "let's go, we've left traces everywhere, mierda!"

Helen finally managed to open the door, and the two women left, locking it behind them. After a few yards they turned right, taking the crowded main street.

Carmen started to believe that the rain and the heavy traffic would favor their escape. Her heart bursting, she stopped next to a motorcycle – an old Enduro model – and inserted the keys in one of the two rear trunks, taking a helmet out of it and handing it to her friend.

"Put this on and put the bag on your shoulders just like a backpack!" she shouted, rain dripping from her nose.

"Christ! Where do we go now?"

The helmet choked the words shouted by the American girl, by now forced to trust Carmen although, in truth, she had not yet seen anyone going after them.

So far.

At the precise moment when the Spanish started the engine of the bike, two individuals appeared on the sidewalk. Judging by the frantic movements of their heads, it seemed obvious that they were looking for something.

The taller one patted the other on the shoulder, pointing a finger right in the direction of the two women. Then they started running toward the bike that, winding due to poor adherence to the road, had started at full speed.

The two men jumped on the roadway, trying to intercept it, but Carmen had no intention of slowing down, and would even be willing to run over them.

Suddenly the taller man pulled out a gun and, not caring for the people around, pointed it at the bike.

Some passersby had stopped, mostly intrigued by the scene and thinking it was a movie set, maybe with cameras hidden in some window. Gonzales did not know if the man with the gun would really go as far as shooting, but she decided to turn anyway. She squeezed the rear brake lever as much as she could, turning the bike sideway, then started to speed up as soon as its muzzle was pointing toward the sidewalk, passing in the narrow space between two parked cars.

Finally, the Spanish could accelerate at full throttle, with the only problem, not insignificant, of dodging passersby, many of whom stepped aside without further invitations.

The two strangers, hindered by the fleeing passersby and the many cars, watched in amazement as the bike sped away on the sidewalk while they were still stuck on the road. Shooting was out of the question, their orders didn't allow them to, they had only pulled out their guns as a threat.

Helen, clinging to the rear handles of the bike, turned toward the two men when they passed them by, and blood chilled in her veins.

She knew those two bastards.

She had been in their clutches two years ago, when they had seized her at her home and took her, duly drugged, to the basement of the IntelReader Technologies.

They were the damned Blues Brothers.

Helen closed her eyes, not really wanting to.

In front of her eyes flowed images showing humiliation and psychological abuse. Each frame exuded the desire for revenge, because those CIA watchdogs seemed to take pleasure in exercising their miserable power.

Under the pretext of withdrawal symptoms, and later of controlling the "subject", the Blues Brothers had had no scruples in beating and humiliating her, attending at her bodily functions or mocking her without restraint under the shower.

Helen let go of the bike handles and desperately clung to Carmen, causing a sway that the Spanish struggled to keep under control.

Of course, Gonzales had no intention of attracting all of Frankfurt Polizei, so she ran just a few hundred yards on the sidewalk, then fell back on the roadway, onto a large arterial road going south.

Darting her eyes to the rearview mirrors, she had noticed that the two CIA agents, easily identifiable because of their dark clothes, had taken a black car and started with a door still open, wreaking havoc in the normal traffic flow.

Carmen sped up, taking advantage of the hundreds of yards of free road ahead, exactly like her pursuers. To her misfortune, though, the road had two large lanes in each direction, separated by two pairs of tram rails, lower than the roadway.

Her eyes constantly darted from the rearview mirrors to the road ahead, trying to find a way to distance the Blues Brothers' car, who in turn wasn't stopping at nothing to try and surpass every car between them.

Gonzales was approaching an intersection with a traffic light and was forced to slow down, despite his pursuers were inexplicably able to come closer, now very few cars behind.

It was a multi-junction to which many roads converged, so they would wait at least two turns before the green light, standing there, helpless. After a moment Gonzales realized with horror that one of the Blues Brothers had gotten out the car and was running toward them.

The green light had not yet turned on and Carmen had not kept count of turns. It wasn't going well.

Their troubles were soon to begin, especially if that bastard, with his suit made shiny by the rain, reached them.

Twenty yards now divided the CIA man from the couple of girls on the bike, and that damn green light wasn't coming.

Helen turned away in horror, looking through the visor at that familiar silhouette, inexorably approaching despite his run was slowed by the rain.

Ten yards. Now just a few seconds.

The American raised her visor.

"Holy shit... go down! Go down," she shouted at the top of her lungs, pointing to Carmen the twin tram rails.

The man now filled the rearview mirror, he would probably be within arm's reach in a moment.

Helen was pounding the back of the Spanish with punches, shouting at her to move, as the CIA hound was already reaching out to grab her. She thought of running away on foot, but she knew she wouldn't go far, with the two watchdogs she knew all too well at her heels.

Finally, the green light came up, but Carmen could not wait for the cars in front to lazily start again, so she took her decision. Abruptly releasing the clutch to obtain a stronger thrust, she jumped on the traffic divider, trying to stay within the first pair of rails, raised exactly like the tracks of a common train.

Then she accelerated again, multiplying the vibrations and knowing full well that she could not leave the rails before the center of the intersection, when they would be "drowned" in the asphalt for obvious reasons of viability.

The running Blues Brother stood astonished, finding himself groping with his arm in the rain.

Another split second would have been enough to grab at least one of the fugitives, the man thought, cursing. Then he stopped to look at the bike, apparently destined to a frontal impact with a tram that was running on the same rails, but in the opposite direction.

Helen leaned forward just in time to see the green silhouette of the tram becoming bigger and bigger in her visor, but she did not have time to be scared.

With a sudden turn, Carmen violently left the rails before they were swallowed by the asphalt, causing a jolt that made the two girls bounce on the saddle, as the rear trunk of the bike shattered, hit by the tram passing on their left, its brakes smoldering.

The former lieutenant clenched her legs in vain around the saddle, instinctively moving her head on the opposite side from the impact, just in time to see a black car stop to let in the hound that had almost grabbed her, then starting after them again.

After the junction, Gonzales turned toward the Convention Center, traveling only at the center of the road to surpass the greatest number possible of cars. A moment of distraction had cost her a rearview mirror, shattered on the impact with a UPS van that had been in a hurry.

The Spanish allowed herself the luxury of lifting her visor, inviting Helen to do the same with meaningful gestures.

"Now we put down the bike. We change means of transport," she shouted, pointing her hand at the sign of an underground parking.

The last few minutes spent almost in apnea were weighing on her, and anyway Carmen didn't want to push her luck, neither the traffic control cameras of the Polizei. Probably her maneuvers had already been noticed by some traffic controller, she was sure.

Using the turn signal for a harmless turn left seemed almost grotesque after all offenses she had committed, but it was tranquilizing and offered them a semblance of normality.

Helen pressed the button that released the admission ticket and Carmen slowly drove the bike down the slope that led to the underground parking, choosing a place far away from the entrance, right behind a large truck.

"Do we have a destination in mind?"

The former lieutenant was in a state of agitation that she was trying to control with all her might, even though the cornerstones of her life had been dissolved in a few minutes.

"Bueno, now we're going to the toilet to put ourselves together a bit. Then we take the subway and go to a friend who is willing to host us. Vamos?"

Carmen put the backpack on her shoulders and walked without hesitation towards the toilet.

As soon as they were inside, Helen felt like she was about to faint. Assaulted by dizziness, the girl fought back a violent retching impulse until she finally knelt, trembling, in front of the closest bowl, getting rid of the tension that had imploded inside her.

The Spanish rushed to help her friend, handing her a bunch of tissues taken from the dispenser on the wall.

"Como estas?" she asked, wiping her forehead.

"Okay, better. It's just stress, nothing else," the American gasped "now tell me what happened, please. "

"This morning I called Speed" Carmen started to explain, her voice rough, "he had been at the Boutique, even if that hijo de puta of Benaski had said not to."

The Spanish cautiously entered the ladies room, making sure they were alone.

"I mean, they were all in front of the IntelReader door. The policia, an ambulance and a fair number of onlookers. He mingled with the crowd and realized that there had been a murder. When the body came out on a stretcher, he recognized Uncle's shoes, peeking out of the sheet."

"But did he saw him?"

Helen had stood up, leaning against the white tiled wall.

"No, he didn't see the body, but shortly after that bastard Benaski called him, announcing Hawking's death and inviting him to meet him at once."

Carmen took her phone from her backpack and checked her unanswered calls. There were ten, all without a caller ID, in the last hour. Clearly they were all from Hans.

"Wait, I'm checking mine."

Vidali put her hand in her pocket, and a few moments later checked the latest call to her phone.

There was none.

Carmen frowned.

"Bueno, let's try to make ourselves presentable, otherwise we'll stand out on the subway," she suggested, rummaging frantically in her backpack looking for a hairbrush.

"Where's Speed now?"

Looking at the mirror, Helen received a confirmation to her feeling about her appearance. Her face, streaked with green as a result of her fall on the grass, made her look like a soccer supporter, and her jeans were soaked and dirt-covered.

"He hung up immediately, I couldn't ask him anything."

The Spanish took some dry trousers from her bag and put them on, immediately imitated by her friend.

"But why do you believe that we are in danger?" asked the former lieutenant, removing the last green traces from her face with a cleanser she had borrowed from Carmen.

"Mierda! Try to think. Do you think the CIA could ever let us go with all we stand for?"

Carmen seemed eager to leave and reached out to get her cleanser bottle back.

"Who do you think killed Dr. Hawking?"

Helen tried to suppress the desire to cry and leaned over to close her bag only to hide the tears in her eyes.

"Bah! I have no idea, but I want to tell you something, querida", Carmen picked up her backpack and walked toward the exit, "I do not trust anyone. Not even Speed, even if he gives the impression of being harmless. People like him are the most dangerous, remember this."

The two women left the underground parking one at a time. The Spanish chose to follow Helen at a distance of twenty yards. They entered the underpass of Festhalle station, becoming part of the flow of people swallowed by that hungry mouth hour after hour.

Gonzales put in the ticket machine the three Euros needed for two tickets to Willy Brandt Platz.

"The problem is that we can't use credit cards, or they'll find us immediately. The good news is that I have a thousand Euros with me, we'll make do with them for the next few days," she said winking, apparently not worried at all.

"Where are we going now?"

Helen seemed to have been quieted by the sense of rationality that permeated Carmen's behavior, but at the same time it scared her. The Spanish was handling the situation with unexpected coldness, almost as if she had been trained for that.

"Well, there is a friend who will host us at her house. We'll try to become invisible for a few days," she said, pointing to a Metro car.

"Should we try to get in touch with Thunder?"

Helen examined the possibility that the Spanish was a CIA agent. Better not to think about it, she thought. It was certainly not her intention to draw that negative thought, with the risk of realizing that unlucky possibility.

"Querida, they will come for us, you understand it, don't you? We'll have to see if it will be the good or the bad guys to find us first. Thunder can wait."

Carmen chose a bench in the back row, so as to have her back against the wall partition between the cars and get a complete view of theirs.

The two girls sat down, remaining silent.

The space all around was occupied by busy people. People with their phones to their ear, eyes reading a newspaper or staring at the warnings inside of the car, introduced by a peremptory "Achtung." Hands raising the collars of raincoats and fingers opening umbrellas, wetting the rubber floor.

Helen wanted to smoke, but she knew it had to wait.

For a moment she pondered about calling her father.

"Holy shit, he never calls me and we haven't talked in years. If I were to call him, I'd feel... humiliated. In his eyes I'd certify my failure. What the fuck is it, weakness or foolish pride? If I had at least a chewing gum... hum!"

The car began to slow. They could see the approaching lights of Willy Brandt Platz Station. Carmen didn't stand up, even though that was their stop. The Spanish seemed confident.

"Bueno... when everyone gets out and the last people start to get in, then we get out."

Helen was still scared. What terrified her the most was the chance of having to confront again those bastard Blues Brothers. She could overcome anything else, but she still didn't feel ready for them. Just like she didn't feel ready for her parents.

Very well. Those thoughts were great to continue that splendid day, the American mused.

The former lieutenant felt a tug on her arm and knew immediately that it was time to get off the train, then unhurriedly the two girls moved toward the exit.

It was still drizzling. The dark clouds hanging in the sky looked so close that some gray patches seemed to connect with the ground, forming bizarre opaque pillars.

Carmen adjusted the hood over her head and nodded toward the river Main.

"Five minutes and we're there. Come on, a hot bath and dry clothes are waiting for us, vamos!"

After silently walking a few hundred meters, they reached the borders of the red light district of Bahnhofsviertel, then the Spanish pulled out her phone and dialed a number, stopping Helen a few feet back with a hand gesture. A few moments later she was waiting outside the secondary entrance of a three-story building.

A young, flashy looking woman welcomed them. After hugging Carmen, she held out her hand to Helen.

"Hola, I'm Ines, bienvenido," she said, inviting them in.

Helen stood slightly back to better observe Carmen's friend.

Rather tall and slender, she had her long black hair gathered in a disheveled bun, a heavy makeup and a minimum of clothes. A trail of perfume, so excessive that it felt like she had bathed in it, completed a first impression that left little room for ambiguity.

As soon as they entered from what looked like a backdoor, they found themselves in a room with red drapes, fans on the walls and Spanish music playing.

"But where are we, in a brothel?" the former lieutenant managed to whisper into Carmen's ear.

"Yes. Why, any problems?"

Gonzales opened her arms smiling, with a candor that would have seemed inappropriate in any other circumstance.

"We go?" she concluded, pointing at the stairs that lead upstairs.

Meanwhile, a dark sedan was wandering in the neighborhood. Inside, two men were checking the GPS map of a cell phone.

"Do you have it?" asked the taller one, his suit wet.

"I do," replied the other.

Then together they started whistling a tune, one of the many in vogue at that time.

***

Corfu Island (Greece).

Tuesday, September 7th, 2010, 02:00 p.m.

After two weeks of nights spent sleeping wherever he could, it didn't seem true to Markar to be able to lie down on a real bed.

The previous evening he had left the north-western Greek coast aboard a speedboat that had left him in Corfu, an island on the borders with Albania. The one-way trip, lasted less than an hour, had cost him no less than one hundred and fifty euro, just over two million Iranian rials.

The man laid down on what appeared to be the most beautiful bed in the world, and stood enchanted looking at the white ceiling illuminated by the blinding sun.

The journey of Markar Kazemian had started two weeks ago, shortly after midnight, on a strangely hot and windy day. He had started from Bumahen, his hometown located in the Central District of Tehran province, where he had been on an extraordinary leave.

The technicians of the Bushehr power plant, a nuclear site still under construction that looked out over the Arabian Gulf, weren't often granted leaves. But exception had been made for him due to the death of his father. It was his duty to organize the funeral ceremony in absence of his mother, died two years earlier. Anyway he had to honor the promise made years before to his parents, who, being of Armenian origin and observant followers of the Orthodox Church, had expressed their wish that their funeral was celebrated by the priest known to their family and not by others.

Upon hearing the terrible news, Markar had immediately rushed to the director of his department, praying and begging him to be granted a special leave, knowing that the first start of the power reactor, scheduled soon, would represent an obstacle.

Of course, the Russian advisors who collaborated to the construction of the plant would never allow a nuclear engineer to leave the site, especially after a powerful computer virus had slowed down the progression of the work in previous weeks. However, the normal procedure of Iranian authorities in those cases was to have the person escorted by National Security agents, and in the case of Kazemian – since he was a Christian – they would add another undercover agent who would follow him everywhere, reassuring the Russian collaborators.

"Saddened by the death of my father and restless because of my crazy escape plan!"

Markar was unable to sleep, even though he hadn't slept at all the night before.

After the funeral, while he was receiving condolences from representatives of various families, someone had approached him, whispering a few words, exactly as was the custom, but in that case it was the agreed code to determine the location and time of the escape.

The first contact had happened several months before, a very risky meeting in the tool shed of a dépendance of the plant.

The Iranian engineer and the man that would later be revealed as a CIA agent had decided that his wife Esther and his daughter Kimiya would have to die, enacting a sham for the benefit of the authorities. In truth the agent – who called himself Jafar – would take care of their expatriation, planning at the same time their feigned death, using the charred bodies method. It was enough to get corpses of the right size and set fire to the place where the remains would be found, exactly the same gimmick that would be used at a later time for Kazemian.

"When will I finally see my wife and my daughter again... maybe in a few days?"

Markar could not fall asleep at the thought of this possibility.

After departing, leaving behind the smoldering remains of the house that had belonged to his parents, the Iranian engineer and Jafar had gone to Kemjan, a small town near the coast of the Caspian Sea, traveling on an old pick-up and carefully avoiding the main roads. At the end of their journey, the driver had claimed as an extra payment the watch that Markar wore on his wrist because, he had explained, the time spent on those mule tracks forced him to stay there overnight, delaying his return home to the day after. Obviously, none of the two fugitives had believed even for a moment the whiny version of the driver and owner of the vehicle, but not meeting his request could have meant more than losing an old Vostok Russian watch.

After a few hours of restless sleep, lying on a straw mattress in the back of a shop that sold fishing items, Kazemian and Jafar had embarked on a fishing boat, joining the fleet sailing every night on the surface of the Caspian Sea. Once on the coast of Azerbaijan, another CIA man named Kadir had taken the Iranian engineer into custody, with the intention of travelling on land to Iskenderun, a Turkish port overlooking the Mediterranean Sea, home to a U.S. Naval base. There Kazemian would be embarked on a military unit assigned to the Air Force base in Crete, were another plane would be waiting for him.

But fate had no intention of making the Iranian's life easy.

The sudden burst of a tire had made Kadir lose control of the Land Rover on which they were traveling, and the vehicle had fallen along a slope.

Markar had been immediately thrown out, only getting a few scratches, while the agent was trapped inside the Jeep during its run to the bottom of the gully, where he had died on the spot. Plucking up is courage, Kazemian had gone down to the wrecked car, which fortunately was not on fire, recovering his papers and the phone of his unfortunate companion.

Markar had never owned a cell phone, but he knew how to use it.

He had decided to wait until someone called that number, and an hour later his patience had been rewarded. A female voice, astonished that it wasn't Kadir answering, had asked him about the situation using the few Farsi words she knew, while the engineer was trying to use his very limited English vocabulary.

Once she had received new instructions, the woman had called Kazemian again, announcing him that the rescue mission was still going on. After a few hours spent dozing on the floor of a smelly warehouse, Markar had boarded a freighter flying the Liberian flag, to which the woman had pointed him. He was part of the normal share of illegal immigrants that weekly arrived in Turkey and left again for Greece. The only difficulty was the price to pay for boarding, but money was not an immediate problem for Markar.

The three-day trip had brought him in Patras, on the west coast of Greece. Waiting for him there was the woman, code-name Sophia, who had to take him to the island of Corfu, home to a U.S. Naval base.

"I had passed from one agent to another, depending on the area... but how intoxicated I was by the scent of that woman! It reminded me of Esther and increased my desire to hug her again."

Markar finally felt his eyelids grow heavy, and the last images he saw on the ceiling were right of the last agent who had taken him into custody. He would imagine her behind a chemists counter, so gracious and kind-mannered she was. But she had also been firm in imposing him a substantial change of appearance. No beard, and, to replace the outmoded clothes Markar had been able to gather in a bag, Sophia had forced him to buy a new pair of jeans and a western-style shirt, much more suitable for a tourist's attire.

In fact, they would pretend to be a couple on vacation, using as much as possible the crowded Greek public transport and going up the country to Corfu island. Sophia Greek origin had been of great help to solve the inevitable everyday problems, and anyway they had always paid cash, sleeping in some uncomfortable back office and discarding the idea of using Kazemian's fake documents for their accommodation.

A phone call in the middle of the night had warned an astonished Sophia that the U.S. Naval base in Corfu could not accept the Iranian. She had been asked to wait twenty-four hours to allow to organize the transfer under the secrecy imposed by that peculiar situation.

Kazemian woke up in the last hour of light in the day, when the shadows of the evening were in a hurry to cover the walls, stretching more and more in every direction. A thin gold strip on the horizon was all that was left of the sun. Too tenuous to color the water below, it made do with sprinkling some pink on the clouds.

The engineer put his feet out of the bed and looked around. Against the opposite wall there was another bed, occupied by Sophia, busy typing something on her cell phone.

"Sob bekheyr!... good morning!"

The agent had got into the habit of adding the English terms to the few Farsi words she knew.

"Good morning!"

Markar had proved to be a good student, and had learned in a few days many words and complete sentences, integrating the little English he knew. He talked slowly and in a deep voice, conveying self-assurance and a kind of authority, even though he wasn't even forty years old.

"Sa'at and chand?... what time is it?"

Sophia's eyes seemed to inquire into Markar's, deceiving herself that she could learn their secrets, but just finding the sadness of a lonely man instead. Unfortunately she had been ordered not to tell the engineer that his family had passed from that place, under her supervision, a few weeks before.

"Eight," said the engineer, forming the number with his fingers and pulling out a honest smile. Then she went to the bathroom and struggled to recognize himself in the mirror. His thick dark beard had given way to a pale skin that stood out against the rest of his face, while his dark hair seemed more gray-streaked than they had been a few weeks ago.

A sound caught Sophia's attention, and she proceeded to read a new message on Facebook. On her phone had in fact appeared a few words that would ruin their day, "The party is postponed. Take agreements with Christos."

"Hey, Markar! We go!"

The woman immediately snapped, grabbing the few things spread on her bed and throwing them into the small bag she kept on the chair beside it.

"Now, now," she insisted.

They had both slept with their clothes on, which was always a good rule, especially if there was the need to hooking it as fast as possible.

The message Sophia had received ordered her to get in touch with Christos, a Greek smuggler already used by the CIA to transport other fugitives by sea. The woman could not understand the unforeseen difficulty in performing that delivery, sensing that this time she would directly take care of the expatriation of that man.

"Where are we going?"

Kazemian was moving in slow motion, compared with Sophia's speed. He was more or less ready when he was literally dragged out of the door, and they both made their way to Esperii, a marina not far from the place where they would probably find Christos.

"Stay behind me and try to run!" Sophia shrieked without stopping, urging with meaningful gestures the man who apparently hadn't understood what she was all but screaming.

With her short stature and dry physique, almost like a marathon runner's, she found herself forced to slow down to allow the tall and burly Iranian to keep up with her.

Every step raised puffs of dust, and that dirt path, scarcely frequented by tourists even during the day, at that hour of the night seemed just the perfect setting for couples in search of intimacy. Coming out of that wooded area, Sophia stopped near the last houses of the village, squinting in search of lights in Christos' house.

The phone in the pocket of her jeans vibrated. It was Adam North, the CIA supervisor for South Europe, urging her to leave the island because the name "Kazemian" had popped up in several tapped conversations from Corfu. The agent whispered something in the phone, then with a gesture urged Markar to approach.

"They are looking for us," she whispered, trying to catch some reaction from the Iranian.

"We're going to Italy, okay?" she added after a moment of hesitation.

"Italy, okay," the engineer repeated, raising his thumb.

He seemed to be confirming the destination for next holidays, there was no trace of fear or panic in his usual deep voice. His mind simply caught up the situation he was living a bit later, and this enabled him to analyze it with the necessary calm, even overlooking the continuous hazardous circumstances that were converging on them.

The woman hesitated a moment in front of the door of Christos' house – a sort of bungalow for tourists with white exterior walls – cursing against the iron rule of the smuggler, who never wanted to talk on the phone about transfers or expatriations.

When the door opened, Sophia did not waste time in useless pleasantries.

"Are you alone?" she asked as her dark eyes investigated behind Christos, a tall, thin guy with his hair tied back in a ponytail.

The Greek wasted no time either.

"Any work for me?"

"Can I come in?"

She tried to look more at ease than she was, tidying her short brown hair and flaunting a forced smile.

"You're not alone, I guess."

With a wave of his hand Christos invited the CIA agent in, peeking his head out of the door to better check the surroundings.

Sophia nodded to Kazemian and both crossed the threshold of the bungalow.

"This time I need a single job," she said, referring to the transfer of a single person. On other occasions she had used Christos to expatriate several people in a single crossing.

"Uh, I cannot..."

"I'll pay you double."

"No. Your friend will come with the others, otherwise he stays here."

"Who are the others?"

"People who already paid."

Markar followed the conversation with his eyes, desperately trying to understand at least a few words by looking at the expressions of the two, but unfortunately he didn't know a single syllable of Greek, and on their faces there was nothing he could understand.

"Do you understand that I can't run such a risk?" Sophia opened her arms, tilting her head on one side. "Listen, I must bring this man's ass away from here as soon as possible. Let's make the journey tonight, you'll be paid double!" the woman concluded, almost pleading.

"A bad sign," Markar thought.

"I'm really sorry. If you want to go tonight, you'll have to do it with company."

Christos kept nodding, with his hands on his hips.

"And when will you do the next trip, Mr. Inflexible?"

"Not until Thursday. And now I'm sorry, but I have to get ready for tonight. If you want to come, you know the place. And bring the usual thousand Euros. Okay?"

Sophia raised her hands in surrender and walked out into the darkness, urging Kazemian to follow. As soon as they were far enough, the woman took her phone and called Adam North, who reaffirmed the concept he had previously expressed. The Iranian had to be off that island as soon as possible, and even a few hours of delay could make a difference.

"Markar, we have no choice. We're leaving in two hours, do you understand?"

Sophia tried to be reassuring, opening her eyes wide and smiling ostentatiously. The Iranian raised his thumb and smiled in turn, bowing slightly.

"Merci... thank you."

As usual, he thanked for every little thing.

After a couple of hours spent putting something in their stomachs, the two started toward the warehouse that Christos used as a basis for his crossings.

An entire wall of the small room was occupied by small wooden boxes and boating items, while on the opposite side five persons were sitting on two plastic benches, clearly waiting for the overnight trip. In between there was the rubber boat that Christos would use for transporting them, floating directly on the sea strip that stretched inside the warehouse.

That boat, purchased directly from an Albanian smuggler a couple years before, had cost him a fortune.

For many years, the Albanian port of Valona had been the main starting base for stowaways and contraband goods intended for the other half of the Albanian mafia, already stably transplanted in southern Italy. When the Italian patrol boats had been able to stop that trafficking, many smugglers had been forced to sell their powerful boats undervalue, and in that way Christos, borrowing heavily, had purchased his six-meters rubber boat, equipped with two engines providing a total of four hundred horsepower.

When Sophia and Kazemian entered the warehouse, the Greek smuggler approached them.

"I'll make an exception for you two, usually I ask to be paid in advance," he began without smiling, grabbing the banknotes the woman handed him. "We're leaving soon. I accept only a backpack per head, and if all goes well the trip will last a couple of hours. I suggest you to pee, or do whatever you need to, outside of here before departure, the sea is big enough for everyone."

Not even the hostess of a scheduled flight could have explained the boarding procedures better.

All eyes went on the couple formed by the woman and the Iranian, while Sophia looked at the people there in turn.

One of the benches was occupied by three young Afghans. Those guys had been travelling for more than four weeks, and would not stop whispering softly in Dari, the Afghan variant of the Iranian Farsi spoken by Kazemian. Short and emaciated, they always seemed on the verge of springing up, ready to disappear at the slightest sign of danger.

The sole occupant of the second bench was an Armenian boy who seemed ready for his new Western life. He wore clothing of well known sports brands, and kept his sunglasses constantly on his head, half-hidden by his thick black curls.

Their fifth traveling companion was a young Kurdish coming from the eastern edge of Turkey, right on the Iranian border. He seemed enthralled by the rapid movement of his fingers on the keys of his phone, as he smoked stinking Turkish cigarettes.

Christos jumped into the boat and invited his passengers to take place in the bow, besieged by hordes of mosquitoes.

The Greek checked again the fuel level and turned on the engine, causing a puff of gray smoke. From his command post, back toward aft, he could keep an eye on the stowaways, and now that all eyes were on him he took a gun from a compartment under the helm. Theatrically checking that it was loaded, he tucked it into his belt, a warning that was worth a thousand words, given the risk that he ran working alone.

The dim light of the display was enough to retrieve the data from the GPS, although Christos had crossed that stretch of sea so often that he could almost have done it without instruments. The destination was the lighthouse in S. Maria di Leuca, at the southern end of Apulia, the Italian region closer to the Greek coasts.

A gloomy sky darkened by a thick blanket of clouds hid the infinite movement of the waves raising from the surface, prospecting the best conditions for that crossing. Christos put the throttle at half-strength and left the entrance of Esperii harbor with the lights on. He would turn them off once in the open sea.

After about twenty minutes, the vessel was in front of Othoni, the mythical island where, according to Homer, the goddess Calypso bewitched Ulysses, holding him in prison. It wasn't the shortest route but, probably because of the favorable currents, it had always proved to be the most profitable in terms of time and fuel consumption.

The light of the lighthouse became visible at 02:10. A few minutes later Christos, keeping the lights off, reduced the engine power to a third. The features of that coastline were impressed in his mind, so much so that he had two or three different possibilities to go ashore, depending on the conditions of the sea.

That night he chose to leave the stowaways at a small landing used by tourists, delightfully stuck at the base of a steep wall.

The Greek guy left the lighthouse to his left and slowly pulled toward the slope, even though they were still at two or three hundred yards from the dock. The onboard instruments indicated a depth of fifty meters, progressively raising approaching the coast. Only close to the inlet the water depth was less than five meters.

The most dangerous moment of the whole crossing was now very near.

Christos should have stopped the boat in front of the landing, disembarking his passengers as quickly as possible and slowly moving away to avoid excessive noise. This meant several minutes during which he would be almost helpless, virtually at the mercy of anyone who could see him.

Methodically, the smuggler surveyed the horizon with his binoculars, while the eyes of the stowaways were turned to the shore. That was a point of arrival for them, and they did not even consider the possibility that they were about to start on a path of violence and prevarications.

Christos finished his inspection to the north, straight ahead, without noticing the patrol boat of the Italian Guardia di Finanza that was approaching from the south, without lights.

Sophia stood up a moment before the light beam violently swooped down on the boat, looking for its passengers.

Christos dealt a fierce blow to the throttle, brutally pushing the boat forward, while the stowaways fell like pins due to the sudden acceleration. The next minute the boat was already less than ten meters from the landing. Christos took the gun from his belt and aimed it at his passengers.

"Get out! Go, go!"

The main goal of the Greek smuggler was to lighten the boat, because soon he would need all of the forty-eight knots of speed boasted by the Albanian who had sold it to him.

The Italian patrol boat approached cautiously, using the light beam to search for the pilot of the boat, while a voice amplified by a megaphone intimated something in English.

Christos turned around, counting the seconds that separated him from his downfall.

After aiming the gun at the stowaways to make them quickly leave the boat, he chose to get rid of it by throwing it into the sea. The Italian policemen would mow him mercilessly if they saw a gun, especially in such frantic moments.

Sophia had plunged into the sea with Kazemian, while the others were trying to reach the shore gasping in the water. Actually none of them could swim decently, but in such circumstances desperation made the difference.

The moment the searchlight changed direction, lingering on the people that was struggling desperately, a few strokes from salvation, Christos gave full power to the engines and ducked to avoid the gun shots that promptly came. Despite the noise, he felt the air torn by a few bullets, probably fired as a warning.

Deep in darkness and with his eyes veiled by fear, Markar could not see anything, and he had lost touch with Sophia. He felt someone grab his arm while a male voice murmured in Farsi to follow him without resistance, otherwise he would never see his family again. They pulled away from the rest of the stowaways with relative ease and stood leaning against the rock wall, without emerging from the water, becoming invisible in the darkness.

The Guardia di Finanza patrol boat arrived on the scene after unsuccessfully trying to pursuit the boat. The priority was rescuing the stowaways, and the paramedic on the unit immediately found a wounded one. It looked like she had hit her head on the rocks, since her face was bloody and she was in a state of semi-consciousness.

Two Afghan boys, intimidated by the Italian policemen, were dragging her body along a cement ramp, while the paramedic, not waiting for the policemen to secure their boat at the dock, leaped out heading towards the wounded with his bag.

It was Sophia.

The cut that stood out on her forehead was bleeding profusely, but the woman was breathing and did not appear to be in critical conditions.

The other policemen were busy gathering in a single group all of the remaining immigrants, providing them with blankets and water bottles, while the commander of the patrol boat started drowning them in questions about the pilot of the boat and how many they were in total. But they gave no sign of understanding, infuriating the Italian officer.

Markar and the young Turkish, Kazim, were already climbing the stone steps that, alternating with short sections of steep dirt track, would lead them to the upper edge of that cliff.

Kazim seemed to be familiar with that technique. He had thrown his backpack into the sea, forcing the engineer to do the same to let the policemen believe they had drowned. Besides they had hung their shoes around their neck, tying their laces, because they were wet and would have made too much noise.

The Turkish boy stopped suddenly and the next moment he pushed Kazemian's face to the rock wall, ordering him to cover his head with his jacket and keep his hands in his pockets.

As soon as he had done the same, a beam of light coming from the Italian patrol boat tore the darkness, drawing flickering lines on the rocks, several feet higher than the two escapee.

But there was no danger; Kazim seemed to already know that the policemen, far below, would not be able to see them anyway.

"Good," the Turkish thought, "now they'll start searching the water around with their searchlight, they will notice the backpacks and probably ask for a helicopter. It will take time and we will be gone by then."

Then he patted on Markar's shoulder, inviting him to walk the last steep stretch that would take them to the top, near the country road.

By then it was 3:30 of a cloudy and moonless morning.

As soon as Markar and Kazim emerged like ghosts from the ridge of rock, they went straight to the beautiful road that ran along that coast.

Hidden by thick vegetation, the boy drew a plastic bag from an inner pocket of his coat, the kind with an airtight seal. He was finally holding his phone in his hands again. Starting up, it projected on his face a bright bluish light.

A few words in Kurmanji, a dialectal variety of the Kurdish language, understood also by Kazemian, were enough for Kazim's features to relax.

A white van, camouflaged under the guise of an armored vehicle, would come within a few minutes to pick the two escapee up and take them to a temporary shelter.

The operator of the listening center who was tapping into that phone call nodded.

His fingers ran fast on the computer keyboard, sending the file to Fort Meade, Maryland, where it would be carefully analyzed.

This probably would have ruined the day to Kazim and his friends.

***

Centre for Identification and Expulsion of illegal and undocumented immigrants – Restinco – Brindisi (Italy).

Wednesday, September 8th, 2010, 11:00 a.m.

When Robert Masi started down the short driveway, he was perplexed to see the amount of barbed wire that had been placed on the walls, surrounding the perimeter as if it were a lager.

The man parked next to a white van, then got out of the vehicle, stretching and yawning. Despite the explosive music of the Red Hot Chili Peppers had finally woken him up, ne needed a coffee.

He had drank the first of the day along with assistant director Leonardi, at the headquarters of the Information and Security Department at Monte Sant'Angelo, in the province of Foggia.

From there had started the news, shared with the Americans colleagues at CIA, concerning an Iranian engineer on the run who had gone missing in the last hours. Many clues made them think that he had illegally landed in Italy, and the Centre in Restinco was the first place where all illegal immigrants from the South Adriatic were herded.

Even though Masi was assigned to intelligence services and working abroad, he had been assigned this job by virtue of his knowledge of the Farsi language, probably the only language spoken by engineer Kazemian.

Robert walked to the gate, immediately stared at by the policeman in camouflage uniform who was watching over the entrance. Then he went into the identification and expulsion centre after showing the document that identified him as an employee of the Ministry of the Internal Affairs.

The imperceptible buzz that seemed to increase with each passing yard was torn by the cawing of a voice coming from a cluster of loudspeakers set on top of a metal pole.

Masi raised his head, shielding himself from the sun with one hand and shivering at the same time, because he could not get rid of the horrible feeling of being in a concentration camp.

Warned by the guard at the entrance, another policeman came up to meet Robert along with a stocky man with a few grizzled hairs on his head, who immediately held out his hand.

"Good morning, I am police inspector D'Agostino," he began with a strong Sicilian accent, "you are Masi, right? Well, welcome to this damned hell. I've been here for three weeks and I think I'm going crazy already. You see, the problem is not the law, but them... the immigrants," he continued without taking a breath, vaguely pointing at a group of people stationing near a shed, where a long queue was forming "and as if it weren't enough, the Ministry asks us to find the needle in the haystack, go figure!"

The unexpected loquacity of the official left Robert dumbfounded. He sought solace in the eyes of the policeman, catching his expression, but he stood motionless, his eyes astray.

"Inspector, do you know why I'm here?" the agent asked, staring at the sweaty face of the man.

"Yes, yes. I'll show you the way."

D'Agostino nodded several times, starting along the perimeter wall in the hope of avoiding the merciless rays of the sun, now high in the sky.

"I'll describe the situation," the inspector went on, entering a building which robust bars at the windows stood out, "this structure was designed to accommodate no more than two hundred people, and now there are almost twice as much. They should be split in the two sections provided within the complex, that is immigrants who asked for political asylum for valid reasons and simple illegal immigrants, along with a small minority of irregulars whose residence permit in Italy is expired."

At the end of a short scribbled corridor, D'Agostino entered a large, sparsely furnished room with yellowed walls.

"I wonder how immigrants with so different life perspective can live together."

The agent coughed several times because of the penetrating smell of disinfectant, then stared at the inspector with wet eyes.

"Eh, it's not easy. There is a net to divide them and two well-separated structures. But the tragedy is that often we can't even understand where these fetusi are from."

D'Agostino stressed the statement with a grimace.

"Well, it's not my problem, basically it doesn't make any difference to me..." Robert ventured, realizing only a moment later his chilling cynicism.

"Shit... really you don't give a fuck?" the inspector said angrily. "The fucking immigrant you're looking for might be here, but even elsewhere. It would make no difference for me either," the man concluded, smiling and opening his arms.

Robert stared at that irritating little man in puzzlement. Then he chose a plastic chair from a row against the wall and moved it closer to the table, sitting down right in front of the inspector.

"Look, I have to find that man as soon as possible," he whispered, enunciating every syllable "the sooner we do it, the sooner I'm on my way. I only need a bit of collaboration, what do you say? "

"No problem!"

The inspector laced his fingers behind his neck, stretching on his chair and taking on a relaxed look though he did not feel relaxed at all. He was simply trying to make that tanned dude in front of him lose his supposed superiority attitude, nothing more.

"Well, we could begin by checking the newcomers," Masi suggested, standing up.

"Good! Before lunch we'll try to make a roll call. You can come too, so you start getting an idea of the situation."

With a gesture, D'Agostino invited Robert to go out.

The square in front of the mess was full of people who seemed to be suffering and coming from tortured places, just like what could be read in their eyes. The oppressive sun flooding that open area prompted that heterogeneous crowd to seek protection however it could. Someone stretched his jacket over his head, others covered themselves with newspapers or other objects, their arms constantly waving in the vain hope to ward off the flies, fierce and nagging.

A policeman was trying to read the names written on a sheet while a couple of his colleagues wandered among the rows of immigrants, distributing pats on the head of those who seemed intolerant of that discipline.

"It's always the same story," said the inspector, tilting his head toward those desperate. "This should be the section of illegal immigrants, the Centre for Identification and Expulsion proper, but at every roll call there's someone missing. They all end up on the other side, with those who asked for political asylum, where they have a much better chance of staying in Italy as regulars."

"Do any of them have documents?"

Robert crossed his arms over his chest and started to stare at some black boys lazing around in the front row.

"Many immigrants have no documents and we, after having written their names down, transcribe their information on the residence permit, or on expulsion papers if they must leave Italy," the inspector said.

At that moment a policeman came into the yard, escorting a young North African who did not want to walk, and even dragged his feet, waiting to be pushed forward. The policeman shouted in his ear that that would be the last time, the next time he would throw him in the holding cell on a diet of bread and water, but the boy stood impassive, infuriating the policeman even more.

"It will not be the last one we find trying to make the 'step'. That's what they call moving to the section of those who asked for political asylum. If it goes well, they leave this hellhole and their life changes," D'Agostino said, "unfortunately, without documents it's hard to figure out which side this poor people should be on. We rely on memory and try to take fingerprints as soon as possible."

"In the meantime, you're simply counting them, I see," Masi noted.

"Yeah. At the moment we can't do much more. Last week a few were found positive to the TB test. Tuberculosis, you know. We spent a week doing x-rays and tests, during which we literally lost count of the people in here" the inspector raised his hands, "but now there's no problem, seriously! And if we wear surgical masks for close encounters with them, it's just a mere precaution."

"How do we understand who are the last who arrived?" the agent asked.

"We'll check the records of the two sections. We go eat something now?" D'Agostino suggested.

"I'd rather see those records as soon as possible, if you don't mind," Robert stated, determined to finish that job.

"Well, whatever you prefer, it means we'll have lunch later. Come with me."

D'Agostino pointed at the same door from which they had come a few minutes earlier, but as soon as they entered they turned to another room, occupied by several shelves full of binders and by a couple of desktop computers placed on two wooden tables.

The inspector walked over to a colleague of his, leaving Masi on the door and going back to him after a couple of minutes with a freshly printed sheet.

"Here," he announced triumphantly, "not many names, actually."

"Let's check their origins."

The officer reached out to take the list.

"Here it is. They all come from North Africa, if I remember well."

The inspector handed the sheet to the agent.

"How many have been assigned a new destination, last week?"

Robert pointed a finger at the list and browsed it quickly.

"I'll have it printed, but it's some Egyptian and a few Moroccans."

"I want to check the mess. Alone."

"You must be escorted by a policeman. The prefecture wrote it clearly in the rules after the riots last month," D'Agostino said, waving the sheets in his hand.

"No problem, as long as he doesn't talk."

Masi went back to the square accompanied by a quite bulky policeman, then walked up the disordered queue of immigrants that led to the mess building. Many of those people lowered their eyes as he passed. His attention was attracted by the clamor coming from inside.

As soon as he entered, he was assaulted by an infernal noise.

The whole room was filled by voices, screams and laughter. A guy, equipped with latex gloves and mask, was hitting a ladle against the edge of a pot while waiting to pour a muddy liquid in the plastic dishes that the immigrants handed him.

"Hey! Will you stop that? Shit!" Masi shouted, raising an arm toward the man.

At the same time, a swarm of eyes suddenly turned to that bearded man in faded jeans.

The clamor of a moment before turned into a buzz. Only one of the policemen was still shouting at two young men who were quarreling for their place in the queue.

The boy who was hitting the pot froze, quizzically looking at Robert's bodyguard and receiving a grim look in return, accompanied by a meaningful index in front of the lips.

Masi glanced at the room. All seats were already taken, forcing the remaining immigrants to go outside to eat, stealing the shadow from one another. The agent approached the tables, trying to understand on the fly the inevitable hierarchies that had formed, and asked for information using the handful of Arabic words he knew.

Nothing. No one knew anything useful.

The queue parted when he left the room and formed again behind him once he got back to the square, bathed in a blinding light that made him squint. In front of him, a lanky boy with a green and gold Ronaldo t-shirt was shaking his head, holding in one hand a plastic dish filled with a greenish sauce, besieged by the inevitable flies, while trying to hold in the other an apple and a bottle of water .

"Sir, Dr. D'Agostino sends for you," a policeman had approached him and was almost whispering in his ear, "he said he has an important communication for you."

The policeman raised his stretched hand to his forehead in the classic salute, then left.

The agent retraced his steps, reflecting on what he had collected. Denying faces and doubtful expressions, that was all. Probably with the help of the interpreter he would improve his questions, but subtracting him from the Identification Department would certainly attracted the hostility of the centre staff.

"Any news?" Robert asked approaching the squat figure of the inspector.

"Maybe. They are bringing other immigrants in," said D'Agostino, nodding.

"Where do they come from?"

"They landed near the lighthouse of Santa Maria di Leuca."

"Do you know anything about their countries of origin?"

"Um, it seems that they don't speak Arabic, so not Middle East or North Africa."

"It could be good news to me..."

"A patrol boat of the Guardia di Finanza fished them up near the coast, early this morning."

"When will they be here?"

"Probably in a couple of hours. They searched along the coast for others, in addition to the main group, so they lost time."

"How many have they found?"

"They spoke of four immigrants."

"Okay, thank you."

Robert nodded and took his phone to call Leonardi.

"Ah, Masi..." the inspector raised his forefinger "my shift ends in an hour. Do you want me to stay so we see them together?"

Robert stared at him, processing meanwhile the opportunity of the inspector's presence. Of course his assistance was superfluous.

"I'd like that, yes..."

"Better having him in the way rather than some other busybody" the agent thought.

"Now let's go eat something, what do you say?"

A wide grin appeared on D'Agostino's face, finally relaxed.

After updating Leonardi, Masi reached the mess reserved for the Italian military personnel, finding himself with no surprise in front of a buffet light years away from the pots reserved to the immigrants.

At 1:30 p.m. the immigrants arrived the day before were called for identification and cataloging. Formally they were free, simple guests of the centre – this stated the Italian law about them – but in fact they were imprisoned and forced to leave their fingerprints.

In front of the identifications department, a group of North Africans was waiting to enter, while inside D'Agostino had settled behind the desk, at the side of a colleague. Masi had taken a chair, sitting in the back of the room to be a spectator.

The immigrants entered one at a time, most of the time staring at their own feet. The one that had just entered had immediately addressed the interpreter, asking to be moved to the section of the asylum seekers.

"You must shut up! And speak only when you are questioned, you understand?"

The colleague of D'Agostino infuriated even more when he realized that the interpreter had translated his sentence with a single word addressed to the immigrant. This seemed to diminish the authority of his words, according to that tall and sturdy inspector's point of view. To give weight to his authority, he reached out, grabbed the poor man's tracksuit and made him sink into the plastic chair with a thud.

Other questions followed, some of which asked only to intimidate or to have the immigrant fall into contradiction. Afterward a side door opened and the young man was led into the room where they took fingerprints. It was enough to place the entire hand, fingers stretched wide, on the glass of a scanner and the indexing was completed automatically. Within a few hours the police officer would know if that immigrant had just arrived, as he was claiming, or he had already been filed previously, thus was one of the many foreigners whose residence permit had expired.

D'Agostino put down the phone a second after raising it to his ear, then turned to Masi.

"Come on, they have arrived."

The inspector got up right away and, dodging two young women, went out into the driveway ahead of the agent.

In front of the mess square, two policemen were pulling a bunch of kids, generously handing out slaps under the eyes of their lieutenant. The boys had been found urinating in the sinks of the toilets because, according to them, the pits were so clogged that they would not have been able to pee without getting sewage flowing on their feet.

"Shit... this can't be," D'Agostino snapped, opening his arms , dejected. Then he hurried after Robert, visibly disgusted by the smell.

The vehicle used to transport the four immigrants was an old police van, adapted to transfer immigrants, already parked in front of the prefab pompously called "reception".

The four young men gathered near the lighthouse landing descended from it in a tidy queue and arranged themselves along the side of the van, exactly as instructed by the police officer on duty at the main gate.

The same policemen, equipped with gloves and mask, as per the new procedures imposed by the prefecture of Brindisi, proceeded at a brisk searching of the immigrants, then the four entered the reception.

Waiting for them there was a clerk who, after distributing water bottles and plastic bags containing pre-packed food, assessed the condition of their clothes, even taking a mind note of their shoe sizes, in case it was needed.

Masi didn't want to waste any more time. He entered the reception, followed by inspector D'Agostino.

With a grimace the agent looked at the boys, considering how very unlikely it was that one of them was the engineer he was looking for.

Three of them were Afghans and answered almost exclusively in monosyllables, while the last one was a student enrolled in law school at the State University of Yerevan, Armenia. To Robert's relief, all of them understood Farsi, but only the student, who said his name was Aram, seemed to be talkative enough to be of any interest.

The three Afghans were taken away and the Armenian spontaneously started to tell what he had seen, beginning with the mysterious man who never spoke when they embarked in the port of Esperii in Corfu.

He also described the woman who accompanied him and, counting on his fingers all the people there, he repeated several times that along with the mysterious man there was also another immigrant missing, while the woman had apparently been wounded while getting on land and brought away on an ambulance.

"When did you last seen the older man?"

Masi watched the boy drink and search with one hand inside his still damp clothes.

"When we dived into the sea, all were there. When your boat approached, I saw the woman's face covered in blood. Do you have a cigarette?"

Aram looked disappointed at the packet he had pulled from his jacket. During the transfer they had not allowed him to smoke, and only now he realized that his cigarettes were soaked in water.

"What happened then?"

Robert nodded in the direction of the clerk, mimicking the act of smoking.

"I can't swim well. I just tried to save myself."

Aram took with a smile the cigarette the boy handed him with a gloved hand and brought it to his mouth, waiting for someone to light it up.

"That's when you lost sight of the man and the other immigrant?"

Masi was holding a lighter, but showed no sign of wanting to use it.

"It was all dark, I only saw what the boat searchlight showed. When we reached the land, your policemen were angry because the Greek had managed to escape, and they asked us if anyone was missing..."

Aram straightened the blanket he kept over his clothes and leaned over with his face toward Robert, raising the cigarette in his lips like the final strike of a foil, waiting for that damn flame.

"Might they have drowned?" the agent asked, finally deciding to light up that cigarette.

"When the woman said the policemen that two people were missing, they started to look everywhere, in the water and along the shore. While they were taking us away I heard the noise of a helicopter. I wonder if they found them...?"

"Nothing more you can tell me?"

Masi realized that he was losing time, and anyway the dynamics of the events of the night just passed were already pretty clear.

"I told you all I have seen. Now will you help me get out of here?"

Aram's forehead furrowed as he ran his hand through his thick black curls, finding his beloved sunglasses, incredibly still in their place despite the vicissitudes of the previous hours.

"Okay, I'll see what I can do."

Robert left the prefab addressing a nod to Aram. Obviously he would immediately forget the Armenian student, pondering instead on what he had just learned.

"Those idiots in the CIA had the Iranian engineer taken away under their noses, that's for sure. Someone took advantage of the situation, or caused it. Anyway, the result is the same, our man is gone and I bet no one found him."

The agent paused to imagine the moment when the fifth immigrant attacked the woman, no doubt a CIA agent, and took away from her the custody of the engineer, then managed to vanish into thin air with him.

"On one thing inspector D'Agostino was right," Masi mused.

By now it would be like looking for a needle in a haystack.

***

Red Light District of Bahnhofsviertel - Frankfurt (Germany).

Wednesday, September 8th, 2010, 10:30 p.m.

"Where the hell did Carmen go?" Helen thought with irritation.

She had searched the entire floor of the condo, to no avail.

She wasn't answering the phone, in spite of all the times she had already called her, and even Facebook messages had achieved the same result.

"Damn it! She brings me to a fucking brothel and then leaves me here as if nothing happened. And with those mangy dogs of the Blues Brothers hunting us!"

Helen was out of her mind and could hardly take a proper decision.

"Okay. Now I go downstairs and see if I can find that friend of Carmen... what's her name? Ines, here, yes. Ines."

The former lieutenant walked quickly down the hall, praying not to see an open door and find herself face to face with some pimp still in his post-coital stage. When she leaned down the stairwell, she was puzzled. There was not a living soul.

"How strange," she mused.

The air was hushed and shrouded in pale lights, diffused by baroque-style wall lamps arranged along the stairs. She tried to decipher all that silence, unnatural in that place, to no avail. Where were the Spanish music and the comings and goings of clients and prostitutes?

"And where the hell is Carmen?"

Helen started descending the white marble steps, slowly and one at a time, as she could. That loneliness was becoming oppressive and was even pushing her to breathe without causing a single rustle, just to be able to hear a noise, anyone.

An imperceptible murmur, amplified by the stairwell, startled her, and she froze in place. Staying in apnea, she listened carefully.

It seemed that someone was humming something.

A feeling of uneasiness started seizing her. After taking off her shoes she kept descending, still holding firmly to the railing and focusing on the sound that was increasingly more defined.

Someone was certainly whistling a melody. Indeed, it seemed like a duet.

Helen felt the blood flow in a rush in the veins of her neck, and her breathing suddenly became labored. When she leaned over to glance down, she saw them.

They were not caring in the least to look up, it seemed they were going to a party, so cheerful they appeared.

Helen was still pinned on those damn stairs, unable to move, while the Blues Brothers were climbing the last flight, heedless of her, almost as if she did not even exist.

Finally, dragged by her mind, the girl managed to trace back her steps, even pushing with the palms of her hands on the walls for help, reaching the third floor almost on her knees. She did not consciously decide which direction to take. Almost without realizing it, she found herself in front of the room she had left a few minutes earlier, finding the door slightly ajar.

"Carmen? Are you back?" she asked in a faint voice.

No answer.

Now Helen could clearly identify the hateful melody whistled by the Blues Brothers and without hesitation she entered the room, her heart pounding like crazy, closing the door behind her.

When she managed to turn the light on, with both hands trembling and sweaty, she saw Carmen.

She was lying on her back on the bed, placed right at the entrance so that clients could choose a prostitute just walking along the corridor.

One of her harms was hanging down, touching the floor, and her head was raised against the bedpost, slightly tilted to one side. Here widened eyes seemed still in panic and her mouth was half-opened in a clear expression of surprise.

Helen could not suppress a scream, muffled by the hands she had raised to her mouth.

Suddenly the front door flew open, although she remembered locking it, then she realized she must have on her face the same stunned expression of Carmen.

The tallest Blues Brother, the same that the day before had run after them in the rain, placed himself in front of the former lieutenant and, still whistling, put one hand on her breast, while his buddy was seizing her arms behind her back.

Those techniques had been already extensively tested two years earlier, but this time the girl was able to momentarily break free. Right when she was about to deal a powerful kick between the legs of the tallest man, he pulled a knife with a partially serrated blade out of nowhere, the kind used by the Navy Seals, and pointed it to Helen's throat.

"Shit! I don't want to die this nasty way, with these two bastards breathing down on me! No!"

Immobilized again, the girl could not understand the reason of so much violence, bestowed with Clockwork Orange naturalness, concentrating carelessness and pure abuse in a few gestures, in time with the music.

The man in front of Helen raised his arm and held the knife over her with a theatrical gesture, directly within the reach of her aghast eyes.

"Why... why? At least tell me this, fucking assholes!"

The girl was exhausted and could not even scream, ceasing to resist. By then terror had seized her, paralyzing every activity. She could not think, could not see, could not breathe.

"How many things did I do wrong to get to this point? Fate will make allowance to me, with everything I suffered? Will there be this justice?"

"It's too late to think about it," the girl concluded, shaking her head angrily while listening to that horrible tune that was pounding on her head.

The tallest Blues Brother severed with a single gesture the top buttons of Helen's shirt, without a word.

She closed her eyes, panting. She couldn't dam the tears that now streamed in abundance down her cheeks, she even started to sob noisily. The last sensation she felt was the flow of urine down her thighs, then she lost the perception of time and life.

The man lowered the knife, thrusting the blade into Helen's chest, exactly where it had been covered by her shirt a moment before, at heart level.

Then, for a split second, there was only silence and darkness.

No pain.

Helen opened her eyes abruptly, instantly springing up from the bed on which she had been lying.

"Mierda, what's wrong?"

The soft light of a lamp lit up Carmen's face, half asleep, as she tried to slowly rub her eyes with her fingers, almost in slow motion.

"Shit! It was a fucking nightmare... but how long was it?"

Helen blinked several times, trying to get her eyes accustomed to the light, as feeble as it was.

"Did I shout?" she asked, curious more than anything, realizing she had woken up her friend.

"I think the whole neighborhood heard you..." Carmen chuckled.

Outside the door, excited voices could be heard distinctly, on a background of Latin-flavor music.

"I must have opened my damn Pandora's box, I think."

Helen shivered and realized she was sweating. She felt the unpleasant sensation of clothes stuck to the skin, and tried in vain to push aside her hair, plastered to her forehead, with a hand.

"Those damn gringos again?"

Carmen liked to call the Blues Brothers with that offensive term.

"I still have them before my eyes."

Helen buttoned even the last button of her blouse, placing her hand over her heart as if to check her pulse. She tried to swallow, but her throat was too dry.

"They are poisoning your mind. You know that, right?"

Carmen was thinking. From the very moment in which Hans Benaski had dismissed the Boutique team, she had been planning to reveal what she actually was. Now the effect of Peter Hawking's disappearance was spreading in Helen's mind, giving the Spanish the chance to control her, influencing her choices.

"Don't think I'm quiet. I'm scared as much as you!"

Carmen walked over to her friend who was still shivering and wrapped a blanket around her shoulders.

"You already know what we're going to do?"

After the peak of emotion, Helen seemed to be awakening slowly, while her eyes were still lost in the emptiness of the room.

"Yes."

The immediate answer of the Spanish surprises both, but obviously in a different way. Carmen hadn't meant to be so blunt. She had said that syllable straight off, almost without thinking.

"You are so sure because you don't feel involved, right? It's not you who they're looking for."

"Querida, it's quite the opposite! The truth is that I've been thinking about what to do for a while."

"You mean even before all this happened?"

"Think about it. So far the fucking government instructed and exploited us only for illegal purposes, and now I'm under the impression that they would have no scruples in getting rid of us."

"What do you mean?"

The American girl stared at Gonzales' dark eyes.

"Hey, no te preocupes, I'm not leaving you!" laughed the Spanish.

That was what Helen wanted to hear. Even though friendship was a fruit that ripened slowly, she felt a desperate need of it right at that moment.

"Well", whatever I have to do in the future, I want to do it with my device. I'm not going to part from it."

The former lieutenant seemed confident and hinted at a shy smile.

Carmen thought about what she had just heard. She needed that attitude from her friend, because her plans pivoted around the Helen/device pair.

She'd been working on it for quite some time. Why let those American pigs – the same who had banished her from MIT, even insinuating that she had faked a sexual assault – enjoy the fruits of work done by her and a former junkie, she too considered a guinea pig to be manipulated?

Wasn't it better to pass Helen to another employer, obtaining a fair compensation, and entrusting her friend to a party who could limit the American superpower?

"Can I still consider her a friend? We never were, even though we met at the Boutique almost every day. What changed now? Is it betrayal what I'm about to do?"

"Carmen, are you listening?"

The American's pale face suddenly materialized before Gonzales' eyes.

"Oh, I'm sorry."

The Spanish girl awoke, immediately unleashing a smile that seemed sincere.

"I just asked you how come you know this place so well."

Helen crossed her legs on the bed and lit a cigarette.

"There's not much to say. Ines is from Tenerife like me and we met accidentally a few months ago. Just so you're sure about it, I don't care that she's a prostitute" Carmen pointed out, lighting herself a cigarette in turn.

"I'm under the impression that you are very good friends."

"Of course. It's as if you found again the childhood friend you were closest to."

"Do you have any idea how long we will stay here?"

Helen felt like Van Gogh sunflowers, in the reproduction hanging on the wall in front of her; still alive, nonetheless forced into a vase.

"Tomorrow we will decide together whether to call Thunder."

Suddenly muffled screams came from the next room. The two girls fell silent, listening. It was frequent for prostitutes to linger with particularly passionate customers, causing commotion and shouting, most of the time artfully made by the girl herself to enhance the client's pleasure.

"Think it will go on like this all night?" Helen asked, her eyes widening.

"I think we won't be able to close an eye!" Carmen grinned, making both laugh heartily.

"Listen. I would like to ask you something..."

The American looked down, embarrassed.

"Come on, tell me!"

"Well, just for tonight, would you sleep with me? Otherwise I might really be unable to sleep."

Helen did not know where to put her hands. Eventually she decided to slip them under her legs.

"No hay problema."

The two girls moved the beds closer and finally got into them.

"I have to find a way to pick up Garrison, and maybe consider calling my mother..." Helen mumbled, almost asleep, her mouth slurred.

In the other room silence had fallen suddenly. It would not last long, because the time allowed to each customer was less than an hour. That prostitute, just like her colleagues, could still get many more clients that night. At the end of her shift she would give her room to another girl, perpetuating its use.

The activities of that that erotic center did not stop even during the day. The dozens rooms facing the corridors were occupied by more or less young girls who paid a regular rent, part of which was intended for health checks and security. A share anyway went to the government for insurance purposes, since prostitution was legal and regulated in Germany.

"Nada. Gracias."

It was nine o'clock in the morning and incredibly there was still a lot of commotion in the corridors of that place. Carmen moved the phone away from her ear and looked at the long list of denied calls on the display.

"Who was at the phone?"

Helen's appearance hadn't improved since the night before.

"Ines warned me that we have to vacate the room as soon as possible," Carmen snorted.

Helen tried to be positive.

"Maybe while having breakfast we'll decide what to do to of this day."

"Querida , today we have to take decisions."

"Uh, that sounds like a serious thing!"

"Indeed it is. Okay, we'll talk about it at breakfast."

Gonzales judged that this was the right time to convince Helen to turn her coat, and entrust herself to a new "boss". She had never seen her so insecure and fragile, certainly it wouldn't happen again.

"She's my friend. I'm doing it for her too. It's not just my need for revenge."

The Spanish looked again at the phone display, scrolling through all unanswered calls from Hans Benaski, the latest a few minutes earlier. Useless to count them, by then they filled three screens, not to mention the unread messages on Facebook.

The sound of the water in the bathroom suggested that Helen was still in the shower. Carmen did not think twice and tried to find her phone, first in the jacket and then, remembering her habits, in the pockets of her jeans.

"Found it. Bueno, let's see how many calls she's got. There should be some, at least from that hijo de puta of Hans... what? None... but how can it be? Mierda, why did no one look for her?"

Carmen was genuinely puzzled. But also scared, because she no longer heard the water of the shower.

"Wow, much better now! I'll be ready in five minutes."

Helen suddenly appeared behind the Spanish, dabbing her hair with a towel.

"What are you doing?" she added, seeing her phone in Carmen's hands.

"Mierda... I accidentally kicked your phone, you probably dropped it earlier, while you were undressing" she handed her the phone, trying to look sorry, "you should check if it still works."

"Forgive me. Actually I'm dropping everything, not just this!"

The American's trembling hand grabbed the phone almost with rage.

"No one has been looking for me... don't you think it's a bit strange?"

Helen drew down the corners of her mouth and frowned, displaying her bewilderment with one of her typical expressions.

"Madre de Dios! How come I didn't think about that before! They don't need to call her because they are following her through her device... probably they're tracking her even now! Mierda! Mierda!"

Carmen winced, realizing that her pulse was increasing so fast that her ears were buzzing.

"We have to get out of here... now! Come on, get dressed, meanwhile I make a call. Rapido!"

The Spanish ran into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

Helen realized that for the second time in two days she would literally have to throw on herself some random clothes in record time.

"Damn. It's starting to become a damn habit" she thought.

Carmen came out of the bathroom visibly darkened. Without saying a word, she gathered the few things on the nightstand, throwing them in her purse.

"Needless to ask you what's happening, right?"

The former lieutenant was imitating her friend. She had already zipped up her duffel bag, wearily dragging it to the entrance of the room.

"Come on, I'll explain on the way."

Gonzales took one last look around the room, then the ringtone of her phone froze her on the threshold. She gestured for the American girl to go out in the hallway while she answered, more irritated than ever.

The blow fell on Helen's neck without notice and with unexpected violence, making her collapse on the floor, dazed. All she saw, before losing consciousness, were two pairs of shoes. Black and very shiny.

And then that refrain whistled obsessively, always the same.

The Blues Brothers bowed in unison, almost in time with their damn melody, and their eyes met Helen's a split second before they closed.

Then there was only silence.

***

Offices of the Information and Security Department – Monte Sant'Angelo – Foggia (Italy)

Friday, September 10th, 2010, 7:30 a.m.

"Daddy daddy, when will you come home?"

Little Christian was shaken by an unusual restlessness. Used to the long absences of his father, he was going through a period in which he expressed a significant attachment to his father figure, despite cultural stereotypes designated the mother as the main reference for sons.

Robert Masi's face lit up hearing the voice of his son.

"Hey, Chris! You'll see I'll be back soon! "

"Yes, but when?" the boy insisted.

"One of these days I'll take you by surprise. But aren't you going to school today?"

The man moved the phone to the other hand while clumsily trying to take off his jacket.

"Mom said I can stay with her at the agency."

Christian pointed at his mother as if Robert, over five hundred miles away, could see him.

"Okay, after all in the first few days of school there's not much to do, right?"

The agent had finally managed to hang his jacket on the back of his chair and was nodding to assistant director Leonardi.

"Yes, and mom lets me stay at the PC... do I have your permission as well?"

Christian was looking forward for that chance.

"Permission granted, with the usual rules. Now can you put mom on?"

"Okay, but you're coming back soon, aren't you?" The voice of the little boy was starting to become whiny.

"I promise, Chris, I love you."

"I love you too. Here's mom, bye," Christian muttered, reluctantly handing the phone to his mother.

"Robby Hello, how are you?"

Vittoria was preparing to go to work, applying her make up in front of the bathroom mirror and using the speakerphone.

"All fine Vicky. As I said, this time it is really a quiet job."

"Well... I'm glad to hear this, especially for Christian."

"How are you?"

Masi looked at the clock. He was already late and Leonardi was looking his way more and more often.

"Here the weather is cloudy and it doesn't bode well for the weekend... we'll be having lunch with my folks... will you be coming?"

Vittoria hoped that her husband would join them at least for a day.

"Well, this work will keep me busy for a few more days..." Robert snorted.

Vittoria purposefully let her disappointment show by staying in silence a few instants.

"So you won't come, I understand."

"Hey, after this job I'm going to be home so often that you'll get tired of me, you'll see!"

Masi raised a finger in the direction of Leonardi, to say that he would get to his office in one minute.

"Christian and I will take it as a promise."

"Now I really have to go. Miss you."

"We miss you too. Call when you can."

Robert slipped the phone into his pants pocket and ran to Leonardi's office.

"I'm sorry for the interruption, sir," he apologized.

"All right, let's move on," Leonardi nodded. "I was telling you about the Iranian who landed on our shores in the night between Tuesday and Wednesday. We tapped two communications containing his name, Kazemian, that is, and I passed on the information to Adam North, the CIA supervisor you already know."

"Well, I wonder why they didn't put that Iranian in one of their bases along the way."

The idea of entrusting the life of a man considered valuable to an unscrupulous smuggler seemed paradoxical to Masi.

"Um, it seems this operation went out of control. Adam vaguely hinted that something went wrong, anyway he expressly required your presence. I mean, after you pulled out of deep shit that agent of his in Pakistan last year, he only has eyes for you. I should start to worry," Leonardi chuckled.

"Any idea where Kazemian is now?"

Robert raised an eyebrow, puzzled. Including the attempt already done, it was unlikely that the man was in some center such as Restinco.

"Wait, I just got an e-mail..."

By now, even communications from floor to floor of that building were sent via computer, using a secure server. Those few lines on the monitor lit up the face of the assistant chief.

"So, I think I have an answer to your question. A new tapping could lead directly to our man..."

Leonardi pointed his pen to a point on the map that both watched.

"We're going to get him?" Masi said boldly, gripping the arms of his chair as if he needed momentum to stand up. The prospect of finishing that job quickly was putting wings on his feet.

"Sit still, the best is yet to come..."

Leonardi took off his glasses, throwing them on a stack of sheets accumulated on the desk.

"This mission will be supported by an agent sent here on purpose by Adam. You know, one of those belonging to the Joint Operations Center. The good news is that it's Hans Benaski. They told me you worked well together. You'll have to explain me how you can have so many friends in the CIA..." he grinned, winking at Robert.

Someone knocked on the door and a young man with a goatee entered the office, leaving a paper sheet on the desk and forcing Leonardi to take back his glasses.

"Ah, yes... it's the translation of the last tapping. Well, we already sent the file to the Americans, maybe those of the National Security will get something good out of," Leonardi carefully smoothed his mustache, "we'll do our part. I'll keep you updated."

The man leaned back in his chair, running his hand on his head, dotted by a few gray hairs.

"Okay, I'll go right away, sir."

A few minutes later Robert Masi got into the service car. He would receive all updates through e-mails on his phone, while the first contact with Hans Benaski would be a more traditional phone call.

***

Port area of Bari (Italy).

Friday, September 10th, 2010, 11:00 a.m.

When Markar Kazemian finally woke up, the two young men who were speaking quietly stared at him.

Without a word Kazim, the Kurd who had removed him from Sophia's custody, handed him a glass of a dark liquid.

The Iranian engineer's eyes moved, lingering on the two boys.

"Coffee" the young Turkish said in Farsi. His voice was hoarse, probably because of the many cigarettes he and his partner had been smoking, making the air almost unbreathable.

Markar raised his chest and, remaining seated on the bed, swung his head slowly from side to side of that large bare room with yellowed walls.

A blackened ceiling, supported by a few pitted beams, loomed like a gloomy sky on the floor, which tiles were no longer at level with the surface. Every corner was filled with thick cobwebs and the stale smell mingled with the smoke of the stinky Turkish cigarettes the two guys insisted on smoking.

"Coffee" Kazim repeated, repeatedly pointing at the glass.

"Where am I?" Kazemian murmured, looking in succession at the coffee, the two young men and the window at street level, blocked by a sturdy railing.

"Don't be afraid, engineer. We'll stay here as short as possible", Kazim's mate nodded slowly and answered, without looking at Markar.

After disembarking, the Iranian had become a mere spectator of his life. Stripped and searched even in his privates, he had traveled, properly drugged, three hundred kilometers to that old cellar, hidden in the false bottom of a truck bearing the logo of a private security company.

Kazim had worn a security guard uniform and had taken the driver's seat, while his companion hurled a sack containing the old clothes of their prisoner from the edge of a cliff, just to be sure not to bring any bug along.

"Where are my wife and my daughter?"

Kazemian stood up and walked unsteadily to the only window in the room, looking for some fresh air to breathe. While walking he noticed he was wearing a black jogging suit, probably put on him while he was inside the van.

Finally, Kazim's young associate looked at Markar in the eyes, motionless and unblinking. The Iranian stared at each detail of his face, from the cropped black hair to the hint of well-cared beard. His nose was sharp as much as his lips, from which the ever-present cigarette hung.

"Do you know who I am?"

A common face, like many others, had it not been for his eyes. Two stunning black pearls lying on a pure white background, which enthralled and intimidated.

Kazemian looked away, noticing a detail that made him jump.

"My God! This guy is missing part of his little finger! And I've seen that fingerless hand before... at Bushehr power plant. Yes... I think so. But I've also seen it at my father's funeral!"

All the pieces of the puzzle instantly fit together, the spark was struck, and the engineer's mind frantically selected the frames in which that hand appeared.

"I don't know who you work for, but you've been a constant presence in my life, haven't you?"

Markar stood at the open window, finally feeling fresh air enter his lungs. His heart rate was slowing down, after the peak of a few moments before.

"My name is Ahmad. I was tasked to find you."

The young man rose from his chair and moved to the other side of the window, just a few inches from the engineer.

Thin, a little less than six feet tall, Massoud Abdi, code-named Ahmad, had succeeded in his job even though he was just twenty years old and had an hard-to hide particular sign, like his half-missing finger. He was to all intents and purposes an agent of the Iranian Security Service, recruited when he was not yet eighteen. As often happened, the government regime provided for the sustenance of Ahmad's parents through the Ministry of Information and Security, considering it an adequate compensation in return for the devotion of their agent.

"Where are my wife and my daughter?" Kazemian insisted on the only thing he deemed important. By then he hadn't been seeing them for several weeks, and would have given anything to hug them again.

"Don't think you can escape. You wouldn't live long enough to see them again." Ahmad deliberately ignored the questions of his prisoner, allowing only a few sentences spoken in a Farsi slightly altered by his typical eastern Iran inflection.

Kazim instead remained silent, merely observing the reactions of the engineer. His subordinate role in relation to Ahmad was clear, despite having done a good job so far.

Anyway he had to recognize the cunning of his team leader, when he had suggested to keep an eye on the Greek smuggler, Christos, until their target appeared. Ahmad was sure he would, because Markar had been identified, but the right conditions to capture him had never occurred.

Even Kazim, although of Kurdish origin, had been recruited into the ranks of the Iranian Security Services, and exactly like his colleague he didn't receive a real salary. The ministry granted a monthly allowance to his parents.

"I will not do anything until you tell me where my family is!"

The tremor in Kazemian's voice betrayed his anxiety and tension, accumulated while waiting for a reunion that seemed still far away.

"There's no need for you to do anything, engineer," Ahmad said with a calm that seemed almost unnatural in someone so young.

With just one look he was crumbling the few certainties left to his prisoner, who realized that the sea had left him with only his life, that Tuesday night, nothing more.

"Your wife and your daughter are safe in our hands," the Iranian agent went on, "my advice is to oppose no resistance and follow the path that has been drawn for you," he concluded, remaining perfectly still.

"He is saying that they will send me back to Iran. Anyway I have no way out. I could be executed in my country or in this cellar, with no fuss. I always knew there were risks and I will pray to be at least allowed to hug my family one last time."

Markar restrained his anger and just stared at the floor, the only reaction he could manifest at the moment.

A phone rang, breaking the silence and startling everyone. Ahmad brought the phone to his ear and hung up after a few moments, without saying a word, with a simple nod to Kazim. It was clearly something the two agents had been waiting for.

Ahmad made Kazemian move away from the window, inviting him to sit down on the bed again. His colleague stationed himself behind the only door in the room, pulling out his weapon for the first time, an Iranian copy of the German Sig Sauer gun. Holding it in both hands, he pointed it at the floor.

There was a knock at the door and Ahmad decided that this was the best moment to light himself a cigarette, then in a low voice he invited the knocker to join them. A few moments later, a smile that looked like a sincere welcome brightened up the face of the Iranian team leader.

"So, Hossein, you brought good news?" he whispered, welcoming the newcomer with open arms.

Even Kazim, still standing behind the door, relaxed, sheathing his pistol and approaching the two men.

"Very good, my friend. The container ship will set sail tomorrow night!"

Short of stature, dark-skinned, Ahmad's "Italian" contact looked about thirty years old. His face was framed by a thick black beard. He wore a red jacket with the logo of the company he worked for, Kalibb Persian Carpets, an import-export company selling carpets in the Mediterranean area. Their offices in Bari also acted as temporary warehouse, justifying the transit of their own containers and a small office on the second floor of the services building within the port.

"When will our container be embarked?"

Ahmad moved two chairs close together and invited Hossein to sit, thus turning his back to Kazemian.

"I made sure it was one of the last."

The Iranian Security Service had managed to infiltrate Hossein in that strategically important Italian region, providing him with a job in that the warehouse as a coverage. Of course, the manager of the warehouse had full knowledge of the activities of his employee, but had chosen to cooperate, although no one ever forced him to.

"What do you think would be the best time to transfer our man to the container?"

Ahmad could not believe he could solve that matter so quickly, earning the praise of his superintendent and who knows what promotion.

"I suggest you take him there at night. There we might keep him drugged, and you can decide whether to let him out during the trip."

Hossein had always demonstrated organizational skills, and he immediately gave another demonstration.

"Your friend Kazim, who is fluent in Turkish, could well pass himself off as a sailor. I already spoke to the first officer, he would settle for the usual fee to have him on board," he whispered.

"I'll tell him right away. How long will the journey on the Turkish ship be?"

"It should be there in four days, more likely five. It's an old wreck."

"You did a great job, my friend."

Ahmad closed his eyes and imagined the containers unloaded at the Turskish port of Iskenderun and immediately placed on a truck bound for the Iranian border.

"Then tonight it will be. Let me find him already sleeping. We'll use the usual technique to transfer him to the container."

Hossein rose from his chair and hugged both Iranian agents, then went out without looking at the engineer.

Ahmad approached Kazemian, boldly staring at his face, illuminated by the beam of light coming through the dusty grating of the window.

The punch at the solar plexus came without notice and it was like a hammer blow for the unsuspecting Markar, taking his breath away.

The engineer wasn't expecting such a blow. After a few seconds he bent forward, bracing the area that had been hit, then fell heavily on his knees and leaned slowly on one side, curdling around his silent pain.

"As soon as he starts breathing again, proceed with another injection."

Ahmad stood impassive and watched Kazemian moan and cough convulsively, while Kazim was opening a backpack and preparing to inject him a powerful sleeping drug.

"I don't want any trouble until we're aboard," the Iranian agent went on. "By the way, I think I found a way to get you back home," he announced, illustrating Hossein's proposal and passing it off as his own, obtaining an admiring look in return.

By nightfall, tension seemed to take over. While Ahmad was building inaccessible and complicated paths with his mind, only to find out how many details could harm the mission, Kazim was trying to loosen the grip at his stomach by smoking incessantly. Now they were both forced to think, trying to ward off horrible thoughts like sleep or fatigue.

Through the only window of that basement they heard the rumble of a diesel engine, and the old grating protecting that opening started to vibrate. Two pairs of eyes full of anxiety peered through the glass, seeing a van maneuvering right in front of the window that looked out at street level.

Ahmad went out, leaving Kazim guarding the engineer. Hossein met him and invited him to get into the van, while large raindrops materialized out of nowhere, hammering on every surface and raising puffs of dust.

"This is blessed rain!" Hossein almost had to shout to try and drown out the noise of the rain, "I come now from the container storage and I don't bring good news. It seems that a few hours ago Italian soldiers searched the entire area of the platform dedicated to containers!"

"Which soldiers?" Ahmad inquired, alarmed, his eyes widening.

"Guardia di Finanza, with dogs and everything else."

"Damn. What do you think they were looking for?"

"Drugs, no doubt. They were probably tipped off by some of their informant."

"Our container?"

"When I got there, I had the impression that they were looking for something in particular. I mean, they ignored the stack of containers where ours is. I didn't call because I thought it was safer to tell you in person."

Both stood silent as the rain violently struck all that their eyes could see.

"Listen to me! With this weather we could really transfer your man risk-free!"

Hossein didn't want to postpone that operation. He had found the right wreck and a first officer with whom he had already struck other bargains. All perfect.

"Yeah, with this weather no one would dream of checking the platforms."

Ahmad believed that the speed with which they would complete the mission would be crucial in the eyes of his superintendent. They had to act at once, without letting that opportunity go by.

"So, my friend, what did you decide?"

Hossein seemed eager to go get the engineer.

Ahmad glanced behind him, moving his face closer to the peephole that looked directly into the cargo area and seeing several rolled-up carpets that seemed to be there on purpose to be wrapped around Kazemian's body.

"Let's go."

The Iranian agent came out of the van, running under the torrential rain and taking the stairs leading to the basement.

Kazim jumped to his feet, with a quizzical expression on his gaunt face.

"So?"

"We take him away now, like we said. Go into the van and help Hossein," said Ahmad, dripping with rain.

After a few minutes the two, all soaked, managed to bring down some carpets, then the large bundle containing Markar Kazemian was laid down struggling on the bottom of the van. Hossein started driving, maneuvering the vehicle with extreme caution and getting onto Imperatore Augusto promenade, a route that led directly to the docks of the port of Bari.

The faint glow of the lighting poles arranged along the roadway helped make that landscape even more dismal, but at the same time that show of power was fascinating. It seemed they had been swallowed up in the liquid bowels of a sea god, where there was no chance to escape the terrible whips of water that fell everywhere.

The incessant rumbling of the violent storm drowned out the engine noise, forcing the three men inside the van to stay silent, as they began to glimpse the typical port buildings.

The port of Bari, in the south-east of Italy, was one of the main landings for Balkans and Middle East. The Large Basin was enclosed by two piers, the Foraneo and the San Cataldo, while the port area was surrounded by a high fence alternated to low-rise buildings in modern style, intended for commercial use and offices.

Hossein slowed down, stopping in the vicinity of the parking servicing the docks.

"See there?" the man shouted to be heard by his comrades, even though they were sitting next to him, "we have to go right there, and there are no shortcuts!"

His finger pointed at a few dozen containers tidily stacked within the perimeter of the port.

The bright light of a lightning lit up the whole area, brutally making its way through the masses of clouds, closely followed by a terrible thunder that rattled even the sides of the van.

"How do we go in?"

Ahmad, puzzled, looked around the whole perimeter, surrounded by a high fence made shiny by the rain.

"The guardian owed me a favor. He left the Customs Passage gate open."

Hossein meant the simplified access for passengers traveling without a car, coming from or going to countries outside Europe.

"Our container already passed customs inspections?"

Ahmad hoped to wait a few minutes more before leaving their protected shell, deluding himself that they could suffer the fury of the elements in a lesser extent.

"No. For the moment it's still there in the terminal, waiting for the customs staff to write its identification number on the travel documents. That's all, they will not search it, I witnessed all loadings last year."

Hossein snatched a sports bag from under the seat, pulling three dark blue raincoats out of it. Ahmad took the lightweight raincoat and put it on first, immediately followed by his friends.

"Okay, let's go."

As soon as they went out they were forced to stand still for a few moments, just to keep their connection with the ground. An overbearing north wind raised whirlwinds of seawater mixed with rain, literally sweeping the piers and frontally assaulting the three men.

"Hey! Maybe we'd better open the Customs Passage gate and enter directly with the van!" Hossein shouted, believing that no one would notice their maneuver in the storm.

The few lampposts still lit inside the port shed a weak light that was promptly kidnapped by the raindrops. Yet another lightning blew them all, leaving the whole area in the dark.

It was an unusual event, because the port lighting systems were designed to resist the majority of electrical phenomena caused by storms, even violent ones. But the intensity of that real cloudburst was hardly the norm, and the three Iranians took advantage of it right away.

"Now! Let's go now!"

Hossein got back into the van and in a single maneuver prepared to enter the Customs Passage gate in reverse. Kazim opened the gate, that wasn't locked, and shut it again once the van got past, starting toward the stack of containers.

The lights were still off when Ahmad, walking in the square, led Hossein by keeping one hand attached to the van and banging his fist on the window when he thought they were at the right distance from the containers.

Hard to imagine that just a few hours earlier that place had been teeming with life. Only the soft lights of the boats moored to the docks showed some kind of human presence. Ahmad realized that in a normal situation they would have had no chance to get away with that, but at that moment luck was creating ideal conditions, almost unrepeatable, to transfer their man inside the container.

Sunk in the darkness, the van appeared to be perfectly camouflaged, providing further coverage to the three men. The bundle containing the engineer, weighed down by the heavy rain, was moved inside the container, then Kazim injected the man yet another dose of drug before covering him with some dry carpets. Some duct tape around his wrists and on his mouth would guarantee that until their next visit, certainly already on the sea, Markar would not move from there.

Suddenly the raindrops became reddish and offered an incredible hypnotic effect, a sign that finally the port engineers had managed to locate the fault and repair it.

The first light of the lamps, that would become white in a single minute, surprised Ahmad as he was getting into the van along with Kazim.

"Go! Go! I close the gate and join you outside!"

Hossein came out in turn from the container, preparing to close it.

"Go! Go!" he insisted, accompanying his words with sweeping gestures of his arms.

The van left with its lights off , driven by Ahmad, who waited the few instants necessary for Kazim to open the Customs Passage gate.

The lights were about to become white, already they were starting to illuminate the area, while suddenly the intensity of the cloudburst started to subside.

Hossein was still lingering back to adjust the carpets inside the container and make it believable in the unfortunate case of an inspection by the Customs staff.

Ahmad took the van back on the promenade and waited, with the windows fogged up and the rain that didn't stop whipping the poor vehicle. At his side, Kazim was drenched and shivering from the cold.

The lights now sufficiently lit the port area, without the screen of the rain, but anyway Hossein was familiar enough with the place to be able to slip away without being noticed.

There was no problem, even if the favorable conditions had vanished. By then, the most dangerous job had been completed without a hitch, and later a thanksgiving prayer would be whispered.

Hossein went outside and firmly grasped the handle of the container, closing it with a metallic clang, then lowered the lever, sealing it to the outside world.

Markar Kazemian's subconscious felt that change of state.

Now for him there were only silence and darkness.

Nothing more.

When one looks into the darkness there is always something there.

William Butler Yeats

### Chapter III

Strada dei Parchi in the direction of L'Aquila (Italy).

Saturday, September 11th, 2010, 7:45 a.m.

Seen from the cockpit of an helicopter, the landscape looked like a painting by Kandinsky. The taut lines of the roads melted magnificently with the sinuous lines of the mosaic composed by the surrounding fields, planted with saffron and almond trees, in addition to the ever-present olive groves.

From up there it did not even look like a car accident as much as an anthill, with all the people who, like tireless workers, converged on what appeared to be a hectic and overcrowded center.

Then, when the Agusta helicopter providing the air rescue service to that area dropped in altitude, the scene acquired the right contours and proportions, also suggesting the dynamic of the accident.

Around a van that had ended its run on a lawn, along Strada dei Parchi, near the town of Torano, a group of people had gathered, composed by rescuers and onlookers who swarmed out from the cars stopped at the edges of road.

The vehicle was on its side, after the driver had lost control, breaking through the guardrail and involving two other cars in its crazy race.

The helicopter stood suspended just a few yards from the ground to give the pilot a chance to assess the landing spot, then lowered, at first brushing the grass with its runners, then firmly landing on the compact ground.

The doctor came out of it right away, bent forward and ran toward the van, followed by the nurse carrying part of the medical equipment.

The Fire Department was already hard at work in that place, trying to extract the two occupants still prisoners of the vehicle, with the help of hydraulic calipers. The third passenger, a young girl by the apparent age of twelve, seemed unharmed. Fortunately she had been thrown out upon the impact with the guardrail and was now lying on the lawn, properly immobilized.

The air rescue doctor looked at the pilot, then ran his thumb across his throat, a signal for him to turn off the engine and let it cool down. Unfortunately that wasn't going to be a quick job.

The wounded from the other cars did not cause concern and were treated on the spot by paramedics from the ambulance, while the cops of the Traffic Police were trying to handle the viability of the single remaining lane, waiting to complete their surveys.

A man and a woman were extracted from an opening on the roof of the van. Considering the position of the vehicle, resting on its side, that had proved to be the fastest solution.

It looked like a traveling family caught in a road accident, but Esther Mousavi, the seriously injured woman, transported to the helicopter on a stretcher, was the wife of Markar Kazemian, the Iranian engineer that had fled his country a few weeks ago. Together with her daughter Kimiya, now lying on the grass in shock, she had been traveling with a representative of the Iranian consulate in Italy, directed to Ancona, a port city in central Italy.

Esther was born in 1975 in the province of Tehran, Iran. Her parents were Jewish refugees who, still young, had been saved by the Shah Reza Pahlavi, who had been able to convince Hitler that, after thousands of years, Iranian Jews were now an integral part of the culture of the country, without no trace that could lead back to a Jewish people proper. To strengthen his theory, the king asked citizens of that ethnic group to choose another surname in place of their patronymic, and many of them chose Mousavi, because it was the Persian translation of "follower of Moses."

Esther had met Markar because her brother attended the University of Tehran along with the future nuclear engineer. After the first secret meetings in the parks of the capital, the couple had been able to convince their respective parents to celebrate a mixed marriage, in spite of their different religious beliefs.

An helicopter crewman made the curious move away from the take-off area, then rolled his forefinger in the air. It was the signal agreed with the pilot to start the engine.

In the few seconds it took for it to reach full power, the entire crew made the final checks. Kimiya turned her eyes to look at her mother, lying next to her. The doctor had considered it appropriate not to separate them, leaving the ambulance to transport the other wounded, including the man that had been in the van along with the two women.

After the wedding, Esther had convinced her husband to settle temporarily in the house of her parents, in one of the northern neighborhoods of Tehran. In the meantime, his degree in nuclear physics and a specialization in systems technology had allowed Markar to be employed within the scientific team of Bushehr nuclear power plant. A workplace nearly a thousand miles from home, but offset by a leave every forty five days, with the plane ticket paid by the plant management.

The helicopter took off, raising a cloud of red dust. The hospital unit in L'Aquila was already waiting for the woman, who seemed to be the most seriously injured.

Then the race in that middle ground with no windows, illuminated by neon lights, the intensive care unit. Burdened by the power to give or take life, that unit did not bother to follow the laws of nature. Neither those of dignity. The desperate eyes of those who came here were lost in the incessant traffic of medical personnel, lit equipment and a myriad of colored LEDs that produced in the minds a multitude of questions.

Esther's red triage clearly indicated the gravity of her conditions. Her medical case worsened, and the stretcher pushed by a nurse hardly had the time to stop in the ICU that the doctor on duty was already barking frantic orders to the staff.

The hardest time for Esther, had been the last few months.

A professor of nuclear physics at Tehran University, added to the team of scientists who had been working for ten years at the Iranian nuclear program, had been killed in January, while another of Markar's colleagues had vanished without a trace. Even in previous years other researchers working on the same project had disappeared or died in mysterious accidents. But the coup de grace had been given by a computer virus introduced into Bushehr plant, the one where Markar worked, remarkably slowing down the project and delaying the startup of the first reactor.

Russian nuclear experts who cooperated to the commissioning of the central had had all leaves suspended, and Esther hadn't seen her husband for many months. When Markar had been approached by an American agent calling himself Jafar, he had made himself available to pass on some important information regarding the central in return for the expatriation of his family. He would join his wife and daughter afterwards, when the dust had settled down.

Esther's long black hair was gathered into a hairnet, waiting for the entire team of the Emergency Surgery Unit to arrive.

The most critical lesion concerned a lung, punctured by a broken rib. An assistant applied a drainage to the organ, while the surgeon prepared for the suture. The operation would require no less than three hours, full of risks for the presence of other complications. Previously, Esther had underwent a CT scan of her head due to a serious head trauma suffered in the accident, which had caused a large hematoma in the temporal region, producing a subcutaneous accumulation of blood, partly already coagulated.

After Esther and Kimiya were expatriated, events had taken a different turn from what had been planned. During the long journey to their final destination, they were expected to make two stops. The first in Greece, managed by agent Sophia, and the next in a black hole located in Italy, waiting for Markar's arrival and the subsequent transfer by plane to the United States.

During a temporary stay in Italy, an out-and-out commando had attacked at night the two American agents guarding the supposedly secret site, subtracting them the two women. The Iranian agent who had taken them into custody was planning to embark in Ancona to bring them back to their homeland, but the accident had changed his plans. Even the two members of the commando who had been following the van, acting as an escort, had been forced to helplessly behold the rescue operations, unable to do anything.

And now the wife of Markar Kazemian was lying in a hospital bed, with a tube coming out of her mouth, surrounded by the hum of the medical equipment, periodically interrupted by the usual beep marking her vital functions.

Her slanted, almost oriental eyes embellished a partially swollen face, tried by unnerving weeks, while the amber-hued skin of her arms, violated by tears and needles, became fairer close to her slender fingers, whose nails still bore traces of red nail polish at the ends, a clear indication of a care lost in the escape.

Two little eyes peered through the glass, looking directly into the room.

Kimiya tried to hold back her tears. Failing, she quickly wiped them away rubbing the back of her hand on her cheeks.

The only thing she could do was pray.

***

Hotel Restaurant Belvedere – Adriatic Coast – Bari (Italy).

Saturday, September 11th, 2010, 8:45 a.m.

"We really needed this reunion, don't you think?"

Benaski stretched his legs and yawned uncontrollably, his mouth wide open and his arms stretched to the sky.

"Ah yes, you're right. We no longer have that many chances to stay up late..." Masi grinned, raising his cup to his lips and slowly sipping his coffee.

They had not seen each other for quite some time, and they had spent the night before with their memories and some good wine, almost forgetting to go to bed. Now, with the slits of their eyes hardly accepting the light of that clear sky, the two men attempted a soft approach with what would probably be a hard day.

Both belonged to a small circle of agents, reporting to one of the Joint Operations Centers around the world. These units did not exist officially and were always composed by CIA agents joined with colleagues from the country in which their operation would take place.

The search for Markar Kazemian had activated one of the Italian centers. Benaski, sent by Scott Jenkins, and his Italian counterpart Masi, intelligence agent temporarily loaned to the Information and Security Department, formed a team that had already worked together, immediately finding an harmony that was uncommon between colleagues from different countries.

"So, it looks like we found our Iranian friend," Benaski said, finishing his cappuccino and wondering how the hell Italians could appreciate such a coffee full of foam.

"Of course. Thanks to our wiretaps, now you know too" Masi nodded, arching an eyebrow.

"Um, not really. You confirmed what we already knew... and it was a very useful help, mind you!"

Hans clasped his hands behind his head, enjoying the first rays of sun of the day after a night of heavy rain.

Masi opened his arms, showing a mock astonishment.

"Oh, you already knew? So why did Adam North call my boss looking for information?"

The two men stared at each other without smiling.

Benaski did a quick calculation about the opportunity of sharing at least part of the available information with his colleague.

"We're talking about a new method for passive detection," he admitted.

Masi leaned toward his colleague, revealing an interest that he had not wanted to express so openly.

"What do you mean?"

Despite the confidence between them, Hans pulled back slightly and tried to hide the gesture by crossing his legs.

"You already know that we lost our man Tuesday night, when he landed with other illegal immigrants, right on this part of the coast."

The American agent casually pointed at the sea before them, stretching shiny in front of the terrace on which they were comfortably sitting.

"Oh, go trust women..." the Italian insinuated, only to let his colleague aware that he knew the details.

"Well, actually she never did anything wrong. The bastard who assaulted her had mingled with the fucking immigrants..." Benaski clenched his jaws picturing the scene "anyway, just before embarking on the rubber boat, our agent had had the engineer swallow a capsule containing an advanced-technology detection device."

Masi stared at a point on the water, naively trying not to show too much interest.

"What kind of detection are you talking about?"

"The kind that you can get by a GPS device, more or less like a common satellite navigation system."

"There's something I don't get..."

Hans put on his sunglasses, now that the surface of the sea was shining right into his eyes.

"You must be wondering why the capsule should stay in the body, instead of being evacuated as would be logical, aren't you?"

Robert put his elbows on the table, leaning his head on his joined hands.

"I was thinking about that indeed."

"Well, the capsule coating is impregnated with a sort of vegetable glue, which makes it adhere to the first portion of the esophagus. The adhesive retains its properties for four or five days, then the capsule falls and is digested and expelled, just like everything else, and with no ill effects" Benaski said, trying to suppress a belch, probably due to the connection between that explanation and the brioche he had just swallowed.

Masi already guessed where his colleague was going.

"So, the effect of the detector should cease soon enough, shouldn't it?"

"If our Iranian engineer has not eaten much, it is likely that it will go through his intestine more slowly, so we could have up to one more day," the American said, without much conviction, allowing himself to burp loudly. When there were no women around, it was normal behavior for him.

"So soon you might need our collaboration again to locate Kazemian, that's why you're telling me all this," Masi grinned.

The American agent kept staring into his colleague's eyes, not averting his.

"You know, in the years when I was in the Special Forces I knew a bloody sergeant, made of steel and with that fucking Kentucky accent. Although he was really a tough guy, he always told me you can't receive if you don't give first. So, I expect just some good old collaboration from you, okay?"

Robert thought about that last sentence, recalling saying that to inspector D'Agostino a few days earlier.

"Okay, Hans, but at this point I must ask you one last thing. What prevents you from going to get your man right now, since you are still able to detect him?"

"Okay Robby, this operation could have been handled better, no doubt," Benaski admitted, "but from now on no mistakes will be allowed. Actually we can't go and get him because we don't know how many of his damned compatriots are watching him."

"Umm... we're going to need a reconnaissance of the port, to determine precisely where our target is."

Masi realized he had said something obvious and trivial, but his aim was to see whether his colleague already knew that information.

"Well, almost certainly the engineer is inside a container, but we don't know which one, with so much metal the signal is not clear," Hans admitted. "This forces us to remain in stand-by. Christ, we can't simply open and search hundreds of containers."

"Wait, I'll place a call and try to get a pair of front row seats with views of the container storage."

Masi took the phone and immediately called Leonardi. The place to be monitored had a relatively small surface and it would not be difficult to find a suitable surveillance point.

Meanwhile, Benaski was torn about whether to also share with his fellow Italian the information about Kazemian's family. Unfortunately the coup carried out by a commando, whose provenance was still unknown, did nothing but put in an even worse light the people from the CIA, the American thought with regret. He decided to reveal the final details of that operation as well.

"Well, if you didn't lose anyone else I'd say we can go down to the port. They already reserved us a box seat with a magnificent view."

Masi avoided cheap irony about that affair. He already had in his ears his wife's complaints due to the inevitable extension of the mission caused by that complication.

The two men arrived quickly near the port of Bari, parking their car in one of the squares in front of the main entrance and entering from a pedestrian gate.

Assistant director Leonardi had managed to obtain the temporary use of a room on the first floor of a service building, just in front of the container storage. All the rest of that floor, as well as the second floor, was taken by offices of import-export and shipping agencies.

After a flight of stairs, the two officers turned into a short corridor. Benaski looked quizzically at his colleague, whose only reply was, "Room thirty-one."

The two went on, looking at all the numbers corresponding to the offices. Finally Masi pointed at the room assigned to them. It was the last of the row and they went in one after the other, banging the door shut after them.

A golden plate hung outside the opposite office trembled due to the airflow.

The shiny metal surface was engraved with the name of the company occupying that room. It was Kalibb Persian Carpets Ltd.

***

Services building, port of Bari (Italy).

Saturday, September 11th, 2010, 10:30 a.m.

"So you're telling me we unnecessarily embarked Kazim on the ship?"

Ahmad was visibly upset as he stared at the container storage through the window.

The overview provided by his position was great and despite the very little room available, just enough to accommodate two people, Kalibb Persian Carpets had been forced to stand in line to obtain that office.

"I assure you that I didn't know, my friend. I was surprised like you when today I found out that our container wasn't going to be loaded!"

Hossein opened his arms, showing his obvious helplessness. Kazim should have monitored Kazemian during the trip, but circumstances suggested that nothing would be done for the next two days.

Although the port authority had ensured that the loading of the cargo on the container ship "Eliza", leaving for the port of Iskenderun in Turkey, would be completed that morning, a sudden strike of cranes operators had blocked everything. That union agitation had come at the peak of the dispute concerning Saturday morning overtime, taking by surprise a good part of the port organization.

"Such a thing would never have happened in our country," Ahmad said with a grin, referring to the regulations about strikes in Iran, with Islamic law allowing them only at certain times of the year.

"Now we'll have to take our man in broad daylight," Hossein mused aloud, staring at the stack of container, "we certainly can't leave him in there until Monday," he finished, stroking his bushy black beard.

"Yes, you're right. With this sun the temperature inside the container would become too high to resist, and we would end up carrying just a corpse. That's not what I've been asked for."

Ahmad closed his eyes, trying to focus.

Suddenly there was a loud bang, like a door slamming violently, that rattled the furniture and furnishings of the room.

The two men looked in each other's eyes.

"What was that?" Ahmad asked in alarm.

"It seemed like a door to me. The noise seemed to come from the next room," Hossein said, uncertain.

"You said that the office next to ours was empty."

"Indeed, it was emptied a couple of months ago and no one had requested it yet. Due to the crisis of the port, I suppose."

"Suspect is a path at the end of which truth might hide," thought Ahmad.

"All right. Go get the van and take it in front of the container. You said we haven't yet passed customs inspection, didn't you?"

"Yes, although the container is in the customs area actually, we can still get close to add or remove goods."

Hossein pocketed his phone and left, preparing to lock the door, waiting for his team leader to leave the office as well.

The two quickly went down the stairs, then Hossein stopped in front of a storeroom. He waited a few moments, just to be sure he wasn't being watched by the few people passing by, and entered using a pass key. They came out after a couple of minutes, wearing uniforms of the cleaning company.

The sun was flooding the square of the port, quickly drying the walls and sparkling on the puddles created by the storm of the night before.

Ahmad pushed the cap down on his head, trying to hide his face behind the visor, then glanced behind him, peering at the building they had just left.

Behind one of the windows, right next to the one of their office, there was someone watching the yard with a pair of binoculars.

His heart leapt in his throat, but his only reaction was walking even more slowly and putting his hands in his pocket, just like an employee of the company cleaning the port area would have done.

"Is it possible that they were following our moves, despite all the precautions taken? Is Hossein truly trustworthy?"

The Iranian agent mingled with the dozens of people that were walking on the square at that time, trying not to go straight at the container storage.

A white van slowly passed along the outer perimeter which delimited the customs area, slowing down even more when it came near Ahmad, who turned back again toward the window he had seen previously, with a movement that seemed perfectly natural.

"Damn, now there are two people checking down here!"

The Iranian agent realized that by moving the van to the stack of containers they would immediately attract the attention of the two onlookers, not counting the possibility that someone else was monitoring the area directly from the square.

Hossein, driving the white van, kept staring toward Ahmad, clearly waiting for a sign from him.

Suddenly a shower of sparks sprang from the grille of a small building, illuminating the surrounding area with a white glow. The next instant the van moved to the containers area, placing itself in a favorable position for the transfer of the engineer.

Without running, the Iranian agent went up to the vehicle, allowing himself another glance at the window at which he had caught a glimpse of the two busybodies. It seemed that only one was scouring the yard with the binoculars, at present focusing on the glittering diversion that was attracting the attention of all the people populating the huge yard.

After forty seconds Markar Kazemian, still in a state of half-unconsciousness and wrapped in a carpet, was moved to the inside of the van, which drove off without haste.

Ahmad, sitting in the cockpit and panting from the effort made in those few seconds, took his mobile phone, pointing the lens of the camera toward the exit of the services building.

The wait lasted but a few moments. Two men, quite out of breath and with showy sweat rings under their armpits, shot out of the building, running toward the van.

The Iranian started filming. He was sure that they were the same two busybodies he had glimpsed at the window, he had no doubts. Hossein slightly accelerated and proceeded towards the exit of the port, trying not to draw attention.

The small charge of white phosphorus that Ahmad had managed to place had carried out its function as well as it could, creating havoc among the employees of the port and fairly obstructing the two men, who would be forced to make their way through fire-fighting trucks and port personnel in full emergency activity.

When eventually the two pursuers reached the van, they watched in dismay at the big front door, wide open, which meant that no obstacle would prevent the escape of the damn vehicle.

Hossein did not need to accelerate any further. He passed the huge gate and took the Emperor Augustus promenade, soon turning into the maze of narrow streets and alleys of Old Bari.

It would not be easy to find them.

***

Hans Benaski recovered from a slight numbness, caused by the methodical observation of the port area below.

"Hey, what the hell is going on down in the square?"

That room of the services building had proved to be particularly hot – the air conditioning did not want to run – forcing the two men to remain in their shirt sleeves.

Robert Masi pointed the binoculars directly to the source of the light that was coming out from a large grid, placed at the base of a concrete building.

"What the fuck is that?"

"I'll tell you what it is. It's a damn distraction, prepared by some asshole just for us!"

Benaski ignored the hypnotic effect produced by what appeared to be more a firework display that an actual explosion. It was as if one of the lightning of the terrible night before had lingered behind, to hit right at that time one of the power plants in the port.

Thin streaks of gray smoke were expanding in all directions, made heavy by the burning of plastics and rubber, obvious cause of the nauseating smell.

Masi leaned even further through the open window, as if by doing so he could improve his vision.

"Look! There's a white van right in front of that stack of containers!"

The frantic shouting and screaming by now reached them clearly, overcoming the background noise of a port that, even with the reduced activity of a Saturday, involved a good number of equipment and personnel.

Masi calculated the time needed to reach the vehicle, distant about a hundred yards from the building. About thirty seconds would be enough.

Through the binoculars, Robert watched the big doors of a container open, just in correspondence with the back of the van.

"Christ, it's him! They're taking him away," he said.

Waiting was useless, there was no alternative.

The agent pointed his finger in that direction, attracting the attention of his colleague.

"Come on! Come on, let's go!" he yelled, rushing toward the exit.

The two ran at breakneck speed down the short corridor on the first floor and rushed down the stairs, making their way by shoving people aside and brutally climbing over a young man who had fallen near the landing, victim of the crowd that was forming.

With a leap, the Italian agent jumped over the last three steps of the entrance of the services building, diving directly into the yard, followed by his American colleague. The van was ahead of them, just a few dozen yards away, and was moving at a slow speed so as not to attract attention.

Heedless of the sprays from the puddles, Masi kept running, frantically dodging groups of people attracted by that shining glow. Then he was almost run over by a forklift while attempting to dodge an operator carrying a fire extinguisher. The driver shouted at him a series of insults in an incomprehensible language, but he went on, raising a thumb at Benaski to say that he was all right.

The van seemed to have increased its speed, but the distance, now reduced to just a few yards, allowed Masi to look inside it. Moving his head to avoid the annoying reflections of the sun that were dazzling him, he noticed that one of the two fugitives was pointing a cell phone at him.

Wet to the waist and panting for a kind of running he was no longer accustomed to, Robert took his phone in turn, managing to take a picture of the man inside the vehicle, while he tried in vain to shield his face with one hand.

"Hey! Stop that van! Stop it!"

The Italian agent tried to be heard above the surrounding clamor by screaming as loud as he could, then tried to attract the attention of the guard at the entrance of the port area by waving his arms wildly.

But the man was looking toward the fire that was developing, completely overlooking everything else. While waiting for the fire fighters, he had simply opened the big gate, and seemed taken by an angry phone conversation.

The van went out quietly, closely followed by the two agents, out of breath.

"No! Fuck it!"

Masi angrily waved his fist in the air, rising to the momentum and falling back in a puddle of muddy water. Then he leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees, panting. He spit in the puddle in which he was standing, making his reflection waver.

"Holy shit... how could we... let them fool us... like that...?"

"Okay... we'll get him... you'll see..."

Benaski's voice was hoarse, his breathing labored. The impulse of using his gun had passed through his mind for a moment, only to be cast away. He rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand, puffing with his cheeks inflated.

"The engineer... he still has the capsule... the detection device... you understand?"

By then, all that was left of the van was a cloud of black and stinking smoke.

They had to resort to plan B.

***

Airspace near the airport of Gioia del Colle – Bari (Italy).

Saturday, September 11th, 2010, 06:00 p.m.

"Helen? Are you listening?"

Thunder's voice became even more bitter and metallic, certainly an effect of the encrypted phone transmission.

"Yes, general, I'm listening. But you will not persuade me that that fucking agent had nothing to do with it!"

The American felt she was flaring up with anger as that thought hovered in the cabin of the aircraft on which she was traveling.

"Hell, no! I repeat, the two boys who put you under... uh... temporary custody have nothing to do with Hans Benaski!"

Thunder's voice took on an impatient tone.

"Those damn watchdogs have been stalking me for two years!"

Helen ran a hand on the back of her neck, remembering the lump the Blues Brothers had caused her a couple of days ago.

"You're right, sometimes those two use... unorthodox methods" the general admitted, "but let me explain. It is a guarantee the CIA demanded against you. In a sense, they pulled you out of deep shit, rehabilitating you and granting you another chance. Of course you couldn't expect that the huge investment on you was left unsupervised. The Agency is simply protecting its assets, since the device belongs to the government."

"The two bastards just came where I was, a sure hit..."

Helen had deluded herself that she could not be detected when her device was off, but doubt was beginning to creep into her mind.

Carmen had not revealed her that she had already come to that conclusion shortly before receiving a blow on her neck by those damn gringos. The last thing the Spanish remembered was the phone call that urged her to work faster with Helen, to convince her to give up the Minerva project and move on to another employer.

Thunder decided to deny the fact that the former lieutenant could be traced on the GPS maps installed on the phones used by CIA agents, upon suggestion by the assistant director Jenkins.

"Well, one of the girls in the brothel is also an informant of ours, that's all."

Helen desperately tried to keep a detached attitude towards those that had been the cornerstones of her new life.

"Why did you close the Boutique, and who killed Dr. Hawking?"

The general had learned the news like a shot, so much so that his sophisticated pacemaker had had to intervene with a series of small electric shocks, leaving a trace on the remote computer used to program his cardiac device.

"Hell! For what concerns Peter, my sorrow is huge. I lost a valuable employee, besides I was aware of the excellent relationship you had with him."

"Dr. Hawking was working for our side, wasn't he, general?"

The implicit naivety contained in Helen's timid question expressed her desire to eliminate even the slightest doubt about the honesty of the engineer.

"There is absolutely no misunderstanding about that. And be sure that I'm grieving as much as you" Thunder closed his eyes for a moment, trying to focus on the reason for that call "well, at the upper floors of the CIA they decided to close the Boutique, that's for sure..."

He had been informed by Scott Jenkins, who had confirmed that the agency wanted to protect the integrity of the U.S. base in Wiesbaden against investigations they deemed harmful, and that they would put in doubt the flow of cash used for restructuring and expansion of that site.

"How will you carry on the Minerva project if..." Helen clearly heard the general breathing hoarsely and coughing several times "general...? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Helen, I'm just fighting my own battle with this vile coffee."

Thunder had not yet replaced that damn vending machine despite his office was inside the Edwards U.S. Air Force base in California, thus with a virtually unlimited logistics availability.

"The Minerva project will still be developed, there is no doubt" the general continued, "the rest of the Boutique team made up by you and Carmen is perfectly configured for the intelligence actions that the agency will deem appropriate for the two of you. And you will still be the main agent, don't worry."

Helen did not answer, she just contracted her face into a grimace that expressed all of her disappointment. Carmen, unaware of Thunder's words, watched her quizzically, not knowing how to read her attitude, then both fastened their seat belts, as suggested by the flashing light in front of them.

"When you're in the hangar, the two guys who escorted you will stay in the aircraft."

The general was not surprised by the sudden silence of the former lieutenant.

"She'll get used to this type of operation," he told himself.

"There should be a welcome committee waiting for you. Helen, one last thing. Do not disappoint me. You have a huge potential, try not to waste it."

The aircraft descended quickly, leaving the sun floating higher up. The few clouds that drifted lazily in the wind seemed to come straight from a painting by Monet, with its bright skies and white clouds.

Helen would have liked to share with Carmen the sensations she was feeling, then she realized that the Agency was surely tapping their conversations on that airplane, so she preferred to remain silent. She did not want to give any more material to their cursed analysts.

The Learjet executive landed on the runway at Gioia del Colle – one of Apulia airports, location of a U.S. Air Force support base – then the captain of the plane steered it toward the assigned hangar.

When the engines were switched off, the two girls stood before the already open door. Under the service ladder, Benaski and his Italian counterpart Masi, casually dressed in jeans and linen shirts, were waiting.

Neither of them smiled when Helen climbed down the first steps, followed closely by Carmen. Hans did not even try to offer his hand to the two women, he was sure they would ignore him, so he just introduced his colleague.

"Did you send them, those two bastards?" the American girl growled, scowling at Benaski.

"No, why you say that? I have nothing to do with those..."

Benaski looked away and dove his hands in the pockets of his trousers to try and disguise his restlessness.

Helen stood in front of the agent, not at all intimidated by the glances of the security guys at the top of the ladder.

"They found me right away, and only you could know where I was!"

"Well, we had an informant..." lied the man, believing he could disentangle himself from that quagmire in a hurry. He appreciated the work of the two men, but at that moment he only wanted to keep his distance from them.

"An informant?" the girl repeated.

"Yes, well... a janitor in the building you live in..."

Benaski could not finish the sentence. Helen dealt him a powerful punch to his stomach, as if she had been Maggie, the angry boxer girl in "Million Dollar Baby." The echo of the air coming out from the man's lips spread into the dark silence of the hangar, leaving everyone else stunned.

"Next time you're gonna tell lies bigger than yourself, agree on them first!"

The former lieutenant was surprised by the violence of her own punch and was forced to massage her hand, as the pair of agents left on the plane laughed heartily.

A stunned Masi tried to assist his colleague who, after bending forward because of the jab, was straightening himself, breathing noisily.

Now that finally her hatred, repressed for so long, had found an outlet, Helen merely squared the American agent, with a hint of compassion in her eyes.

"Oh, I know that it's not right to discharge two years of torment on this piece of shit, but this time he really asked for it, damn it!"

The man waved his forefinger at her, barely restrained by Robert.

"Damn hybrid!" Benaski roared, leaning toward the girl, as if preparing to assault her, "I'll make you pay for this, do you understand? Bitch!"

"Predictable. After all, men of this mold are only able to hit from behind."

Helen just rummaged in her mind, recalling her first meeting with Hans. Exactly nine days ago, in the Boutique in Frankfurt.

That time she had felt the same hostility that she was feeling now, and the jab to his stomach, thrown with all the anger she could muster, perfectly represented that impression. A gut reaction, nothing more.

Masi invited everyone to move away from the plane, pointing at a service car that had been waiting for a few minutes outside the hangar. During the short ride on the vehicle, no one dared to speak. Benaski was sitting shotgun and typing an endless sequence of characters on the keypad of his phone, writing a fiery message to Scott Jenkins.

The American agent broke a silence that was adding to the sense of discomfort, then showed to the soldier who was driving the precise location where he had to stop.

"They reserved a small office of the airport for us."

Only after getting out of the vehicle, Helen noticed the bag that Hans was carrying without apparent effort.

Masi led the group toward a low-rise equipped with quite a range of antennas that seemed to be caging the sun, now low on the horizon. There were no soldiers in uniform guarding the entrance, just two men with earphones and sunglasses, almost a trademark sealing that operation.

The peculiarities of the room in which the two women entered, followed by the two agents, were the lack of windows and the low ceiling. The scarce furnishings, consisting of a long desk in the center of the room, surrounded by many chairs, were supplemented by a little armchair and a relatively low amount of office equipment. A coffee machine placed on a refrigerator completed the decor.

Benaski opened the black bag he had carried until then, extracting a large case from it.

The agent pulled out Helen's neuronal helmet, wrapped in a transparent protection, and placed it with great care on the desk, right in front of her, venturing to meet her gaze. The girl let that look full of anger slip away, focusing only on her helmet.

A second case, containing the only DNA-laptop available to the Boutique team, was entrusted to a silent Carmen, who was still trying to understand whether the obvious friction between her colleague and Benaski would bring her any advantage.

"I have to go to the toilet."

Helen stared at Masi for the first time, trying to decipher his attitude. He pointed to her the only inner door, examining in turn the girl's face and focusing on the specks of gold in her beautiful green eyes, which enchanted him. She blushed immediately and was forced to look away, slipping out of that room and closing the door behind her.

The former lieutenant stood for long moments with her back against that door, eyes closed, trying to breathe slowly. Her fingers felt the switch in the dark, but her brain did not want to turn that damn light on.

"The races at breakneck speed on the long beaches of Rhode Island. The first kiss when I was thirteen. Dad shouting and mom standing silent. Then the college sorority, the Academy, the damn drugs and the atonement. The slaps in a dark room and the hours of flight accumulated on a chair. Probably flying with the mind is the only way to escape for me."

Helen smoked a cigarette, sitting on the bowl in a windowless bathroom the size of a phone booth, then went to sit in the armchair, taking her helmet in her hands.

During the transfer flight, Thunder had instructed the two girls about the incoming operation. It all concerned the search for an Iranian engineer kidnapped by unknown assailants the previous Tuesday, and found in the port of Bari a few hours before.

Fat Boy was on a secondary runway of the airport of Gioia del Colle, waiting for neuronal orders from the former lieutenant, as she was putting on her helmet under the curious eyes of Robert.

Carmen awoke the DNA-laptop, called the Journal from its slumber.

The "OLED" technology, i.e. the ability to emit light without add-ons, had allowed the realization of that unit, which screen could be rolled into a thin tube, used as sheath. Just like its close relative housed at the Boutique, that computer had no RAM or Hard Disk, information were stored and processed at molecular level, allowing it to be so thin that it could be wrapped around an arm if needed, to hide it or bring it on a mission.

General Bowdler was connected from his base in California, preparing to follow all stages of the action. For that occasion, the codename assigned to engineer Kazemian was "Prophet", while for ensuing targets the usual random procedure would be used.

When darkness was facing the last red streaks painted on the sky, the drone raised from the concrete runway, reaching operational altitude without hesitation.

Helen seemed relaxed sitting in the armchair. She was staring at the inside of the translucent visor of her helmet, responding to a checklist sent by Carmen that she heard directly in her brain, without the aid of her ears.

The two agents wore their earpieces and placed themselves in front of the Journal screen, that Gonzales was touching lightly, sending commands and requesting information.

"I remind you that the goal of the mission is to find Prophet," the voice of general Bowdler spread through all earphones, "but above all it's to know how many fucking guards are watching him. Once this is verified, we're moving seriously."

His finger pressed the Enter key, sending to Helen's helmet a file that contained the operating instructions. It would forward it to her brain at the same moment.

"Helen, have you already located Prophet?"

Gonzales was enlarging a frame on the Journal containing an electronic map with several references, one of which was red. Masi stopped chattering with his colleague and leaned toward the screen, in the attempt to decipher more clearly the contents of that window.

"No, Carmen. The red dot we see is the real-time position of the phone we tapped in the last few days," the former lieutenant pointed out, strangely wrinkling her lips.

"Well, we can safely assume that phone will cross paths with Prophet shortly."

Thunder was sure of that. After a morning spent escaping, the kidnappers probably wanted to transfer the engineer elsewhere.

"Okay, the red dot has been designated Sierra One and... wait a minute!"

Helen's brain stared at the green dot that had appeared on the map, while her eyes activated the controls inside the helmet to immediately calculate the interception route.

"Target detected and identified as... Prophet, waiting for confirmation."

"How can we be sure that the capsule is still inside Prophet's body?"

Masi turned to Helen, observing the subtle movements of her head. He had already witnessed missions in Afghanistan in which a drone was remotely controlled by a soldier with a joystick. But seeing it maneuvered by the mind of such an attractive girl was, well, shocking.

"When the device is expelled from the body, it is scheduled to turn itself off in a sort of small-scale self-destruction," Thunder explained.

"Have you noticed the other red dot in the vicinity of Prophet?" the general asked, knowing that Helen had already designated it as Sierra Two.

The impressive night vision that Fat Boy was broadcasting was surprisingly sharp. It revealed a panorama of rooftops with a greenish hue. The screen returned an image that, touched with fingers, could be manipulated and superimposed on a thermo-graphical view, exploiting the infrared radiations that all objects and living things emit.

"We are perpendicular to Prophet" Helen unconsciously moved a finger in the air, almost wanting to indicate the point "he's in an inner courtyard, under what looks like a shed. You see it, don't you?"

"It doesn't look like a brick shed," Benaski said.

Masi pointed to the pink halo that perfectly defined the wooden planks of the structure.

"Here they use mainly wood and reed mats for this type of covers, in fact the thermal image confirms it."

"They don't seem to care much about safety..." Carmen said, noting that Prophet and his kidnappers were outdoors, at the mercy of every busybody who happened to be moving in that area of the sky.

"Hell! Let's not forget that until now they always screwed us. That's why we're watching a damn movie, instead of going there and scold them a bit," said Thunder.

"They will certainly have a hidden shelter" Benaski seemed to think aloud, "maybe the same from where they sprung up this morning."

"Okay. I'll bring Fat Boy down a bit, let's hear what they're saying."

Helen decreased the altitude of the aircraft, allowing its sensors to pick up dialogues in a few hundred yards radius.

Carmen raised her thumb toward Robert, who nodded, confirming that he understood. The conversations would reach the earpieces in Farsi and the Italian agent would have to translate in real time. Then the file with the complete dialogue would be sent to the U.S. National Security Agency for a more accurate analysis.

"Good, I'm listening," Masi confirmed "okay, they are speaking in Farsi. A male voice, umm... he says he just came to know. It sounds important, because the same voice repeated that he did not know so far, but he got the news a little while ago. It seems to me that this man is smoking."

Carmen and Hans pointed at the same time at a bright point on the screen. It was the cigarette Sierra One was smoking.

"Another male voice, much deeper, is saying 'I will not make resistance if you let me see my wife and my daughter'" Robert scratched his chin," it seems he's pained while saying that."

Everyone there knew of the issue involving Markar Kazemian's family. Hidden in a black hole under the custody of the CIA, the two women had been kidnapped by a commando, then they had gone missing.

"The same deep voice is repeating... that he absolutely wants to see his wife and daughter, to know how they are... after the accident."

Masi closed his eyes for a moment, trying to focus better. There seemed to be no more doubt that the voice belonged to Prophet.

"The smoking one, Sierra One, said that now his wife is in hospital... 'she's no longer under my custody, she depends on Italian doctors...'"

Robert came closer to the screen.

"He added a sentence in some dialect, I think Kurdish... something like 'look here' or 'be careful'. Probably he told Sierra Two to keep an eye on Prophet, I think."

The next instant, the red dot that identified Sierra One moved from its position beside Prophet, coming fully in the open. Fat Boy cameras attacked him right away, scanning his face and all exposed parts like arms and hands, looking for particular signs and tattoos. Within a few seconds the data collected would be compared within the huge database that intelligence organizations had created just for that purpose.

"Masi?" Thunder wanted to take advantage of that few seconds pause.

"Sir?" said the Italian agent.

"Masi, would you please explain why we learn this way that Prophet's family is in hospital due to an accident?" general Bowdler's tone was vaguely sarcastic.

"Well, sir, I'll check right away!"

"I should think so Masi, I should think so," Thunder grinned.

"Prophet is moving. Confirmation in a moment", Helen broke in, comparing the scan just performed by Fat Boy with the only available photo of Kazemian, taken by agent Sophia.

Sierra Two moved as well, escorting the engineer in a low-rise, and becoming himself a prey of the drone cameras.

"We have confirmation about Prophet," Carmen announced, quickly moving her fingers on the screen.

"The other two," Benaski asked impatiently.

"The first target, designated Sierra One, calls himself Ahmad" the Spanish went on. "He's the guy Robert photographed this morning with his phone and should belong to Iranian Security Services. Ah, it seems he's missing half of the little finger of his left hand."

"Is he armed?" the American agent cut her short again.

"The second target, designated Sierra Two, has not been identified," Carmen caught the sharp look of Benaski "he has a gun, Sierra One doesn't... just a combat knife, nothing else."

Suddenly the earpieces came to life, filling a silence that had lasted but a handful of seconds.

"Beware, there is a heated discussion between the two guards."

Masi raised his forefinger in a blatant request for attention.

"Among them they are always talking in that dialect, but I can understand it. So, it seems our friend Sierra One, that is Ahmad, lost his temper and is shouting at his colleague Sierra Two to... obey without placing obstacles."

The Italian agent closed his eyes, looking forward to the next sentence.

"It's always Ahmad who started talking again... and addressed Sierra Two calling him Kazim. Okay, we introduced ourselves, I think that's a good thing," sneered Robert.

"Ahmad, in a quieter voice, is saying... 'I have the authority to change the orders, we will film the execution.' Then he adds something about the glory that will come as a result."

"Jesus! They really want to eliminate Prophet?"

Benaski narrowed his eyes in an expression of disbelief.

"Madre de Dios! Prophet is moving... and it seems that neither of the two guards is following him!"

Carmen pointed at the green dot marking the position of Markar Kazemian on the map, while the overview screen was showing the real-time image of the engineer who, with the typical green reflections of the infrared vision, was running across the yard, his clear shoes darting in the darkness.

It seemed that Prophet was incredibly attempting an escape, because the distance between him and his guards was increasing. In those frantic moments Helen kept operating Fat Boy on a route that allowed to keep all of the three targets in check.

"Hans! How long for you and Masi to get on the scene?"

Thunder knew that the intervention team sent by Adam North, CIA supervisor for Southern Europe, was on its way, but it would be there only short before dawn.

"Uh, sir, I think that twenty minutes would be enough..."

The quick calculation of the American agent was obviously based on a high speed car race.

"I'll give you ten minutes and a lift on one of our helicopters, already waiting," was the immediate response of the general, who had taken precautions against possible surprises by pre-alerting a Sikorsky light carrier, waiting on a secondary runway of the airport of Gioia del Colle.

Thunder gave the necessary orders urging the two agents, who immediately ran to the helicopter.

Masi kept translating while boarding the aircraft, thanks to the earpiece he was still wearing that kept him in connection to the others.

"Okay. One moment ago Kazim replied to Ahmad, saying that... 'I don't agree, we didn't receive any order to execute the engineer.' By the curses I hear, it seems that our friends realized Prophet's escape only now."

The code name given to the Italian agent was Corsair, while his American colleague got Batman. The airport, base of operations, became Sweet Home, a name chosen by Helen.

The helicopter lifted from the runway cutting through the darkness, then veered, chasing the lights of the metropolitan area of Bari. After flying over the perfect chessboard of the Murat district, built by the field marshal of Napoleon Bonaparte by the same name, the aircraft landed for the few moments needed for the two agents to jump out of it, pointing without hesitation towards the oldest part of the city, right next to the harbor.

"I confirm Sierra One and Two in pursuit of Prophet" Helen said for the benefit of the two agents "wear the glasses to see your location on the map."

"Positive Sweet Home. How far are we from Prophet?"

Masi turned into the first street in front of him, feeling the unpleasant sensation of having been swallowed by the stone guts of that silent neighborhood.

"Corsair, at present the distance decreased to one hundred meters and it's decreasing quickly," said Helen.

The dim light offered by a slender crescent moon and a handful of stars was picked up and amplified by the night-vision goggles that Masi and his colleague wore, allowing then to discern the polished stone of the road from the ancient eroded rocks that rose on the walls.

Robert walked along what looked like the streets of Venice, followed closely by Benaski. It seemed to them they were going through long paved corridors, which eventually flowed into miniature squares similar to stone living rooms.

"Okay, we have the visual" Masi confirmed, raising his thumb toward his colleague.

Their position was marked on an electronic map, projected by their glasses directly in their pupils through a low-intensity laser, together with any reference acquired by Fat Boy in real time. The night vision granted them perfect orientation in that maze, surrounded by blossomy terraces and laundry hung out to dry, while soft footsteps were leading the two agents to Prophet's location.

Suddenly Masi froze. The electronic map was revealing him that Ahmad and Kazim had split, proceeding quickly in that tangle of alleys and inching closer to their prey.

"Let's split as well" the Italian agent whispered, "I'll follow Prophet, you take care of the nearest target, Sierra Two... let's go!"

Benaski raised his thumb and ran away, preparing to intercept his target.

Masi cursed the army of mosquitoes that was attacking him, then plunged into the darkness of an alley, dodging bicycles leaning against a wall. A few moments later he saw before him a series of lights and group of people who seemed to be lingering next to a locale, forcing him to flatten against a door and crawl away, with his back against the wall.

Two eyes made green by the night vision emerged from nowhere and a dog started to bark, casting a warm, greenish transparent breath in his direction. He could not stand dogs and forced himself to remain motionless, without even breathing.

"Okay, the beast is gone, finally. Shit!"

The damn map projected into his eye was suggesting him that Prophet was walking away, while Ahmad seemed to be almost on him.

"Batman! What are you waiting for to intercept your target and meet me?" the Italian agent whispered in the earpiece, unnerved by the chance of missing the appointment with the Iranian engineer once again, exactly as it had happened that morning.

"Not twice in one day," he said to himself , "that would be too much."

The American agent did not answer and Masi checked the position of his colleague on the map projected into his eye.

He was simply standing still. He did not move and did not answer. His dot was almost superimposed to Kazim's red one, leaving Ahmad free to go and catch Prophet.

"Sweet Home! Why isn't Batman moving?"

Robert had restarted at breakneck speed, deciding to stop caring about bystanders who would possibly see him.

"Corsair, I don't know yet, but the signal suddenly became weak, damn it!"

Helen changed Fat Boy's route slightly, to try and obtain a more favorable angle for the cameras.

Probably it was a damn cast iron grating, not perfectly inset between the stone slabs.

Masi's run was interrupted brutally by a metal rim that protruded from the road. The agent stood mid-air a long time without realizing what the hell was going on, before landing heavily, his hands trying to protect his face.

A moment later, Robert felt a sharp blow.

The strap of the night vision goggles had broken, letting them fly on the hard stone. The precious tool ended its flight a couple of yards ahead, against a solid cement pot.

"Fuck you! Now I'm blind in this shit hole, and without the map too! Perfect!"

Masi was still lying on the fucking pavement, wondering if at least the earpiece still worked.

"Sweet home, are you there?"

The agent realized he had almost pleaded.

No answer. The earpiece was gone too.

Robert picked up his glasses and started to run straight ahead, trying to get accustomed to the darkness that had suddenly plunged into his eyes.

"What was the last position of Prophet, before I fell...? I remember that the road narrowed greatly... here! Over there."

The agent ran at breakneck speed to a bottleneck, a lane punctuated by dim lights. There was not a living soul and the smell was unpleasant.

Instinctively he crouched to try to be less visible, when he heard a noise. It seemed that someone was mumbling something, but he could not pick up the source. With his hand he caressed the butt of the gun he carried behind his back.

Suddenly, from a microscopic terrace a few feet over his head, an elderly woman started to scream, "Damn drunkards! Damn drunkards! Tacchiisce," the old lady raged, inviting anyone around to leave.

Robert's heart was racing when he was finally able to sneak under the balcony and continue through Romanesque arches and capitals worn by time, pursued by those yells.

Then he saw the shoes.

They were clear, worn by someone who seemed to be on his knees, with his face toward the inside of a small porch.

Masi took only two steps, moving to the other side of the street. He flattened against the dark door of a house and tried to focus on what he could see on the other side, focusing on those shoes. It could be a drunkard, maybe the same one the old lady was insulting, or two lovers looking for extraordinary sensations.

A few moments sufficed to Robert to distinguish the scene more clearly.

The owner of those shoes was a man, blindfolded and kneeling. His hands were tied behind his back and he was moaning because most likely there was something in his mouth that prevented him from screaming. Standing behind him, another man was bending over him. He was holding his hair with one hand, while the other held the blade of a knife against his throat.

Robert calmly drew his Beretta, equipped with a silencer, holding it with both hands and pointing it to the ground. Then he squinted to look around at the small terraces scattered everywhere on those stone facades.

Useless to command anything from so far away.

The standing man seemed to be praying, while the kneeling one kept complaining, creating a background noise that, in fact, broke a silence that would have been a problem.

After grazing the wall onto which he was leaning, Masi prepared to cross the lane, emerging from the darkness. His target was right in front of him, his back turned.

The standing man seemed to finish praying and turned his head left and right, eventually capturing Masi's silhouette from the corner of an eye.

It was inevitable, and the Italian agent knew that.

"Stop! Don't move!" he intimated in Farsi, keeping the gun straight in front him.

The other seemed so surprised that he stood paralyzed, his knife touching the kneeling man's throat.

Robert ventured a step forward.

"Put the gun down and step back. Otherwise the engineer dies right now" the man replied calmly.

The two stared at each other for a few moments. Masi's eyes went to his opponent's left hand, finally detecting the absence of part of his little finger.

"He's the one calling himself Ahmad. Finally. This morning you screwed me, but it won't happen again."

Suddenly the kneeling man violently pushed the standing one, making him lose his balance.

Robert pounced on the knife to try and end the game without a shootout, thus allowing precious moments for Ahmad's escape. He needed no encouragement and disappeared, diving into a dark alley.

The Italian agent knelt before the man still tied up and lying on his side, freeing him from the blindfold and the tape on his mouth.

When his face finally emerged from the darkness, Masi was astonished.

It wasn't Prophet.

The man wore a shirt with the writing "Kalibb Persian Carpets Ltd" and his small dark eyes, inset in a large face surrounded by a thick beard, begged for mercy.

"Would you mind setting me free?" he sobbed.

Robert could only close his eyes.

***

Ahmad had heard it clearly. It was the typical noise of helicopter blades, possibly a rescue aircraft, who knew.

He pointed his eyes in the direction of that soft flapping, but saw nothing.

A helicopter without navigation lights could only mean one thing. They were stalking him.

He started to walk quickly, followed by Kazim.

He could not yet understand how Kazemian had managed to escape, but there was a worm gnawing at him, the heated discussion sustained a few minutes earlier with his Kurdish mate. He had revealed his intolerance of orders, that was for sure.

It had all started when he had commandeered his phone, because the incessant use Kazim made of it was probably the reason why they were always able to find them. And when he had informed him of his decision to execute the traitor on the spot, his colleague had rebelled and, who knows, maybe he had purposely left ajar the door of the room in which the prisoner was kept.

"There, there!" Kazim said, extending his arm toward a shadow that seemed to be running down the street.

Ahmad decided to give himself a few more chances to find the engineer.

"I'll go. You take the other side, we try to get him from two sides."

Hossein was coming to meet them from Piazza Mercantile, running along the walls of the Old City. The two of them would creep in the lanes from the north, trying to make a sort of search.

Kazim went straight to the alley indicated by his team leader, mainly worried for the chance of becoming in turn prey for the man in that ghost helicopter.

Then he saw someone darting a short distance from him and flattening against a shutter. He figured out his silhouette, immediately discarding the hypothesis that it was the engineer. He seemed to have something on his head and anyway his hands held...

"A weapon, yes, it's a gun," he mused.

Kazim turned around the corner and climbed onto a terrace, taking advantage of a big cable attached to the wall.

When the shadow came right under there, the Iranian agent understood. It was someone wearing night vision goggles, certainly he had been dropped by the aircraft he had heard just before. The shadow turned his head from side to side, not finding the prey he thought was right there, not thinking to look up. When he finally did, Kazim jumped on him. In the brief scuffle that ensued, both ended up under some stairs just below the terrace, remaining unconscious for a few minutes.

Meanwhile, Ahmad had reached Kazemian. It had not been a difficult pursuit because the engineer was running in slow motion, still stunned by the drugs.

Hossein arrived on the spot out of breath and bent his knees, panting and puffing.

Ahmad wasted no time and dragged Markar for a few yards up to a small porch, then reached out to Hossein, grabbing the gun he was handing him. A blow on the head with the butt of the weapon and the engineer slumped down. The two men hid him behind the door of what looked like an abandoned warehouse.

Suddenly a scream broke the silence. It sounded like a female voice raging against someone.

"Here we go," thought Ahmad.

The previous night he had dreamed the opponent that would appear shortly thereafter, and at that moment he felt ready as never before.

The Iranian agent had sent the six seconds video he had captured over the course of the morning to an office located in the depths of the Ministry of Information and Security of Tehran.

Ahmad was using a common Youtube account for these purposes, sharing the video only with the recipient. The answer had reached him late in the afternoon, accompanied by information about the only troublemaker that had been identified: Robert Masi.

After having trained and prepared for the staging, Ahmad pointed his knife at Hossein's throat, staying behind him and reciting a prayer in a low voice, while his attention was caught by a shadow that was stealthily approaching, grazing the wall behind him.

"It's not yet time to turn around."

Ahmad pushed Hossein's bandaged face in the darkness of the small porch, while he complained exactly as he had been told.

"Really a convincing act" the Iranian agent thought "but probably he's not acting," he concluded.

The shadow was now a few steps away from him, stopped behind him.

"Now."

Ahmad turned his head, remaining absolutely surprised for having nailed his prediction.

"It's him. Robert Masi."

The two opponents stared at each other, then it all happened in a few moments.

Hossein's violent push, the knife ending up on the ground and Ahmad's sudden escape, convinced that the Italian only wanted to save the kneeling man, that was the elusive engineer Kazemian.

"Another correct prediction."

The Iranian agent only had to wait for a few minutes, just the time to see that killjoy disappear, to recover his prey.

***

"Corsair, can you hear me?"

"Sweet Home?"

The Italian agent pushed the earpiece into his ear with a finger, happy to hear Carmen's voice. That damn thing had started to work again.

"Corsair, is anything working there? Can you see Prophet on the map?"

"Negative Sweet Home, the equipment is gone. And I missed Prophet, fuck it!"

"Okay, Corsair, go thirty meters ahead straight in front of you. Prophet is behind the door you'll see to the right."

"And our targets, Sierra One and Two?"

"Only Sierra One is approaching Prophet... run!"

Robert had finally understood the situation.

"Goddamn son of a bitch," he thought while tying with plastic handcuffs the victim he had just freed, securing him to a railing.

Then he started to run, while Gonzales kept him continuously updated about the situation. When he reached the door she had told him, without a moment's hesitation he stepped through the entrance, finding what was left of an old warehouse in a clear state of abandonment.

The feeble glow coming through a window let him spot Prophet immediately. The man was curled on the floor just at the end of the room and was wearing a dark jogging suit. Suddenly he started to cough convulsively, probably because of the thick layer of dust that chocked everything in there. Then he raised his head, noticing Masi.d

"Hasti Markar Kazemian? ...are you Markar Kazemian?" the agent asked, helping him to a sitting position.

"Bale... yes," the Iranian engineer whispered, looking around with wide eyes.

"Okay Corsair. I sent a car to pick you up," general Bowdler said. "Move now, you have no more time!"

"Corsair, get out of there right away," Helen cried, "Sierra One will be on you in a minute! Go! Go!"

"Positive Sweet home. Now I'll stick to Prophet like a leech and bring him out of here," Masi assured, putting one of Markar's arm around his shoulders to try and support him as they ran toward the exit.

Robert did not notice the bad smell that, inevitably, the engineer spread, and tried to ignore as much as possible the considerable weight that the stout man weighed on him. To get him out of the door he was literally forced to push him when he lingered a second too much.

There was a blinding flash, followed by a loud bang. The first sensation Masi felt was total blindness, stunning came after a split second.

"Fuck! A damned flashbang grenade! Fuck you, fuck you!"

The effect of the bomb thrown by Ahmad through a window would last about ten seconds, temporarily obliterating the Italian agent's senses and forcing him on his knees.

Kazemian walked away scared. He walked toward the black silhouette of the walls, considering them safer than those claustrophobic alleys. Dragging his shoes on the rough stone, he turned back one last time before fleeing.

"Markar... Markar!"

Robert was walking blindly, squinting his eyes blinded by the grenade and with one arm stretched forward, completely disoriented.

The Iranian engineer stopped, glancing at the man with whom he had exchanged only a few syllables, but who was risking his life for him.

"Bebakshid bebakshid! ...sorry, sorry!"

Kazemian immediately went back and grabbed Masi by the shirt, pulling him away, always chasing the shadows of the walls.

"A light pointing towards the sky," the agent murmured, "there's the car that will take us away from here..."

Thunder had instructed the driver to point the spotlights placed on the roof of the vehicle at the sky, this way making himself visible to the two escapee.

Prophet took Robert's arm and put it around his neck, suddenly finding the strength to go towards that light. They ran to the end of the alley, ignoring the blinds that opened to reveal sleepy faces and the screams bouncing off the walls.

Kazemian turned blindly, just staring at the white beam of light. Then down, another dive into a microscopic path as narrow as a slot, that seemed to suck them into the courtyard of a church, paved with dark porphyry. He tried to avoid the yellowish glow of that square, then stopped against a wall, panting and overwhelmed by fatigue.

Masi pulled him and tried to start again, leading again that run toward the spotlight.

"Let's go! Let's go!"

Then an austere stone bridge, one of the many that surrounded the walls of the Old City, came to meet them, suddenly standing out against the darkness.

The engineer needed to catch his breath, but the Italian agent prevented him, pointing at the beam of light that he could finally see over the bridge.

"Unja, an mashin! ...there, that car!"

The Iranian stretched and arm toward an SUV that seemed to be waiting, shrouded in the cloud produced by its running engine and made glowing by the glare of two spotlights that seemed to pierce the sky.

Robert turned in the opposite direction, trying to make out Ahmad and putting a hand behind his back, ready to pull out his Beretta.

A man in civilian clothes came out of the vehicle, running to meet the two escapee and inciting them to get in the car, while the driver was shutting down the phone that had established with certainty Prophet's position.

"Stay low, stay low!" the driver growled as he shifted a gear, violently pushing the gas pedal.

As the vehicle was starting, Masi saw them. That pair of black eyes was staring at him from the edge of the street, conscious of having let their prey escape.

Ahmad had just arrived, along with a small group of boys waiting for who knows what other prodigy. All his frustration was contained within his fists – clenched so tight that his knuckles had gone white – while a grimace altered his sharp features.

Robert kept staring at the man until everything sped up and the three men disappeared from the window, along with the houses and all beholders drawn out by the commotion.

There was still an helicopter to catch, then everything would be over.

***

Airport of Gioia del Colle – Bari (Italy).

Sunday, September 12th, 2010, 10:30 a.m.

"Maremma impestata! Who trashed you like that?"

Vittoria Spadacci brought her face close to the screen of her computer. The Skype connection did not return a perfectly defined image of her husband, but the scratches proudly showing on Robert's cheek seemed as large as Mayan inscriptions.

"No, Vicky, nothing happened, really. A small incident, that's all."

The agent could not quite remember the moment in which he had gotten those minor injuries during the previous night.

"Daddy, doesn't it hurt?"

Christian's face made his way on the screen, leaving only a small corner for his mother.

"Are you kidding! I don't even feel it!" Robert scoffed, trying to offer that damn webcam only the intact side of his face.

"Oh, Robby, don't pull my legs. What are those scratches?" she insisted.

"Phew, I told you. Nothing you should worry about. Anyway, I'm done here."

"Ah, so?"

"Come on, give me one more day. You know, I have to fill out a mountain of paperwork and such..."

"Well... I thought I'd close the agency next week, what do you say?"

She could not look away from those scratches, three vertical parallel marks, as if made by three fingernails, obviously female, Vittoria mused.

"Uh... wonderful! Really, I can't wait to get there!"

A veiled sense of unease was gaining on Robert and he could not understand why. Should he have justified those scratches beforehand, to stave off his wife's inevitable suspicions?

"Christian starts school tomorrow..."

Vittoria realized she did not have any more subjects to talk about, as she kept staring at those damn scratches.

"Yes, I remember..." Masi had a desperate need for something that didn't let the conversation end so sadly "listen... I miss you two. I miss you."

The man moved his hand closer to the screen until he touched it.

Vittoria did the same, forcing herself to look into her husband's eyes.

"It's that I'm apprehensive. This situation, well... I don't like it at all."

She drew something on the screen with a finger, probably a small heart. Needless to insist about those strange – really strange – wounds in front of their son, she thought.

"Dad, so you'll be here, won't you?"

Christian had to tell his father a lot of things that, according to him, a woman would never understand.

"Chris, I can't tomorrow, but I promise that I'll be all yours from Tuesday."

"Tomorrow you call me?" the boy insisted, contending the room on the screen to his mother.

"Hey, of course! I love you."

Masi hung up, weighing the overwhelming shroud of suspicion he felt wrapped into. He had never become accustomed to the feeling of greedy possession that his wife sent him, even at a distance.

Benaski entered the small airport office, shaking Robert from his torpor and bringing him back to reality.

"I see that you haven't slept much..."

"I'd just like to know how I got these fucking scratches."

"Come on... you've been able to recover Prophet, everything else is not important," Hans chuckled, aware of the personal defeat he had suffered the night before.

"Hell with it... my wife doesn't think the same!"

"Well, does the fact that the Italian word for woman, 'donna', comes from the Latin contracted form domina, that is lady, or more properly... mistress?"

"Are you by any chance referring to your relationship with Helen?" grinned Masi.

"Bah! Forget that bitch. However I got it worse last night."

"At some point we lost you, in the true sense of the word."

"That bastard, Kazim... we stood in the basement several minutes."

"Yeah, but he awakened before you and managed to escape."

Benaski took a chair, sitting in front of his colleague.

"We can get them when we want, actually," the American agent smiled, "the drone you've seen in action tonight stored the biometric data of all targets. It is enough to run a search on a local scale."

"Therefore it also acquired our data, of course," Masi mused, puzzled, arching an eyebrow.

"They say it's for our safety," Benaski pointed out, without looking at his colleague directly.

"Anyway, your engineer is here. And I have an incalculable amount of days off to take," Robert said angrily. He certainly wasn't excited about the fact that his data had been stored in a bloody CIA server.

Someone knocked on the door, startling the two men. Helen's face peered through the crack.

"There's Thunder who wants to talk to you," she hissed to Benaski. "The video link is in the meeting room."

"Okay. See you later, Robby."

The agent left the room without so much as a glance to the girl.

"Good morning," Vidali whispered, looking into those beautiful emerald eyes. Her tone expressed the desire to stay at least a little while.

"Good morning!"

The Italian agent crossed his legs and ventured a hint of a smile, all that his bruised cheek allowed him. It seemed like an invitation to stay.

The girl ignored the chair, just leaning on the edge of the desk, right in front of the man.

"You brought a souvenir from last night excursion," she said, pointing at the glaring scratches on his face.

"Well, it's not the first time this happens to me."

"Anyway, it wasn't pleasant to stay here, powerless, while you fumbled in the dark."

"Do you know what struck me the most of the whole operation?"

"Aside from the fact that it was Prophet who saved your ass, instead of Hans?"

Helen caught her breath. Maybe she had pushed a bit too far.

Masi crossed his arms over his chest, still smiling.

"Hey, you aren't exactly Miss Congeniality. Now I'm starting to understand how does it feels like to work with you."

The former lieutenant blushed, still staring at the man's eyes.

"I'm sorry. I haven't yet learned that sincerity is never pleasant."

"Sometimes it's okay break free from conformity, the hard part is knowing when it is appropriate to do so..."

"Unfortunately restraining myself is not part of my nature," the girl said, running her fingers along the edge of the desk on which she was leaning. "Now will you tell me... what is the thing that struck you in this operation?"

Her fingers sneaked into her hair, turning around some lockets and twisting them into inconsistent ringlets.

"Um... the eyes of the man called Ahmad. In the two occasions he pointed them at me, I read determination in them. He won't let go."

Robert laced his fingers behind his head and stretched his legs out in search of a more comfortable position to examine that incomprehensible woman, who could meow next to him but had also been able to punch Hans in the stomach.

Helen nodded without smiling.

"Well, I mean... I shouldn't tell you, but Prophet is going to be packed and put on a plane to a safe destination."

The man opened his arms, doubtfully.

"What about his family? I understood that it was essential for him to find his wife and daughter, first of all."

"You know, you surprise me. Don't you understand that those sons of bitches at the Agency only care for the valuable information that Prophet can give them? Everything else is naught". The girl stared at the ceiling of the room, shaking her head.

"Either way, we're looking for them. If what Ahmad said about a serious accident that involved them is true, then we'll find them. I think that..."

The phone started ringing and Masi immediately brought it to his ear. It was Leonardi.

"Uh... maybe they found them, I'm sorry," the agent added, winking at the former lieutenant.

When he opened the door to leave the room, he found herself face to face with Carmen, who slipped into the space that the man left her and went to sit right next to Helen.

"Hola, querida," she greeted, smiling.

"You were listening to us!" Vidali answered with a semi-serious expression.

"Hey, what are you saying? I was about to knock on the door to report the news, that's all."

"Okay, I'm all ears."

"Prophet was taken by a team of agents, I think he's about to leave."

Carmen referred to the emergency response team sent by the CIA supervisor Adam North, which was to escort the engineer to his safe destination.

"So the job is done, at least for us. What will we do now?"

Helen pushed back her hair, trying not to reveal all the anguish that was twisting her guts. Another crappy task was approaching, or maybe not. For sure the insults and arrogance would be perpetuated, sealing her life with no other way out.

"That's not what I have worked hard for," the American thought.

"Thunder said that he's sending us back to the United States. He didn't say anything else."

Gonzales wanted to face Helen with the argument she cared for the most at that moment, that was trying to convince her to change employers, bringing along her precious device.

The paranoia with which the Spanish lived continuously had led her to think that every place could be monitored by the Agency pigs, and of course that room was no exception.

"Querida , how about a cigarette?" Carmen suggested, considering that the chances for the Agency to tap their conversations in the open was really minimal.

"Hey, great idea!"

Helen looked into her friend's eyes. She felt as if she were tailored on her. And to think that she had even doubted her, in the frantic hours of their escape a few days earlier, in Frankfurt.

"Bueno! Come on then!"

The Spanish feigned a cheerfulness she wasn't feeling. In the short time left for her, she absolutely had to persuade her friend.

"It's just because I consider her a friend that I want to prevent her from being crushed by these gringos. Somehow I will."

Carmen then went out into the sun of the late morning.

***

Civil Hospital of L'Aquila (Italy).

Sunday, September 12th, 0:15 p.m.

No one had come to pay Esther Mousavi a visit during that day. Her condition, still stable, had allowed a cautious optimism from the doctors, but anyway her prognosis was still reserved.

Many people still lingered in the hospital wards, even though the official timetable for visits was thoroughly ended. After all, an unwritten, but well-established rule gave Sundays a kind of duty-free time, in which people could come and go almost during all daylight hours.

Kimiya Kazemian had been allowed to stay a bit with her mother, after having spent the last few hours doing examinations and tests. The girl stared for the umpteenth time at all the instruments connected to that sleeping body, then pulled her eyes away from the glass divider, and sat in the corridor that led to the intensive care unit.

Then she kept watching at the people passing by. Her eyes did not linger on anyone in particular. Only when a nurse or a doctor entered the room reserved to her mother, her heartbeat increased and her small eyes widened.

A young woman approached Kimiya, greeting her, then sat down beside her, adjusting the scarf covering her hair, that she wore like a chador.

The little Iranian girl turned to the woman, hinting the first smile of the day and carrying on her complex processing with whole strands of her black hair.

"Salam Zahra Zahra... hello."

Kimiya spoke almost exclusively Farsi, with only a few words of English learned at school. That less than simple situation had been partially solved by putting her in the care of Zahra Saorush, a social worker of Middle Eastern origin, the only one able to communicate with her. Her office only provided psychological support, waiting for the intervention of a social worker planned for the following day.

"Are you praying for the healing of your mother," Zahra asked softly.

"Of course, and I pray for my father too, for him to join soon. I need to see him and talk to him."

The girl's chin trembled and little tears dripped on the red t-shirt that a nurse had given her, prompting Zahra to hug her.

A man came up to the glass partition, watching for a few moments Esther's helpless body, then turned to the two women, still hugging.

"Um, sorry. You must be Markar's daughter, aren't you?"

Two blacks, piercing eyes materialized in front of Kimiya, not giving her a chance to evade them.

"Who are you, sir?" Zahra interrupted, drawing those unsettling eyes on her for a split second.

"I am a colleague of your father and bring news from him."

The man addressed the girl directly, ignoring the young woman sitting next to her.

"What news?"

Zahra looked at that dark-skinned man with a sharp nose. The sparse unkempt beard that framed his emaciated face emphasized his untidy appearance, not at all compensated by a white shirt too large for his size.

"If you want to see your father again... well, we have no time to lose," the man exclaimed, gesticulating. "Follow me and I will take you to him," he added with a fake smile.

"But who are you? We're not moving from here," Zahra's tone became shrill as she nervously held the girl against herself.

The man raised his hands and stepped back.

"As you wish. I thought Kimiya wanted to see her father..."

"Where is he?" the Iranian murmured in a stentorian voice as, just like Zahra, she stared at the man's left hand, lacking half of the little finger.

Ahmad's eyes swooped again on Kimiya.

"Well, remember that you should have met him before the accident?"

The girl nodded, silent.

"You only need to get to the exit and let my colleague see you. He knows the hiding place of your father."

"Kimiya, what is this man saying?"

Zahra was disoriented and could not understand much of that conversation.

"How can I be sure that you will lead me to my father?"

The girl was surrendering. She could only pray for her mother but, after too many weeks, she might hug her father.

"Finally I can talk to him," she thought.

"It's simple. Decide if desire overcomes fear."

Ahmad's mind was dancing on burning coals. Every lost minute could mean a better chance for his opponents and he could not afford this. Not after his superintendent, still unaware of the recent events, had called him to urge the return of Kazemian to their homeland.

Kimiya jumped up, as if hypnotized by those black eyes.

"Okay, let's go."

Zahra was still thinking about what to do and she found herself still sitting while the girl was quickly walking away, trying to keep up with the man.

"Hey, only to the exit, okay? Kimiya!"

The echo of her voice rang in the corridor. The woman was forced to run to try and reach the couple, by then close to the large sliding door that lead to the north side parking lot.

Ahmad decided there was no time left. Along the corridor there was a number of doors, and he chose the one with the symbol of the toilets. He plunged in there suddenly, dragging the scared girl by an arm, inevitably attracting Zahra as well.

"What the...?"

The woman was unable to finish her sentence, or to call for help. Ahmad sank his hand in her face, pushing her head violently against the wall and making her collapse on the floor, unconscious.

Kimiya did not have the strength to cry. After all that she had gone through, shocked and deceived, she only managed to dissolve the images in her eyes, focusing on nothing more than the surrounding air.

"Let's go outside, quick," Ahmad shouted in a strangled voice after pulling Zahra inside a stall and peering in the hallway.

Everything seemed quiet and there were but a few people.

"Come!"

The Iranian agent clenched his hand on the girl's thin arm, and finally went to the exit, where Kazim was waiting on the van they had already used for her father.

When he was close to the glass door, he felt out of breath. From the slightly elevated position of the atrium, Ahmad saw two cars bearing police insignia and several cops who were climbing the few steps to the sliding door. They were there already.

Ahmad cursed the time he had lost that day. He stepped back without losing sight of the policemen.

When the door opened, the Iranian agent was already running in the opposite direction, dragging the girl along. One of the policemen shouted him something, amplified by the emptiness of that corridor. Then the voices mixed convulsively to the patter on the floor.

A multitude of lanes branched off to destinations unknown to the Iranian, who chose one at random, shoving anyone who didn't get out of the way fast enough. With a dead weight to drag, Ahmad estimated that his pursuers would reach him soon. But that girl was going to stay with him at any cost.

After the agent turned into another lane, finally a fluke. A cart for transporting dirty laundry materialized before his eyes right when Kimiya had started putting up some serious resistance.

Taking advantage of the inertia of the run, the man grabbed the cart by the handle and pushed it through the half-open door of the closest room. As soon as he was able to put a hand in front of the girl's mouth, he heard the footsteps of the cops. There seemed to be only two agents, apparently the others had split to cover a wider area.

When the echo of those boots trailed off, Ahmad started to breathe again. It took him just thirty seconds to bind and gag Kimiya, and put on some clothes found among the laundry in the cart. The Iranian left the closet without hesitation, finally finding a sign pointing at the exit, amidst clusters of curious eyes along the corridor.

The few members of the medical staff that crossed his path ignored him completely and another sliding door appeared, about twenty meters from there. Ahmad started walking faster, amazed by the fact that no one had been left to guard that exit. Maybe they were too few to guard them all. He pushed off that squeaky cart, stopping only for a moment to look at the large building under construction right in front of him.

Actually the whole area was a huge construction site due to the earthquake in April 2009, which had caused significant damage in the whole hospital area, which had been considered a model of safety, but had instead proved to be just a source of bribery.

Ahmad crossed the street and made his way through the orange plastic fence that marked the perimeter of the building. Hoping not to be seen, he pried open the door of the container used by the workers as a dressing room. Luckily on Sunday the activities of the site were significantly reduced and only the tall cranes seemed to placidly observe his maneuvers.

The Iranian changed clothes, wearing one of the uniforms he found in there, then his eyes fell on the set of keys hung on a bulletin board. To be sure, he took them all, dividing them into the several pockets of his jacket. Finally he put on a helmet and risked a glance outside.

It was starting to rain. It seemed that there was more dust than rain in the air, as the solitary cloud that had decided to let go right there stood immersed in the pale blue sky of that afternoon.

After repeatedly threatening Kimiya, Ahmad decided to leave.

On the road he had crossed a couple of minutes ago, two more police cars were passing, loaded with cops. Even seconds were precious now.

Things were not turning well for him, he absolutely had to find a vehicle and go away from there. The rain had reduced the already small number of workers in the site and several cars were moving along a dirt path leading to the main road.

Running along the inner fence, Ahmad approached a pickup, then chose the keys from his pocket and placed Kimiya behind the row of the front seats, in the place where usually various site equipment were left at random. He covered the girl and the whole assortment of waste he had found there with a tarpaulin and left, trying to tag along with the other leaving vehicles.

To his bitter surprise, Ahmad saw a couple of policemen standing exactly where the dirt track connected to the main road. One of them was summarily checking the passing vehicles, even though the rain was increasing in intensity.

By now he could not turn back. Soon that place would become an anthill full of soldiers and who knows, maybe even helicopters that would hunt him.

The Iranian drew his gun and tucked it under his thigh, close at hand.

Kimiya wouldn't stop fidgeting. She was still bound and gagged, and she probably even lacked air to breathe under there. With a grimace, the man just turn the radio on, still staring at the queue of cars in front of him, waiting to pass the checkpoint.

His pulse increased, but his face remained blank. Ahmad looked at the policeman that glanced hurriedly into the trunk of the car before him, settling his hat as best he can to try and shelter himself from the rain. His colleague was still motionless at a short distance, pointing his dripping machine gun at the queue of vehicles.

When his turn came, Ahmad heard it.

The sudden roar coming forward toward him forced him to look in the rearview mirror. Then he could also see it.

The water wall that befell on that area looked a lot like the thunderstorms he had lived the previous Friday. It forced the two poor cops to take refuge inside their car.

The noise caused by the water drops that hit the metal was deafening and at the same time had the power to isolate the occupants of all vehicles inside their cockpits.

Ahmad did not wait any further. He started slowly with his lights off, clearly feeling the sense of coldness that the drops of sweat were giving him.

Also a jeep behind him started, turning on the lights and thus making itself visible to the two policemen, who in turn moved forward with their flashing lights on.

Ahmad black eyes were glued to the rearview mirror, watching what was happening behind him.

The vehicle that had started after him seemed to have stopped, thus blocking the whole queue. The Iranian went on, gaining speed. Now all he could see was the bluish glow of the flashing lights going farther and farther away.

The apnea was over. With a snort, Ahmad leaned forward until he brushed the windshield, merely following the lights of the car ahead of him. The visibility was poor, the wipers could not get rid of all the water pouring down on the windshield, but circumstances changed quickly, once again.

As if a hand had closed a huge tap, Ahmad saw the rain disappear almost all of a sudden. The wall of water that had just invested him was running fast, or running out.

Kimiya was struggling with increasing insistence, managing to kick the walls of the vehicle and exacerbating Ahmad, who turned down a path that branched off in the surrounding woods. After a few dozen yards he braked.

The man pulled out that irritating girl of the truck, restraining himself from slapping her, even though at her age he had already been beaten by everyone, parents, relatives, classmates and the usual neighborhood bullies.

But she had not, Ahmad supposed. Beatings had no part in the education of Kimiya's family. She lived in one of the most exclusive suburbs of Tehran and exhibited her Jewish origin unafraid. In addition, Kazemian used to call her gol e fandoq, hazelnut flower. He had done that even over the last few days, repeating it like a frequent litany even while slumbering.

The Iranian took a cigarette and turned downwind to light it, losing sight of the girl for a few moments. She had been waiting just for that.

With her hands tied behind her back and some tape covering her mouth, Kimiya started to run at breakneck speed towards the nearby road, climbing back that short section of the path.

Ahmad heard those faint footsteps and swung around, freezing for a split second with his mouth wide open. Then he started to run, cursing his carelessness and throwing his cigarette away.

The silence of the woods was interrupted by the screeching of tires, then a vehicle entered the narrow passage, stopping almost immediately and remaining in the shadows of the trees still dripping with rain.

"They already found me. It's over," Ahmad thought.

The girl had managed to get rid of the tape and was now screaming for help in English, ending up in the arms of the stranger who had got out the vehicle.

After seizing Kimiya, the man stepped out of the shadows.

It was Kazim.

***

Airport of Gioia del Colle – Bari (Italy).

Sunday, September 12th, 2010, 2:45 p.m.

When the communication ended, Carmen Gonzales did not move the phone away from her ear immediately. She stood motionless, as if the last words she had heard hadn't still reached her brain.

Then she realized she was sweating. That could be the normal effect of the sun still high. Or not.

The middleman with whom she was negotiating Helen's transfer had just called her, saying he could not wait any longer. It seemed that the final customer had become impatient and was ready to shell out an extra to get the American girl immediately.

That sudden acceleration triggered a series of problems, mostly related to the Helen's alleged intention to turn coat.

Carmen had not yet spoken alone with her, despite having somewhat been able to successfully lead her outdoor on several occasions, probably the only way not to be overheard by the Agency. Even that very morning she had been able to go outside alone with her, but one of those damn agents on guard had come up to them under the excuse of lighting a cigarette and stayed nearby, making the Spanish suspect that they were monitoring the environment.

In addition, the fact that the device could be detected was a dangerous variable, still unknown to the middleman. Who could want a device that the CIA could find whenever it wanted to?

"Another problem to solve" Carmen pondered, even if an idea was taking shape in her mind.

Carmen was convinced that Helen could handle the detection of the device using the brain buttons technique. All of the training that the former lieutenant had received was aimed at controlling Fat Boy, but it seemed obvious that a huge range of functions was still available, waiting to be discovered.

"One more reason to talk to her as soon as possible," Carmen decided.

The only advantage offered by that scenario was the lack of supervision assigned to the American girl. The rapidity with which the Blues Brothers had traced her on several occasions was a clear indication of how easy it was for the Agency to find her without employing men and equipment.

The hissing sound of an airplane taking off awoke Carmen from her thoughts. She found natural to look up out of the window at the mighty Eurofighter bearing the Italian Air Force insignia hovering in the sky, soon joined by a second aircraft for a routine patrol.

The operation concerning Prophet could be deemed closed, and the Spanish realized that she hadn't addressed the issue about Helen with due determination. As if that wasn't enough, that damn middleman was pushing her in a corner, forcing her to have the American swallow the whole mouthful at once without preparation.

She had to talk to her. The most complicated part would be persuading her to go alone, because she had other projects, after collecting her five million dollars.

The roar of the two interceptors was far away when Carmen went back in, determined to exploit every available minute. It was unthinkable to delay that matter again.

***

Helen laid back on the grass with arms and legs outstretched, as if to receive all the energy that the sun could give her.

It didn't even seem to be just outside the airport area, with so much silence and a gentle breeze carrying a pleasant floral fragrance. All around the olive groves vied for the land with the vines, as sporadic rose bushes lined uncertain boundaries between crops.

The girl opened her eyes and looked at the sky. A cloud was hiding the sun, scattering its light in every direction and creating the visual effect of the rays, the ones that all children sooner or later draw.

Then she could not resist any longer and turned around, finding out that the man lying beside her was already watching her.

"You know, it's as if everything was crystallized around my mind," the girl revealed, almost by accident, "my recent life revolved around the device. There was no room for anything else."

Masi stared into her eyes, focusing on those specks of gold that made him crazy.

"Was it a free choice?" he asked finally.

"Yes, it was. I haven't regretted it even for a moment."

"Well, such a choice cannot leave the remainder of a life intact, can it? Christ, you cannot just punch in and go back home, and you sure knew that."

"I... well, when I was hired at the IntelReader, I thought it was an elite job. Certainly I wasn't expecting to be tossed from an illegal operation to another."

"Is your device permanent? I mean, one day could you decide to have it taken off?"

The man guessed that at least there, outdoors, nobody could listen to their conversation, so he might as well take advantage of that.

Helen snapped like a spring, raising her chest and sitting up on the grass.

"But I don't want to take it off!"

Robert would have wanted to get into that girl's head, to understand how much of that snappy reaction was the result of a forced choice. He stood up, holding out his hand.

"Come, I'll show you something."

"What?"

Helen seemed genuinely intrigued by that man. She couldn't stop looking at him.

They walked among prickly pears and rows of olive trees already laden with fruit, then he pointed at a stone building with a conical roof. There was no English translation for the name of that structure, and he mentioned the original term.

"They are called trulli and there are many in this region."

"Are they old?"

"Uh, not really, but they are built using the techniques of the past. Well, this one is abandoned actually!"

Robert reached out, picking a fig from a nearby tree and offering it to the girl.

"Wow! Is it really for me? And how do you eat it?"

Helen seemed entranced by the typically Latin grace of that man.

Masi opened the delicious fruit in two halves, revealing a red pulp looking vaguely sexual. Then he put his mouth to the fig and started to nibble it, finally closing his eyes to focus all of his attention on the sweet taste of that delicacy.

Helen did the same, enjoying that moment of pleasure and feeling her body become prey of excitement. A few moments later she realized she would not be able to restrain herself any longer. By then her nipples had become swollen and clearly visible through her blouse, while the movement of her tongue as it licked the lips to pick up the last traces of that nectar had proven to be an invitation.

Robert came closer without a word and started to kiss her neck, feeling a delicate aroma of sea on the silky surface of her skin.

Helen threw her head back, immediately losing her mind. She grabbed the man by his hips and tried to drag him into the stone building, inflamed by an uncontrollable frenzy.

The fluid movement that Masi did to second the girl's desire resembled a waltz. They found themselves almost thrown into the trullo, furnished only with an old table covered with dried leaves.

A deafening roar split the air right at that moment.

"It seems the take-off of a couple of airplanes," the Italian agent thought, still kissing the girl, while the blades of light coming in from a number of slits illuminated the clouds of dust raised by that terrible vibration.

Helen took the man's face in her hands and kissed him all over. Then, keeping her lips glued to his, her tongue frantically searching, she tried to get rid of her pants as soon as possible, eventually kicking them away with her legs.

After the implant of the device she had avoided every opportunity for sex, despite she certainly hadn't lacked them. But not that day. She longed for all the pleasure that man could give her, and after pulling him towards her she took the initiative, fumbling with the belt and buttons of his trousers.

"What the fuck am I doing? I must have gone crazy!"

The little common sense that was left in the Robert's mind was screaming at him to stop. There was still time to end it there, a few kisses would have meant nothing, but from then on he would get stuck in a sea of trouble, he knew.

Helen had crouched in front of him, finally managing to pull down his trouser with a powerful tug. The man looked down just in time to see his erect penis disappear into the girl's mouth, then put a hand behind her neck to give her the right pace, as he started to masturbate with his free hand.

Then he made her stand up, forcibly lifting her on the table.

Helen looked at Robert straight in the eyes as he penetrated her with slow and deep movements, kissing her lips and alternately caressing her nipples softly with his tongue.

The man's hands stood planted in her sweaty hips as she perfectly accompanied that alternation, arching her back and grabbing with her hands the edge of the table she was sitting on. With each thrust a moaning sigh escaped her and her head lolled, drunk of feelings that had been buried too long.

In an unexpected move the man stopped, deciding that if kept looking in her eyes his involvement would be total. And at least he could avoid that, he thought naively.

"Hey! Don't stop, asshole!" she cried, unable to understand.

"Shut up and turn around," he panted, pulling out his shiny penis and making her turn around to penetrate her from behind.

When Robert started to move behind Helen, she started to snort, moaning along with the table on which she was bent. Then the man's hands left those curvy hips, dominated by the nagging thought of involvement. The impulse to slap those perfect and fair buttocks in front of him suddenly exploded, making its way through the pleasure and the desire to punish that little perfect body, guilty of seducing him.

At first with unnecessary sweetness, then with more strength, he hit that pale, silky skin, making it redden and causing voluptuous spasms in the girl.

She did not remember it to be so intense.

She wanted to freeze those endless seconds and keep them prisoners as long as possible, but time is always right and inexorably takes everything away. Strings made of air held her down, stuck there, with her legs stiff and her mouth wide open.

A single, incredible thought occupied her mind, as Robert's spasms revealed her that he too had reached a silent orgasm.

The dark curse and the usual anguish would not abandon her, that was sure, but there was a chance to put them in a corner, because the emotion that had crossed that dusty air had revealed a glimmer of life. Something to remember.

Helen tried to cast those intruding thoughts away, then opened her eyes again, blinking several times and looking for the man's eyes.

He tried to find an excuse not to look back. He pulled up his pants and preferred to start a personal war against his belt buckle, rather than looking up.

A strange sense of loneliness came upon the girl, amplified by the absurd silence that had suddenly penetrated in there. She wanted to curl up and wait for him to leave.

"Hey, are you okay?" she asked, cocking her head and trying to draw his eyes.

"It's all fine. Really."

Masi finally granted her a smile, showing two rows of white teeth that adorned his meaty lips.

Helen stood defiantly waiting for something. Anything, as long as it wasn't that horrible silence.

He understood immediately and cursed his selfishness, looking for contact again, putting his stubbly cheek against hers.

"Well, I'm not going to say that heap of banalities that are normally said at this point..." he ventured.

"But we want to hear those things," Helen said, raising her arms to the sky.

He thought of the mitigating circumstances he did not have, of the remorse that would inexorably come, and of the courage he would need to look into Vittoria's and Christian's eyes. Perfect. He felt that the melodrama was running through the trails of his mind on a red carpet, without the slightest hindrance.

"You're right, I have not learned enough yet."

Masi hid his obvious embarrassment holding Helen still in his hug and trying not to show his face.

But the girl didn't let him.

She moved away with a gentle but firm movement of her arms and started to dress, displaying a theatrical rather than authentic pout.

"Or maybe... I'm not your wife, and therefore I don't deserve such attentions," she insinuated, without smiling.

"No, it's not that. I'd like to remember these moments for what they were, that's all."

Robert felt that the conversation was slipping from melodrama into tragedy.

"Okay, I understand your situation, really. But you try to understand mine," said Helen.

"Well, I'm listening," he urged, firmly standing with his legs apart and his hands in his pockets.

"What an asshole!"

The girl stared at him, imagining that on another planet probably males would behave differently. But there it was necessary to put every single detail under their noses, otherwise they would never see the damn beam in their eyes.

"I'll summarize it, so you can understand it more easily," Helen quipped, "after a few years of forced abstinence, I was expecting something better, that's all."

"Oh yeah? Well, it seemed to me you liked it" Robert said, uncertain about what to do.

He realized the repetition of the same arguments already discussed with his wife. Women remained fundamentally unsatisfied, because they were not content with the wonderful moments spent together, they tried at all cost to process and dramatically expand every circumstance, the man mused.

"Of course I liked it, but for women it's not just that what matters, okay? And then, you are for me the only male specimen in the last two years. I guess I'll have to get used to your behavior again."

Helen smiled, reflecting on the small range of emotions men possessed. There was nothing that could be done, they would never learn.

A sudden noise from outside and both felt their hearts in their throats. Probably someone had left the air base to look for them, since they couldn't be found in their quarters. Useless to try and run, especially now that they were already dressed and there was nothing more to hide.

Now it didn't even seem like a noise anymore, rather a thick and continuous patter.

A sheep appeared at the entrance of the trullo, startling Helen. After a moment of confusion, Masi burst out laughing. A whole flock was passing in front of them. The bleating of the animals could clearly be heard, along with the barking of a dog.

Robert went outside, walking ahead of the girl along the path they had travelled shortly before, enjoying the sunlight that filtered through the leaves of the surrounding trees.

Comfortably seated in his elevated position, Hans Benaski carefully placed his binoculars back in their case.

He had seen enough.

***

Although the images broadcast by a local station were very meaningful, it was the reporter dispatched on the site who captured the attention.

The entire team that had freed Prophet the previous evening had gathered around that TV. Masi was translating directly from Italian the words of the reporter, shown against the background of what appeared to be a hospital.

It seemed that a girl of Iranian origin had been kidnapped in the early afternoon, while she was hospitalized along with her mother after a car accident. At the moment, reason and details of the kidnapping remained unknown. A witness had been personally involved in the early stages of the crime, and had been wounded.

"Damn! Do you think they will catch that asshole?"

Benaski asked the question directly to Masi, ignoring the two women.

"You mean Ahmad? Well, they say that they're chasing him with dogs and everything else," the puzzled Italian agent said.

There seemed to be no doubt about the culprit of the kidnapping, unfortunately.

"Thunder connected," Helen announced, inviting Carmen with a gesture to replace the DNA-laptop called Journal so that everyone could enjoy the predictable outburst of the general.

"I only have two questions," the general began without greeting, "Hans, you have to explain me why we are systematically late. It happened once again with that little girl."

"Sir, actually we didn't yet know where Prophet's wife and daughter were hospitalized," the American stammered, trying to pass the ball to his Italian colleague.

"Masi! You instead will have to explain me why we are only able to get second-hand news," the general grunted, his face reddened.

Robert ran his hand through his hair, showing a veiled uneasiness.

"Sir, it's clear that Ahmad and his cronies were already informed about the hospital, perhaps because the man who was carrying the two women was Iranian as well, an accomplice in the matter."

"Masi, I already talked to your superior, you're staying with our team until this damn thing is over," Thunder leaned toward the camera, becoming increasingly bigger in the screen of the Journal, "no one, I repeat no one, should give this information to Prophet. I don't want him to know that his daughter was kidnapped, is that clear?"

For a moment general Bowdler seemed to come out from the monitor to growl his orders in the face of the team. There were a few moments of silence, filled only by the shrill voice of the reporter, who seemed to be getting lost in the maze of conjectures about the events of that day.

"One more thing," Thunder went on, "this story is getting worse every second, and now we'll have a lot of nosy people around. Let Italian investigators work and just take a look, for the time being."

Helen and Carmen looked into each other's eyes. Probably for them that would mean returning to the United States.

To confirm this, the general gave the first operational instructions to the two agents, effectively excluding the two components of the Boutique team. Thunder concluded by announcing a new connection after his lunch, pretending to ignore the fact that in Italy it was late night already.

Leaving the room, Masi threw a fleeting glance to Helen, sensing that soon their paths would split. The few hours spent with her had been enough to resize his concept of faithful love, and now he was waiting for the inevitable blow that sooner or later would bash his conscience, he was sure.

She smiled a little, under the disguised inquisitive stare of Carmen; then she thought about the last time she had flushed because of a man, and couldn't recall anything like that in recent years.

"Later I'll come to say goodbye. It seems that I have to leave early in the morning."

Masi's face peeked again from the door and disappeared without waiting for an answer, leaving Helen's heart pumping at full force.

"Hey, why do I have the feeling that I missed something?"

Carmen frowned, processing a number of complications that could interfere with her project.

"Well, don't tell me you don't think he's attractive..."

The American's eyes widened, emphasizing the obvious attraction she felt for that man.

"Bueno, don't forget that he's married, as well as attractive," the Spanish said without irony, preparing to close the Journal.

Helen just shrugged, reserving the right to decide whether the transgression she had indulged in shortly before had actually revealed the fragility of the absurd cage holding her captive.

Carmen decided to leave, going up the flight of stairs leading upstairs.

In the only room on that floor, Prophet was waiting to be boarded on the plane that would take him to the United States, at his safe destination.

Gonzales eyed the CIA agent sitting next to the door, making him look up quizzically and distracting him from the magazine he was reading.

"What do you want?" he asked rudely.

"Excusa, I just wanted to say goodbye to the engineer before he leaves."

Carmen clearly perceived the discomfort caused by the adrenaline entering her bloodstream.

"I'm sorry. I have orders not to let anyone in."

The magazine absorbed again the agent's attention, as the woman stepped forward.

The Spanish tidied her dark hair only as an excuse to pass her hand on her sweaty forehead.

"Amigo, I don't need to go inside. Let him out, just for a moment."

"You're part of the team that brought him here, I believe..."

"Seguro! I really want to give him a last farewell. It will be a matter of seconds."

"Um, I'll have him come at the door. Wait here."

The agent went inside the room and reappeared a few seconds later with the stout figure of Prophet in tow.

Markar Kazemian seemed in good health and in good spirits. They had announced him his imminent departure, which would be followed by that of his family. What more could he want?

His little brown eyes met Carmen's, as the officer was glued to him, faithful to his orders.

"So, engineer... good luck, okay?"

The Spanish nodded vigorously, spelling out that single sentence in the hope that he would understand. She only had a few seconds to execute her plan. She had to hurry.

That damn agent put his hand on the engineer's shoulder, inviting him to go back in.

"Okay, thank you... thank you."

Prophet hinted at a bow and held out his hand to Carmen.

"Madre de Dios! Finally!"

Carmen reached out in turn to take the man's hand, and he immediately stiffened.

The sensation that something very small had been put into his hands persuaded Prophet to intensely stare at the woman, processing a thousand questions that he knew he couldn't ask.

After spending the previous days on the brink of an abyss, managing to clutch with his last breath what was left of his life, the engineer was again crossed by something alike an electric shock.

Despite this, he resisted the temptation to look at the palm of his hand that had been in contact with the woman. He merely interpreted the clear signal that those eyes conveyed. He sank both hands into his pockets and walked to his room, without looking back, the agent following him like a shadow.

Carmen finally swallowed. She had been literally holding her breath, waiting to see if her last look had been meaningful enough. Not even to win her first boyfriend she had hoped so much in a look, but she seemed to have succeeded in her intent, silently convincing the man not to open his mouth.

Once back in his room, Prophet went to the toilet. Now he was aware of being constantly monitored, and the only place where he felt safe was that cramped room with no windows.

With trembling hands he took out from his pants pocket what that woman had passed him. It was a piece of paper folded several times on itself. He held his breath as he unfolded the note, that revealed him a few words hastily written in Farsi.

Your daughter was kidnapped.

He read that single line two, three, ten times. Then he closed his eyes as the note fell out of his hands, falling into the bowl of that horrible toilet.

***

Trailer parking – Northern Suburbs, L'Aquila (Italy).

Monday, September 13th, 2010, at 6:50 a.m.

"We're doing the right thing, trust me!"

Ahmad sat down in front of his colleague, staring at the damn phone that the other obstinately kept in his hands despite it being without battery.

"No, I don't think that the abduction of children would be approved by the superintendant," Kazim said harshly. It was the first time he allowed himself such a tone with his team leader, but this time he had crossed the line.

"Damn it... do you understand that the engineer is completely absorbed by his betrayal?"

Ahmad still needed the loyalty of his partner.

"Maybe you're right, but the fact remains that the kidnapping of this girl was an unworthy action."

Kazim looked down to the floor of the trailer, where Kimiya Kazemian lay sleeping.

After the hasty escape from the hospital, Ahmad had decided to take refuge in that endless parking lot, where a large number of trailers used after the previous year earthquake were gathered. Despite the fence, some tramps had taken a few of them as their shelters, and the syringes scattered around the lawn revealed the presence of some bunch of junkies.

"It is not necessary that the superintendent knows about this detail" Ahmad grinned as he lit another cigarette.

Kazim showed his concern by scratching his chin and finding there a stubble, unshaven for several days, that gave his face an unkempt appearance.

"What are you going to do now?"

"We will take back what belongs to us, of course!"

Ahmad's face too revealed a lot about sleepless nights and food eaten in a hurry. After having been a hunter, now he was getting used to his new condition of prey, just like when, as a boy, he escaped the traps and the beatings of older boys.

Kimiya was awake now, trying to figure out why she was tied to a handle. Then she squinted and stared at Ahmad, the man who had snatched her away from her mother.

"I have to go to the toilet," she complained, sitting down on the floor of the trailer, still examining the man.

Kazim waited for a nod from his team leader, then untied her wrists, standing guard in front of the open door of the tiny bathroom. Shortly after, he opened a plastic bag on a small table, fishing out of it some fruit juice and packaged snacks.

Kimiya's hazel eyes went back to stare at those of Ahmad, waiting for an answer, while with incredibly careful movements she was putting the straw in a pack of orange juice.

"Why is everyone looking for my father?"

"I just want to take him back to his homeland, believe me."

"Even if he doesn't want to come? Doesn't he have this freedom?"

Kimiya emphasized the naturalness of those questions by sucking the juice through the straw; simple gestures for questions just as simple.

"You see, the work he has chosen allows no alternatives for him. Now he will do what was established for him."

Ahmad realized he could not compete with that girl, because he would be defeated.

"You kidnapped me to make him come to you," Kimiya concluded bitterly, showing her perfect understanding of the situation. An increasingly noticeable tremor seized her, making her spill the juice on the floor.

"Enough!"

Ahmad wanted to end that conversation and stop giving explanations.

"Why do you all want to hurt him?" the girl sobbed, no longer able to hold back the tears.

"I said enough! Stop it!"

The Iranian agent was getting upset. He stood up in an effort to give more authority to his words.

"Take me back to my mother! I..."

The slap came brutal and unexpected, leaving her dazed and powerless. The silent tears streaming down her pale cheeks seemed inexhaustible, widening two eye-catching stains on her red shirt.

"That wasn't necessary!"

Kazim took the girl by an arm, leading her to a couch in the back of the trailer. Kimiya curled up on it, turning her back to the two men and wiping her tears with the back of her hand.

She missed her mother so much. And Darya, the classmate to whom she had confided the first attentions from boys.

And Thursday market, with all those colorful stalls full of trinkets, and the walks in Niavaran Park, with its long stairway and the thousand jets of water of the fountains. Her father had tore her away from everything, not imagining the consequences in the lives of his entire family.

Kimiya focused on the only thought that could somehow make her feel better. All this would end, and the promises her father had made would become true. Living near the sea, a university campus, using Internet without any hindrance, the freedom to express her thoughts. Was all this worth the sacrifices made so far?

Ahmad approached Kazim, staring at the switched-off phone he had in his hands.

"Give it to me, please," he spelled with his hand outstretched.

"Why?"

The boy of Turkish origin instinctively closed his fingers, subtracting the phone from the sight of the team leader.

"Now we're going to need it."

"Why mine?"

"Please, give it to me."

Ahmad's voce betrayed some anxiety as he kept reaching out for the phone. Kazim thought he had no choice and handed it to him.

In the mind of the Iranian, a plan to get Markar Kazemian back was taking shape. If he had failed, he would have been forced to confess to the superintendent that the engineer was lost, thus making all the years of sacrifices endured in silent resignation useless.

No. The most important task of his life could not end that way, he concluded.

Before that evening the engineer would come back to him.

***

Airspace of Abruzzo Region (Italy).

Monday, September 13th, 2010, at 7:15 a.m.

Even the file that Helen Vidali received through her device showed how upset general Bowdler was.

It seemed that Prophet was no longer willing to leave unless he saw his wife and his daughter first. A lightning out of the blue, because the departure of the engineer had been agreed in detail and he had said he was ready to wait for the arrival of his family at the safe destination in the United States.

Someone had told him about the kidnapping, or something had snapped in his mind, either way the situation angered the general. None of the pieces was in the right place, and he wanted to overthrow the damn puzzle and start all over again.

The Learjet executive on which the full Boutique team and Kazemian were travelling lowered, allowing layers of light-lined clouds to flow away, as if to clear the sky for sunrise.

Thunder had been forced to fight with Adam North, the CIA supervisor for Southern Europe, who wanted to compel Prophet to leave even against his will, entrusting afterward his emergency response team, called the Red Team, the task to find the girl.

Fortunately, the Assistant Director of the Research Division, Scott Jenkins, had intervened in favor of general Bowdler, unexpectedly granting him another twenty-four hours to find the Iranian engineer's daughter. Thunder had been caught by surprise, and had allowed Prophet to go to the hospital of l'Aquila, at least to see his wife.

"Markar, you can imagine what your presence at the hospital would mean for the media, can't you?"

Masi was sitting next to Prophet, while the two seats behind them were occupied only by Hans Benaski. Sitting in the bottom seats of the eight available on that aircraft, Carmen and Helen where talking in a low voice, trying not to exceed the background buzz.

"Will there be televisions too?" asked the engineer, turning to the other man.

"Sure, but it doesn't concern us. We'll get in from another way and stay virtually invisible, do you remember the agreement?"

Masi frowned, waiting for a confirmation that wasn't coming.

Prophet stood silent a few seconds, just long enough to gather his thoughts.

"I would like to make an appeal to the kidnappers of my daughter. In front of the cameras."

The engineer kept staring at Robert, noticeably raising his head, a small gesture that expressed his desire not to give up.

Masi said nothing. He preferred to go through all the vicissitudes that man had faced, trying to find something worth saying.

"Well, Markar. What were you thinking to say in front of the cameras?"

Robert should have suspended the trip to the hospital immediately, because his orders imposed a secrecy that the engineer clearly had no intention of keeping.

"I'll offer myself as a hostage in place of Kimiya," the Iranian said firmly.

"It will not be necessary for you to expose yourself this way. Those who kidnapped your daughter are not interested in a ransom, they want to trade her for you."

"I know that already. But I would like the kidnappers to know I'm available. It's Ahmad, isn't he?"

Masi tried to ignore the simple conclusion the engineer had reached.

"Markar, those who took Kimiya will assume that you feel compelled to do it."

"My God! I can't just sit here and wait!"

The small eyes of the Iranian widened in a desperate expression, while his body struggled to contain the bomb that had exploded inside him.

For the first time Robert saw Prophet snap, attracting the attention of Hans, who leaned forward asking if everything was right. The idea that those two spoke a language he could not understand caused in him a condition of ill-concealed annoyance.

"We're looking for them, but you have to cooperate," Masi assured, displaying a confidence he didn't feel and reassuring his American colleague with a nod.

"You want to protect me, huh? Is that what you want to do? Why haven't you been able to protect my family as you promised?"

Prophet's face flushed in an instant, but the tone of his voice was still incredibly low, with no hysterical peaks.

Finally the plane landed on the concrete of a private runway occasionally used by the Italian secret services, a few miles from L'Aquila.

In a few minutes, Prophet and the two agents moved to the Agusta helicopter that was waiting for them, which flew straight to the hospital, raising a cloud of dust and dry leaves that partly invested Fat Boy, transported there overnight.

The two girls entered instead the small support building of the runway, accompanied by a couple of men from the Red Team, already in place for some time. The other three members of that unit had gone to the hospital ahead of Prophet, composing the escort for his visit to his wife.

Helen immediately took control of Fat Boy, while Carmen quickly listed the checklist and acquired the file with the instructions for the mission. After a quick test with the earpieces that Masi and Benaskli had worn in the meantime, the drone took off. From that moment the Boutique team had twenty hours left to put Prophet and his daughter on a plane. If they failed, the Iranian engineer would be forcedly boarded on a military aircraft and moved to the U.S., while the team of hounds sent by Adam North would take care of Kimiya's kidnapping their way.

"Mierda, it seems that we have a problem," Carmen said angrily "Fat Boy detected the phone we already intercepted last Saturday, the one used by our friends Sierra One and Sierra Two."

"Sweet Home, where is it?" Masi asked amazed, pressing the earpiece against his ear and stopping abruptly, holding back Prophet and the two men of the Red Team behind him.

"Corsair, the phone is less than thirty meters from you, inside the ICU."

"Sweet Home, are you saying that one of the villains could be in there? There are men on guard at the door, how could anyone get inside that room?" Masi whispered, referring to the cops guarding the entrance.

All around, medical and service personnel were starting to crowd the ward, running in the halls and continuously coming through the doors.

"Corsair, no known biometric profile is visible," Carmen announced, referring to the technology based on ultra-wideband radio waves used by Fat Boy to "see" through walls.

"Okay Corsair. Withdraw to the helicopter. Now!" Thunder broke in, still wide awake even though it was well after midnight on the west coast of the United States.

"Roger Sweet Home. We withdraw" Masi confirmed, turning toward the engineer to inform him about the change of plans. The helicopter that had brought them there had been waiting outside, so they would get to it in a matter of seconds.

Prophet, sunglasses on and a baseball cap pulled down on his head, understood the situation on the fly. Going back to the helicopter meant that he would not see his wife, and he could not tolerate that.

The Iranian engineer took a deep breath and plunged through the corridor. In the next two seconds, the man spotted the only door guarded by soldiers, realizing that Esther had to be behind it.

"Markar, stop!"

Masi cursed his good faith. Prophet had told him clearly that he was going to try something, why hadn't he done anything to prevent it? Then he looked up at the sky and started to run, followed by the two bodyguards.

"Stop! Stop him!" the Italian agent shouted to the two policemen, as communications in his earpiece overlapped.

One of the soldiers drew his gun, pointing it at the man who did not seem to slow down, causing hysteric reactions and hasty runs.

"No! Don't shoot," Masi shouted, jumping on the engineer and pushing him on the floor. Then he raised his head, shifting his gaze from a young nurse flattened against a wall to a couple of men in white coats lying on the ground.

The cries that had been sounding in that hallway fell suddenly silent, making room for the buzz of those who had not yet understood what had happened.

"Okay Sweet Home. Prophet is back in the fold. Give me the situation of the map."

Masi wanted to know right away if Fat Boy had detected an opponent.

"Negative Corsair. No contact. Only the detection of the phone" Carmen announced.

"Corsair, come back! Return to the helicopter," Thunder barked, terrorized by the idea of losing Prophet.

"Positive, Sweet Home. Give me a minute."

Masi pulled out his plastic handcuffs and tied himself to the engineer, entering the room of the ward in which Esther seemed to be resting.

"Markar, don't do that ever again," the agent hissed, then invited him to stay with his wife, even though from behind a glass.

A doctor and a nurse came in, alongside the two men. Masi quickly explained what had happened, then translated to Prophet what he was told about the condition of the woman. There was an actual improvement of the clinical situation and the prognosis was still reserved only as a precaution, the doctor explained.

Then Robert saw it. Resting on the bottom floor of a cart, there was a phone.

Carmen was now telling him that his position on the map was now overlapping that of the phone, and he just confirmed the finding.

So that was the detected phone. The thing that had allowed to find the Iranian agents in the previous days had reappeared after seemingly disappearing.

"But why right here," Masi wondered "and how the hell did it get there?"

"Detecting target! It appeared suddenly, as if emerging from the bowels of the earth," Helen said suddenly. She steered Fat Boy to that direction, while the target had already been designated Sierra One.

Driving a powerful motorcycle, a man had left the underground parking of the hospital and was taking the back road that lead out of town. The cameras of the drone had recognized his biometric profile even though he was wearing a helmet and were now broadcasting his image to the Journal, as well as to the monitors of general Bowdler and Assistant Director Jenkins, in their rooms.

It was Ahmad. At that moment he was passing a queue of cars, moving away at full speed from the outskirts of L'Aquila.

Thunder immediately ordered to pursuit Sierra One.

Masi got in the vehicle driven by a member of the Red Team, while Fat Boy determined the autonomy of the bike based on the remaining fuel. The scan had also verified that the fugitive was carrying a gun, in the waistband of his trousers.

Robert heard in the earpiece Thunder'd denial to involve others in that pursuit, while he was fumbling with the sophisticated glasses that projected the electronic map on his pupil, overlapping his normal vision of the surroundings. That damn Ahmad, represented by a simple red dot, did not want to get close, despite the man driving the SUV went so fast that he forced him to grip the inside handle of the vehicle for balance.

Suddenly a tractor, coming from the opposite direction, materialized behind a curve, progressing almost in the middle of the road.

The Red Team member cursed, flashing frantically and causing repeated honks by punching the poor driving wheel.

Not even the blue light on the roof of the vehicle made the man driving the tractor desist, forcing the SUV to go with two wheels on the slippery grass. The heavy vehicle started to sway, pulling down all of the plastic poles along the edge of the roadway, then flew on the top of a ditch, landing heavily on its four wheels and missing the damn tractor by a few inches.

Without ever taking his foot away from the pedal, the driver of the SUV kept racing on that ribbon of asphalt that wound between woods of beech and oak trees, leaving the town behind.

"Sierra One left the bike, now he's running. I repeat, he's afoot!" Carmen exclaimed, amazed.

Excited moments ensued when all eyes went to the monitors to follow the movements of the target.

"He's running toward the highway," Helen added as the cameras of Fat Boy sent her the image of Ahmad running down a rocky slope, keeping the helmet on his head and raising puffs of dust.

"Positive. It seems that Sierra One is heading towards one of the highway tunnels."

A doubt immediately crept into Gonzales' mind.

"We'll lose him if he gets in there!"

Helen confirmed that suspicion.

Ahmad was about to enter one of the two parallel tunnels dug inside the Gran Sasso mountain, and that would make it impossible to keep detecting him. That huge mass of rock was impenetrable even for the sophisticated equipment of Fat Boy.

The SUV had come near the place where Sierra One had abandoned his bike and Masi jumped out of the vehicle without waiting for it to stop completely, running towards the red dot highlighted on the electronic map.

Thunder urged the Italian, knowing that in a few moments there would be no detection left to follow.

"Corsair, go directly to the gallery! Go! Go!"

In fact, as Ahmad went deeper into the tunnel, the signal became increasingly weaker, until it disappeared altogether.

From the top of the last hill, Masi saw the entrance of the tunnel, so he descended the steep slope made of pebbles, just as Ahmad had done a minute before.

The only chance left to see Sierra One again were the CCTV cameras of the tunnel operations center, and Carmen was already working on that. Assistant Director Leonardi had promised a streaming broadcast of the first section of the tunnel, while Robert was literally flying towards the entrance.

The images appeared on the Journal. They had a few seconds delay rather than being in real time. Carmen tried in vain to improve them, trying to penetrate the many shadowy areas, but she did not achieve the desired result.

Fat Boy kept circling the area, overseeing both exits of that endless pair of tunnels. Wherever Sierra One would come out, it would detect him, planting a bloody red dot on the electronic map.

Masi meanwhile went further into the gallery, leaning against the wall, a hand caressing the butt of his gun. The never ending noise of the traffic flow and the yellow safety lights, that seemed to go on forever, made that tunnel running through the belly of the mountain alive and hypnotic.

"No trace of Sierra One."

Smog entered into Robert's nostrils and soiled his hands. He forced himself to ignore it. Then he removed his night vision goggles, totally useless in that gallery. Damn, he wished they had a function to make Ahmad disappear from the face of the Earth. Instead he was there, chasing shadows.

A flashing light caught his attention, making him sigh in relief. Finally the SUV driven by the Red Team member had reached him, and now they could continue the search along the tunnel.

A really nice way to spend the day.

"Fuck him."

***

Ahmad thought that all in all it had not been so difficult to get back into that hospital, just a day after kidnapping that unbearable girl.

He had exploited again the construction site, the scene of his rushed escape the day before, to reappear at the entrance of the ICU, where a contact named Reza, working at a cleaning company, had been waiting for him.

When the superintendent had told him that name, Ahmad had immediately realized the coolness of his direct superior.

No request for details, not even a joke or the usual pearl of wisdom, straight from his precious notebook. Just a cold question about the timing of Kazemian's repatriation, never mentioned directly but referred to as pesar, boy.

Probably the news of the abduction of Kimiya had reached the offices of the Ministry of Intelligence and Security, Ahmad mused, but achieving the end result was too important for everyone, even if in this case it meant burning a sleeping cell.

Reza had come out of the ward door, pushing a bulky cart down a side slide. At an agreed signal, Ahmad had passed by him, dropping a phone in the big basket.

The Iranian agent had got it from Kazim, leaving it partially disassembled in the last few days to prevent tapping. Now that phone was traveling, switched on and fully functional, inside the cart, waiting for Reza to place it as close as possible to the bed where Esther Moussavi lay.

The two hadn't exchanged a single word. Only the sweat beading Reza's forehead had showed a tension that he, who had been waiting for a mission for years, was not used to bear.

After a last glance, Ahmad turned on his heel, moving away toward the construction site, teeming with workers whose voices mingled with the continuous screeching of crane cables and the constant turning of cement mixers.

After a few steps, the Iranian froze with his heart in his throat.

Two police cars had suddenly appeared before his eyes, exactly halfway between him and the site.

The several policemen who were scattered in all directions led Ahmad to retrace his steps and somehow attract Reza's attention.

The Iranian agent quickly went down the stairs leading to the underground parking, almost immediately finding the motorcycle that Reza had mentioned to him.

Moving quickly and avoiding frenzy, he wore the helmet. Then, with his head bursting, he tried to insert the ignition key into its slot, pausing only for a moment to check if his hands were trembling.

Of course they were.

That trembling was almost preventing him from putting that damned key in, but in the end he succeeded. A powerful roar bounced between those sturdy concrete walls and Ahmad started towards the exit of the hospital. Apparently there was only one policeman guarding the main entrance, and not even a too vigilant one, considering the incessant flow of people going through the pedestrians gate.

At that time the Iranian was the only one not walking out, and he cursed his lack of attention about that. He should have waited a more favorable moment, but by then the cop was already lazily looking at him, undecided whether to approach him or remain under that pleasant shade.

Ahmad heard his heartbeat spike up as he lifted his visor and honked slightly, finally attracting the attention of the cop. He looked at him as he nodded and slipped off the exit, passing slowly and trusting in the cleaning company uniform that Reza had given him. Fortunately for him, the policeman returned his nod, going back to contemplating the ass of a beautiful girl who was going in.

After passing a queue of cars, Ahmad purposely turned down a back road that led toward the Gran Sasso tunnel, thus avoiding the busy highway, with its cameras and incessant police patrols.

Near the entrance of the tunnel, the road started climbing up the mountain, so the agent left the motorcycle in front of a house that looked abandoned and started to run downhill, kicking rocks and raising a trail of dust amidst the lavender and thyme bushes.

On the top of the last hill Ahmad took a deep breath, realizing only then that he still had the helmet on his head. With messy movements he took it off, throwing himself down the last steep slope and ignoring the persistent buzzing of flies that were surrounding him. Then he entered the first highway tunnel, the one leaving L'Aquila.

The Iranian knew that the tunnel was heavily guarded because of the length of the parallel tunnels, but also because from there you could access the huge underground laboratories for nuclear physics stored in the belly of that mountain range.

The last thing Ahmad saw before entering the tunnel was the sun, now high and arrogant in the sky, while the half-light, mistress of those bowels, prepared to obscure his eyes.

Every surface was veiled by the black smog, which remained glued to his fingers when he opened the back door that led to a small transversal gallery, one of many that linked that pair of tunnels.

Ahmad leaned against an inside wall, snorting loudly. Sweat dripped everywhere, along his back and down his nose, while his dry throat prevented him even from swallowing.

Although mitigated by the smoke-proof doors, the noise of the traffic from both tunnels echoed in his ears, pushing the Iranian to bend on the floor and open the heavy metal manhole in the middle of the narrow passage.

The man went down a ladder, then he had to stoop to proceed in that funnel, designed for the disposal of water and branching off in several directions.

The small flashlight in his hand illuminated a series of secondary passages and Ahmad and counted them as he passed by, finally getting to the basement where Kimiya was held captive.

That shelter was under an abandoned warehouse, one of the many used while drilling the tunnel, then left to their dusty fate. This one, in particular, was part of a group of four low buildings made of brick and metal sheets, but it was the only one with a basement dug to a depth of ten feet below ground level. Probably all that work was aimed at a different purpose than the current one, made of cobwebs and rust.

Reza had done a great job, Ahmad mused, it was truly one of the best hiding places he had ever tried.

With a grin of satisfaction, the Iranian reached out to open the last door that separated him from the basement.

The squeal of the hinges woke up Kimiya, who had been sleeping on the bare floor. She raised her head slowly and her eyes met those of Ahmad, black and dull as cooled lava.

After closing the door behind him, the man finally took a cigarette, lighting it from the candle that lit the basement. Then he closed his eyes, greedily inhaling the smoke and savoring the aroma he had been missing for too many hours.

The squeal of the hinges echoed again in that lair of wet concrete, making the girl shudder and Ahmad listen carefully, stiffening instantly.

"Ah, Kazim arrived already, good."

The Iranian started to turn, then crossed Kimiya's eyes, getting wide, just before the scream saturated the air, bouncing everywhere.

The man spun around, standing up and instinctively trying to reach for his gun. But it was too late.

At the door, Robert Masi seemed to be rooted in the ground. His legs slightly apart, he had his Beretta in front of him, held with both hands, pointed straight at Ahmad's chest.

The Iranian considered all the possibilities left to him to save his mission. Snatch the girl to shield behind her, that's what he was going to do. But first, it was essential to put off that damned candle.

"Robert Masi will not shoot blindly. Even last Saturday he preferred to take care of the fake engineer, rather than me. And I always prevented his moves."

Ahmad was surprised by the silence of the opponent in front of him and tried to breathe deeply, without haste.

The candle was on the floor, a few feet from his foot. He did not need to look at it, before hitting it. He suddenly kicked the candle, throwing it against the wall, then tried to jump on Kimiya.

The bullet Masi shot almost at the same instant hit his waist, making him fall heavily to the floor. The Iranian saw the girl move away from him, cuddling up in a corner with her eyes wide, without even saying a word.

The candle stub he had kicked was now stuck to the wall, still lit, and showed a portion of suffering Iranian agent's face, that contracted a moment before releasing a disturbing hiss.

His hand was compressing his chest – where a stain was expanding – while with the other he was trying to rise, to lean at least his head against the wall.

"Why this inglorious end? There will be nothing to remember me, only the kidnapping of a stupid girl."

Ahmad's breathing became labored, every breath made him let out a hoarse groan. When the man realized that his mouth was thick with blood, he put his hand behind his back in one surprisingly quick movement, pulling out his gun.

It seemed that Masi was just waiting for that, because after a split second two more bullets reached the Iranian, again in the chest. The last thing he had the perception of was that the feeble flame casting his ominous shadows in every direction.

Finally a black light darkened his eyes, closing for him the doors of this world.

A dull silence immediately took all that space. Only the gloomy background created by the traffic in the tunnels stood constant and uninterrupted, as if to demonstrate that there was still life.

Then there was a sudden noise, like the squeak of rusty hinges.

Ahmad awoke with a start, panting and raising his hand to his chest, exactly like in his nightmare. The horrible chilling sensation caused by his clothes soaked with sweat, clinging to his skin, made him tremble as he looked with frightened eyes at the man in front of him.

Kazim walked into the dimly lit basement, emerging from the cloak of shadow he had worn up to the moment before.

"All fine?" he asked, watching carefully at his team leader's distorted face first, then at Kimiya's sleepy one.

"No, not at all. Get ready to get out of here."

Ahmad vigorously rubbed his eyes, trying to separate reality from the anguish of that nightmare. The last time he had dreamed something in the middle of a restless sleep, it had punctually come true.

And it too had happened to concern Robert Masi.

***

Private airport near L'Aquila (Italy).

Monday, September 13th, 2010, 01:30 p.m.

The fifteen seconds of footage had been downloaded using a Youtube link, appeared as soon as the phone had been switched on.

It was the phone Masi had found in the ICU that morning. Apparently it had been left there on purpose, just to deliver the message contained in the short video.

A soundtrack, coming from a low quality equipment, covered the background noise, while the grainy picture of Kimiya Kazemian appeared a few seconds after the beginning of the movie.

The girl was dressed in jeans and a red T-shirt, the same clothes she had been wearing in the hospital at the time of the kidnapping. Her long black hair was loose on her shoulders. The poor quality of the picture did not allow to assess her physical conditions, only her reddened eyes revealed that she had been crying recently.

Until the end of the video Kimiya remained in the same position, sitting cross-legged on a carpeted floor in front of a polished wall, probably the inside of a trailer or a caravan. Her hands were tied between her legs and a piece of packing tape sealed her mouth.

The scene seemed to have been recorded using a cell phone, and when the shot had closed up to the suffering face of the girl, a voiceover had slowly spelled something in Farsi.

"Bueno, the voice belongs to our amigo Ahmad."

Carmen confirmed the first impression of the Boutique team members, while everyone held their breath waiting for Masi to translate.

The only building of that little airport had become to all intents and purposes yet another headquarter of that unfortunate operation. As usual, also general Bowdler and assistant director Scott Jenkins were connected, from their headquarters overseas, busy mediating positions and interests that not always coincided.

"Ahmad wants Kazemian in... the highway tunnel, the one leaving the city..." Masi translated, "then he says that... he must be afoot... a car will get him there, freeing his daughter at the same time."

Robert glanced nervously at the watch on his wrist.

"Christ! He said at three o' clock... we have less than an hour," he exclaimed angrily, myriad of horizontal lines forming on his forehead.

The only explicit threat was in the scary last few seconds of the video, when a hand holding a gun approached the girl's head, causing the inevitable weeping of the young hostage.

That last, chilling sequence, left everyone breathless.

Carmen raised her hands to her mouth, while Helen's shiny eyes expressed a whirlwind of emotions that seemed about to explode at any moment.

There was no time for the usual procedure, made of analysis and research of the server used.

Behind the scenes, a dispute was taking place between Jenkins and Thunder about the strategy to follow, while the Boutique team tensely waited in the small room.

Hans Benaski scratched his chin as he watched the video on the screen of the Journal for the umpteenth time

"Shit! I wonder why Ahmad wanted to risk so much to place the phone just in front of that woman."

"Well, perhaps he's telling us that he is always one step ahead of us" Masi suggested before clenching his jaws.

"That little girl is about Chris' age" the man mused, "and what she is going through will be impossible to erase. Yes, impossible," he concluded.

"I don't know what they will decide, but I like to think that we can do without the apes Adam North sent here, the fucking Red Team would move with the grace of a buffalo..." Benasky said confidently.

"You know, I thought so too. But it is right thanks to a special team that I'm here now, and maybe I will still be able to play with my son," Masi objected, remembering the most adrenaline-filled moments of his life, lived in Afghanistan a few weeks before.

"The fact remains that this morning Ahmad screwed us yet another time. He's fucking starting to take it as a habit" Benaski nodded, unintentionally meeting Gonzales' sharp gaze.

"The map of the area tells us that around the main tunnels there are several secondary tunnels branching off. Some are deep," the Spanish said, pointing at something looking like a cobweb on her screen.

"Carmen, is that the map I requested a little while ago?" Masi wanted to know, moving closer to the Journal.

"Exactamente. I immediately forwarded it to Thunder."

"Um... there's no lack of escape routes, I see. It may take many men, later. But those two will persist in wanting to do it all by themselves, I'm sure," the Italian agent mused aloud.

Just when everyone was looking at the screen, the red face of general Bowdler popped up. His flushed face showed the whole argument he had had with Jenkins, and everyone was anxious to know the outcome of that confrontation.

Carmen Gonzales was staring at that damn monitor, but her mind was completely absent.

After causing the delay of Prophet's departure, in fact prolonging the stay of the Boutique team at that site, now she absolutely had to take advantage of what would be her last chance to convince Helen to let down those damn hijos de puta and accept the offer that, incredibly, she hadn't still been able to make to her.

The main difficulty was the friendship that bound her to the former lieutenant, that the latter felt to an even greater extent. Carmen feared that even a single inappropriate word would destroy their relationship, making Helen withdraw in her shell and automatically putting whatever proposal in a bad light.

That obstacle had to be overcome, the Spanish thought, because time was rapidly eroding every chance.

***

A little more than twenty-four hours after the kidnapping of Kimiya Kazemian, the Italian police had not yet achieved any result.

A large number of men and vehicles had been deployed, and dogs were being used to search the countryside surrounding the crime scene. The police was also employing ultrasonic and ultra-wideband devices to probe the dozens of buildings, mostly abandoned, which dotted the area, while the incessant passage of helicopters increasingly widened the radius of the search.

A unit of the NOCS, a team of the Italian Police specialized in freeing hostages, had arrived on the spot, ready to be used in case of bloody developments. The officer in command had not been informed about the very important movie about the girl, because that delicate story only concerned a ghost operation of the CIA, and only in case of their failure all available information would be passed to the Italian investigators.

The newspapers had given wide coverage to the event, especially because of its mysterious implications. Swarms of reporters and journalists were virtually camped in the parking lot in front of the ICU, compelling the police to establish some sort of guard service, increasing surveillance at all entrances, in particular at the room were Esther Mousavi was.

By now it was only a few minutes to the 3:00 p.m. of September 13th.

Fat Boy hovered in the clear sky above the long Gran Sasso tunnel, monitoring with its cameras its two ends, more than eight miles apart.

In between, the massive belly of the mountain welcomed the continuous flow of vehicles, allowing the lights to illuminate the inside of the two galleries, actual wounds cut into the rock.

Helen let the automatic control of the drone take care of detecting possible targets, through the biometric profiles already acquired.

In the meantime she was fidgeting, overlapping the electronic map to the images that Fat Boy was transmitting. The appreciable result obtained allowed to see the positions of friends and possible foes directly into the movie, creating a realistic situation that took into account all the variables that an electronic map couldn't include.

Everything was ready to execute the plan on which Thunder and Jenkins had agreed, not without effort.

A special gun had shot in Prophet's arm a microcapsule, detectable by all personnel involved in the operation. Then, in a few frantic minutes, the engineer was brought to the entrance of the tunnel leaving L'Aquila, where Masi was waiting for him.

Benaski was already a few hundred yards inside the tunnel, leaving between him and his Italian colleague a few of the doors accessing the side galleries connecting the two tunnels.

The members of the Red Team were deployed in the two tunnels and a couple of them would stay on hold, each on a direction, in the emergency lane of the highway, a mile from the entrance of the relevant tunnels.

The police had not been informed of the incoming operation, to avoid the crowds and the fight over jurisdictions that would bring. The center of operations of the tunnel was already in pre-alarm, and all images captured by the cameras would be forwarded to the Boutique team, exactly like during the morning.

Markar Kazemian stopped in front of the tunnel entrance, then he looked up, contemplating the huge mass of rocks and trees above him.

Although the sun was still high, the engineer was shaking like a leaf in the wind. He had already tasted Ahmad's determination and he feared him, but he could not bear the idea of not having his goals and fandoq, his hazelnut flower, next to him.

"Just a little cold blood, nothing else," he told himself.

Finally, encouraged by Masi, Prophet walked further into the tunnel, brushing the wall and walking on the tiny cement strip along the lane, brushed by the vehicles coming in.

"Attention, we have a target," Helen announced.

The window that opened on the screen of the Journal revealed a white van, inside which a known biometric profile had been detected.

"Okay. It's Kazim. We designate him Sierra Two" Gonzales confirmed. "He's not alone in the vehicle. I repeat, he's not alone."

"Sweet Home, is there Princess with him?" Masi asked in the earpiece, using the agreed codename for Kimiya.

"Positive Corsair. Princess is sitting on the passenger side."

Carmen looked at Helen, seeing for a moment her lips curled due to concentration.

"Sweet Home, how far is Sierra Two?"

Robert was keeping a watchful eye on Prophet, walking down the tunnel as he had been told.

"Nine zero zero meters, Corsair," Gonzales spelled, "he just passed our unit."

Carmen was referring to the man of the Red Team waiting on the emergency lane, who immediately started in pursuit of Kazim.

Masi could not believe that everything was so simple, close at hand.

And he thought that until the pattern of that day changed, dramatically decreasing the chances of success of an operation that, from the outset, would have collected quite a few bets.

A member of the Red Team emerged suddenly outside the tunnel and stood in an elevated position above the entrance, holding a sniper rifle inexplicably ready for use.

The Italian agent guessed Jenkins' orders behind that maneuver they had not agreed, and his gaze shifted several times from the sniper to the endless queue of vehicles, looking for the damn white van.

Then the situation degenerated into chaos. Another member of the Red Team suddenly crossed one of the side galleries linking the two tunnels, swooping at a short distance from Benaski and starting to run along the thin strip of concrete. Taken by surprise, the American agent stood rooted to the spot waiting for orders, while the other man pointed to Prophet, a few hundred yards away.

Any strategy that had been set had been blown to pieces.

Thunder tried to bring order, knowing full well that the members of the Red Team would only follow Jenkins' orders, "Hell! Stay at set places! I repeat, stay in your places!"

"Sweet Home, what's happening?" Masi urged, taking a few steps inside the tunnel in an attempt not to lose sight of Prophet's silhouette.

"Corsair, do not move," the general yelled, cursing Jenkins, the bastard. The assistant director was blatantly ignoring the risky plan focused on capturing Ahmad luring him with Prophet, setting up the Red Team for the elimination of Kazim instead.

The sniper, standing with his rifle just above the tunnel entrance, pressed the earpiece against his ear in an attempt to isolate himself from the surrounding noise and understand clearly the instructions coming from Jenkins' office.

Kazim was now five hundred yards from the tunnel entrance, proceeding at a relatively low speed, followed by several vehicles, including the one driven by the member of the Red Team.

Then, everything happened in a few moments.

The muzzle of the van almost seemed to explode, releasing the hook holding the hood, that sprung up violently, banging on the windshield. The vehicle engine almost immediately issued a dense cloud of white smoke that turned into an oily wake, which bizarrely maintained the aerodynamic curls in its track, as if it were whipped cream.

The sniper shouted something in his earpiece, as Masi stared in disbelief at that white cloud that seemed to develop in the midst of the intense traffic, pulsing at the passage of each vehicle.

All passing vehicles moved almost immediately to the fast lane, avoiding the rattling van and its thick white trail, while Kazim tried to keep it under control, staying on the emergency lane.

There seemed to be no doubt about the cause of that event. Ahmad intention was clear, aimed to attract attention to a given spot, to have the opportunity to act undisturbed in another place.

"Markar, get out of the gallery, quick!"

Prophet heard the sentence the Italian agent shouted through the earpiece in his ear. His heart pumping like crazy, the engineer backtracked, clinging to the wall of the gallery and trying to protect himself with a hand from the dazzling cone of light coming from the entrance of the tunnel.

Outside, Kazim drove the van out of the lane, pulling down a multitude of plastic poles and scratching the side of the vehicle against a low concrete wall, causing a shower of sparks. He finally ended his run close to a seemingly abandoned building, probably an old warehouse that had been used while building the tunnel.

The sniper could not see anything because of the thick cloud of smoke that shrouded the vehicle as soon as it stopped.

For the same reason, his colleague from the Red Team still in pursuit of Kazim suddenly decided to stop on the emergency lane to resume the chase on foot, but was violently hit by a truck, remaining stuck in the passenger side of his car.

Masi breathed a sigh of relief when he saw a bulky figure against the background of the curved wall of the gallery. Then he stiffened when Gonzales informed him that Sierra Two and his young hostage were coming out of the van, but no one was following them.

Unfortunately, the orders issued by Thunder and Scott Jenkins seemed more aimed at achieving their individual goals than the common one, resulting in confusion and destroying the few certainties of a plan that had already been risky.

Kazemian finally passed by the last emergency door connecting the two tunnels.

In spite of the orders shouted in his earpiece, Masi ventured a few steps inside the tunnel, dissolving his shadow on its walls and meeting the quizzical looks of the many motorists darting at his side.

Suddenly the door Prophet had just passed opened. Ahmad's head emerged from the passage, grasping the situation in a split second.

A member of the Red Team and Benaski were coming on him from the depths of the tunnel, while on the other side, in front of the entrance, there was Masi. In between, there were him and Prophet.

Ahmad guessed from the multiplication of the shadows that he did not have much time. That sentence had to be executed. He exploded three shots in fast succession against the engineer, bringing him down on the spot, then he went back into the passage, closing the door behind him.

Masi rushed desperately to reach Prophet. After shouting at him to drop down to allow him to aim at Ahmad, he saw him lying on that dirty concrete strip, apparently lifeless.

Confused communications were crowding his earpiece, as the pictures of the last frantic moments, captured by the tunnel cameras, appeared on the screens.

The Italian agent swore as he watched the blood stain spreading under the body of the engineer.

"How many things we did we do wrong to get to this?"

I dreamed of Death pursuing me, and it's   
when I woke up that it reached me.

A.T.

### Chapter IV

The Gran Sasso tunnel – L'Aquila (Italy).

Monday, September 13th, 2010, 06:00 p.m.

A myriad of concentric circles came to meet Robert Masi. They seemed to be engraved inside the big pipe he was walking into, bent down on his knees and panting as he could not remember doing in a long time.

When he decided to cast the light of his flashlight on a portion of the pipeline further away, he realized that those circles were simply the effect created by the sections of the pipe, joined to form a sort of dark intestine to be crossed kneeling, without choice.

The smelly and damp air clung to his face. Masi even had a hard time breathing it and quickly got rid of it only to hold his breath a few moments before inevitably breathing in more.

On the curved and slimy bottom of the pipeline there were clear signs of the recent passage of someone. Every now and then the light shone on some half shoe print, alternating with what looked like handprints, stretched on the concrete surface as if it were the last foothold before slipping.

The echoes produced by his own movements reached his ears, amplifying a sense of unease that fed on the surrounding emptiness, awakening ancient childhood fears.

The Monster in the Dark, who forced him to sleep with his trusty wooden sword as a child, was approaching, pushing aside his rationality and making its way into his mind. Although he constantly swept the darkness with his light, he only perceived his irrationality, which made him pant more than fatigue.

A slightly smaller pipe appeared on his right side, but the traces revealed by the cone of light showed that someone had stayed on the main pipe, and so it was also for the following branches. Then, finally Masi had the feeling that he was going up.

The door that materialized before his eyes toned down the claustrophobic effect of that pipe, deleting from his mind the idea that, large enough to allow the passage of a man as it was, it could suddenly fill with water without notice.

The oppressive silence that had accompanied him until that moment gave way to a muffled noise, drowned only by the hiss of some air flow.

Robert fanned the torch in front of himself, naively trying to cast away every particle of darkness between him and the door. Then he wiped the hand clutching the gun on his trousers, considering if it was the case to test the resistance of the handle, second-thinking himself almost immediately and firmly grabbing it.

With a mighty tug he pulled the door open, causing a groan of rusty hinges, while a sort of luminous dust was sucked inside, creating a small milky whirlwind.

Robert slipped the gun into the crack he had just opened, holding it with both hands, and instantly became accustomed to the light shed by a candle burning on the floor.

The small basement which opened to his eyes seemed to sway, along with that feeble flame that seemed like wanting to escape from that place, stretching toward the open door.

Masi stood rooted on the ground for long moments. His gun ran in all directions, exploring every corner along with his eyes. Then he stared at a pair of wide eyes on which the uncertain light of the candle seemed to be engraved.

"Hasti Kimiya? Kimiya... is it you?"

Masi realized he had shouted. He reached out to remove the piece of tape from the girl's mouth, keeping his gun aimed at the door.

"Bale... yes," she murmured, extending her tied wrists.

"Koja st badan javanan? ...where are the bad guys?"

"Who are you?" Kimiya tried to stand up, but the hours spent tied were heavy as lead on her.

"I'll bring you out of here. Come!"

"Will you bring me to my father?"

Kimiya found a foothold on the damp wall behind her, managing to stand up and refusing the hand the agent was offering her.

"Yes! Come now!"

Robert was tempted to grab the girl's arm to drag her away from there. Probably all the past vicissitudes had created automatisms in her that prevented her from discerning friend from foes, he thought.

"How can I be sure you will take me to my father?"

Kimiya couldn't remember how many times she had made that horrible question. And she also wanted to take time, to understand whether the guy who had freed her was telling the truth or he was another accomplice of the four-fingers-kidnapper.

"Of course I'll take you to your father. Let's go now!"

The last thing Masi wanted was to be face to face with Ahmad right then, with that little girl in their midst. Driven by his training, the man grabbed Kimiya's arm, intentioned to bring her out even against her will.

"No! Let me go, let me go!"

The young girl broke free from the grip, darting to the darkest and farthest corner.

The orders Robert had received were clear and did not include the hesitation he was now showing.

"Okay, I'm screwing up."

He decided to take his earpiece off, it was useless anyway because the signal could not reach it, and sit next to that indecipherable girl.

Only then did the man felt the stench that tainted that small environment. A bucket placed nearby contained excrements and all walls seemed to be covered with some kind of filamentous mold. Nothing strange that, exactly like in the pipeline, he was trying to hold his breath as much as possible. Then he felt Kimiya's gaze on him and turned, staring at two eyes that were studying him, not afraid at all.

Robert hadn't been expecting the resistance the girl was putting up. He carefully chose his words, pronouncing them in a low and reassuring voice.

"Could you explain me why you don't want to come out of your prison?"

"Have you seen my mother?" the girl asked, not averting her eyes even for a moment.

"Of course. The doctors say she's getting better and..."

"Do you know why she's in the hospital, instead of being home?" Kimiya pressed on.

"Well, there was an accident, I think..." Masi said, puzzled.

"My father... he wanted to abandon his roots and throw us in this terrible adventure."

"What do you mean?"

"I went to school and had friends. My mother and I always went at the market and we even had a maid... all gone, just to chase dreams!"

The girl's eyes grew moist, altering the flame that was reflected in them, while her small hands twitched incessantly.

"I understand. I guess he caused all this just for you, and dreams could come true, don't you think?"

"My father is terrified because he heard of his disappeared colleagues, for this reason we were forced to flee with him... here!"

Kimiya opened her arms, dipping them in the shadows, then took on a complacent expression, almost theatrical, for having expressed in a single sentence what was bursting inside her.

"Well, we've wasted enough time."

Robert slowly raised from the concrete ledge he was sitting on, holding out his hand to the girl and expressly inviting her to stand up.

"You know, the four-fingers-kidnapper didn't talk to me often. He said that my conversations unnerved him."

Kimiya did not give the impression of wanting to stand up. She even tilted her head to one side as if to solicit an answer.

Masi was becoming impatient. Probably they were already looking for him, or they had already captured Ahmad. Or maybe both.

"Who was with him?"

"The other was always kind to me, but he too rarely talked to me."

"The other?"

"It's how I named the partner of the four-fingers-kidnapper."

"Did you hear their names?"

"Never. To talk to each other they used... I think it was a dialect, because there were some words of my language mixed to it."

"Well. What about going now? Don't you want to get out of this awful place?"

Masi crouched in front of the girl, almost pleading her, then he realized that never a more fitting codename had been assigned. The oriental-shaped eyes and thin lips of the girl, together with a nose that seemed to follow the straight line of the forehead, gave her perfect oval face the looks of a princess.

"I have a message for you. It's from the other".

Kimiya didn't try to stand up and let the faint candlelight play on her features, revealing their undeniable elegance.

The man stood up, aware of being manipulated at will. Why didn't that girl behave like a hostage, pleading her savior to take her out of that hole, weeping of gratitude?

"Why did you wait until now to tell me?"

"I had to find out if you were the right person."

"So... the message?" Robert urged impatiently, opening his arms.

"The other said that he and the four-fingers-kidnapper will never come again."

"Of course" Masi thought. After shooting Prophet, the mission was over. It wasn't necessary to bother about a girl they would never see again.

"And you really believe that?"

Masi could not decipher Kimiya's attitude, even in the light of the terrible weeks she had been through.

"It costs me nothing to, because now you are here to protect me, aren't you?"

Robert ignored the heavy irony the girl had put in the last sentence and merely gestured vaguely toward the exit.

"Now you'll come with me, won't you?"

"This morning the other led me down some stairs to get here," Kimiya explained. "We entered from some sort of large abandoned house. His van was smoking like a locomotive and even inside we couldn't breathe anymore," she added, crumpling her face into an meaningful grimace.

"Hard to outwit that snake of Ahmad" Masi thought "how did he know this place in such detail?"

"You said that you had to find out if I was the right person to give the message to..."

His eyes lingered on that little face soaked with dignity, then went back to look, along with his Beretta, at the darkness behind the door.

"Yes the other said that this message was only for you."

"And how did you find out that I was the right person?"

"I... felt it. Simple, isn't it?"

For the first time her little brow furrowed, as her eyes cast away a picture coming from her memory in which he saw a woman dealing with the four-fingers-kidnapper.

Masi switched the flashlight on without saying anything. He did not intend to add mysterious events to the complex ones that had taken away the sleep from him the last few nights.

Better to go up those stairs in silence and let the light illuminate the dust devils they raised at every step, while the subdued growl that announced the approaching surface became more and more intense, until it drowned the silence he had endured too long.

***

Civil Hospital of L'Aquila (Italy).

Tuesday, September 14th, 2010, 7:45 a.m.

When Esther Mousavi's eyes opened, they were immediately flooded by the white filling that room.

For a few moments they followed the geometrical patterns of the paneled ceiling. Then, when the hypnotic effect was exhausted, they moved to a transparent container hanging nearby, that seemed to convey a clear liquid to her arm through a thin tube.

"Madaram? ...Mom?"

Her heart sinking, Esther turned her head slowly, until she could put that familiar face into focus.

"Kimiya? Kimiya jan, cetori? ...Kimiya? Kimiya dear, how are you?"

The woman tried to reach out to touch her daughter, but the stabs of pain she felt everywhere prevented her from doing that simple movement.

"Kubam, to cetori? Kubi? ...I'm fine, and how are you? Well?"

The girl took her hand gently, then hurried to dry the tears that were quickly flowing down to the pillow with a handkerchief.

"I don't remember anything. How long have I been here?"

Esther's shiny eyes did not stop staring at every detail of Kimiya's face as she listened to the words her daughter was using to describe the events of the previous days. Only in her frequent pauses she heard the hum of the equipment connected to her body, with a beep pacing the rhythm of silence.

Suddenly the door of the room opened. A stocky man in a white coat imperiously placed his forefinger in front of the girl's nose.

"Just a minute, okay? Then you have to get out of here... you understand what I say?"

Without waiting for an answer, the doctor moved closer to the two main monitors, followed by a blonde nurse who smiled at the girl as she lifted the sheet to examine Esther's wounds.

Kimiya smiled at her mother under the stern gaze of the doctor and soon after left the room, escorted by two members of the Red Team along the crowded corridor, enlivened by a thousand words and as many curious eyes.

The girl walked sliding a finger along the wall. When she looked at the clock hanging on a wall she calculated that she still had one hour left before being brought somewhere – she hadn't understood where – to explain all the details of her imprisonment, including the valuable information regarding the four-fingers-kidnapper and the other.

What reassured her was the promise of the man who had freed her the day before. Robert Masi would come to pick her up and would also act as her interpreter.

As she climbed a flight of stairs, Kimiya thought about the dream haunting her. A spectral goddess that faced the four-fingers-kidnapper. She didn't remember much more.

More stairs. And rooms opening onto an almost empty corridor.

Hard not to attract attention, with two square-jawed thugs glued to her. At each door they passed by they attracted inquiring looks, while the same whisper went from mouth to mouth.

Kimiya's eyes ran along the numbers on each door. Room 177.

Two men in civilian clothes stood in front of it, provided with earpieces. The whole floor was full of policemen, discussing and shedding a constant buzz that stopped abruptly when the girl reached the door.

Kimiya crossed that unusual silence, watching all those people that seemed to have suddenly disconnected an imaginary plug, then grabbed the white plastic handle.

Before entering, the girl took one last look at herself. Finally she had been able to wash and a shade of lipstick, lent to her by a friendly nurse, showed off her thin lips. In the laundry they had found her another pair of jeans, and yet another red shirt. She grimaced in disappointment looking at her bare arms, missing her beloved trinkets.

"Babat? ...Dad?" she whispered, peeking from the crack she had just opened.

"Goals and fandoq! ...hazelnut flower" said the man leaning against the back of the only bed in the room, "please, come and hug your father, my child!"

He painfully tried to sit up, despite having an arm completely bandaged and the other connected to the inevitable IV tube.

Almost like an automaton, Kimiya approached him, with a few uncertain steps that left her hesitation transpire.

"How he has changed," she thought.

He seemed to have aged suddenly, with all those gray hairs and his small rimmed eyes. The absence of his usual beard and several pounds less made him unrecognizable, almost a distant relative of the father she remembered.

Finally Kimiya threw her arms around his neck as he covered her face with kisses and caressed her hair.

The girl clung to her father for a long time, then opened her eyes again, only then realizing that a man was looking at them, sitting in a corner of the room. The Red Team agent responsible for guarding the engineer felt observed in turn and decided to look away, feigning interest in something outside the window.

Kimiya touched the bandage wrapped around her father's arm with her forefinger, testing its solidity.

"It was the four-fingers-kidnapper to do this to you?"

"Ah... really a fitting nickname!"

"You cannot erase from memory the cold black eyes of Ahmad" Markar mused.

"Yes, it was him," he admitted, looking at those little fingers touching the white bandage.

The bullet that had hit his arm had drawn a lot of blood, while the other two shots had been stopped by the bulletproof jacket he had been made to wear. Despite the Iranian version of the Sig Sauer was not a monster of precision, Ahmad had been able to fire two shots, certainly deadly, right in his chest.

"They haven't found him yet," the girl said with certainty, staring at the furrows that had appeared on her father's brow and sitting next to him on the bed.

"They don't talk to me about that."

"I know. He will have to face his nightmares."

Kimiya looked at the Red Team agent in an attempt to understand if he had grasped anything from her words, but the man was impassive.

"You've dreamed about it, right?"

"I always remember the same scene, never reaching the end."

"Now it no longer concerns us, my child."

"I wish that too..."

Kimiya defiantly kept staring at the tired petals of a plant resting on the windowsill, wondering how long ago it had been watered last.

"No, you'll see. Now we'll have a new home and..."

"What home? The one of your dreams?" the girl pressed him, opening wide those hazel eyes her father loved so much.

"Yes. But dreams are not only mine, you're part of them too" the man murmured, as if he feared that the Red Team agent could understand their conversation.

"But no one asked me anything! I miss my friends, the trinket bazaars and the walks to the park with Mom!"

After so long, Kimiya could finally open the magic chest of the fairy tales, the ones her father told her as a child, revealing the normal desires of her age.

Markar's face twitched in disbelief as he summoned all his strength to turn so to be facing his daughter.

"I had to do it! Really you can't understand it?"

The girl held his father's disconcerted gaze, narrowing her eyes in an expression that betrayed anger and more anger.

"It is hard to understand, especially now that we have nothing, don't you think?"

"My little one, from now on we will have freedom! Isn't that enough?" he whispered to her, even thought the Red Team member displayed no interest in their conversation.

"Of course. We've earned your... freedom" she sobbed, no longer able to hold back the lump that seemed to be exploding inside her.

Markar moved his bandaged arm to his daughter's face, gathering her tears with his fingers.

"My freedom is your freedom too! A new life awaits, you'll see. Believe in your father like you did as a child, I beg you!"

"Mum woke up. She asked about you," the girl tried to get a hold on herself, looking up from the floor to that deeply marked face "now I have to go."

Kimiya started to get up, then thought better of it.

"However, I defended your choice when the four-fingers-kidnapper insulted you," she said, staring again at those eyes, rimmed and full of wonder.

They were the last thing she saw before leaving the room.

***

Private airport near L'Aquila (Italy).

Tuesday, September 14th, 2010, 8:45 a.m.

Carmen Gonzales inhaled another puff from her cigarette, blowing the smoke upward.

"Madre de Dios, you really had thought about that already?"

"Well, it seemed a logical consequence!"

Helen opened her arms, showing the obviousness of that statement. Then she sat down next to her friend, turning her back to the secondary runway of the small airport.

In front of the two girls, the splendid sight offered by the tidy rows of olive trees was animated by the first flocks of migratory birds that, flying in unison, seemed to perform evolutions paced by their repeatedly flapping wings.

"Being always detectable by those pigs at the Agency would make you their slave" Carmen said casually, trying to figure out if this new factor had affected Helen's attitude toward her masters.

"And the nice thing is that I've always had the key to the lock. It was in here," the American girl said, touching her head with a finger and widening her eyes.

"What do you mean?" the Spanish asked, annoyed by the fact that her friend had not taken up her taunt.

"So, listen, Dr. Hawking had designed the device so that I could manage it with the brain buttons technique, right?" Helen looked for a more comfortable position on the deformed beams of the bench, "What he never told me – or rather only let me guess – was that instead of activating the buttons individually, as I always did with Fat Boy for example, I can activate more than one, and this combination produces different results, almost never foreseen by the original program!"

"So...?"

"Oh yes! Yes! I can unplug the device. Shit, I can choose to be undetectable! Can you believe it?"

Caught by the excitement of the moment, Helen shook her fists in the air. Then she could no longer resist and she improvised a sort of dance around the bench, under the astonished eyes of Carmen.

"Bueno! That's really fantastic."

Gonzales stood up and hugged her only to stop that exhibition, definitely out of place.

"Well, actually the brain buttons I call to my mind are arranged the same way as the petals of a flower. When I tried to alter their sequence... I couldn't believe it!"

The former lieutenant was jumping out of her skin and kept squeezing the hands of the Spanish with hers, involving her also physically in that unexpected development that, she was sure, would change her life.

"I haven't found any trace in the Journal..."

Carmen had already realized that the standard procedure implemented by Hawking might be circumvented, but she feigned surprise, sharing Helen's overwhelming joy.

"Well, when I disconnect, your computers only see the last position detected, nothing more."

The American winked at her friend, then without warning she went from a joyous expression to a melancholy one. All the dusty and dramatic feelings that had been laying inside her for too long seemed to come up on her face, then she fell to her knees clutching her head in her hands.

Carmen calculated the benefits of that sudden collapse. Without her mentor and weakened by the ceaseless hunt by the Blues Brothers, Helen was simply expelling the accumulated toxins, leaving tears the task to free her from the anger rooted like a cancer in her body.

"Bueno. A perfect situation for me."

Gonzales took the American's hands and pulled her to herself, wiping her cheeks with a handkerchief, then sat her down next to her on that uncomfortable bench.

"I don't know... I should be happy, damn it!" the former lieutenant sobbed, clinging again to her friend.

"Querida, the damn gringos exhausted you. But that's enough, isn't it?"

"Okay... yeah, right, now they will no longer be able to find me."

"No, they won't do that anymore."

"You know, I always deluded myself into thinking that I could use the device as a normal working tool, that it would not interfere with my life..." the American sniffed and broke away from the Spanish, trying to get a grip on herself, "but they won't allow it."

Carmen was surprised by that admission of naivety. Hard to believe that the CIA was planning to use part-time a device that had cost money and years of designing.

"Well, I don't need to keep the device always on" Helen blindly sank her hand into her bag, magically pulling out her cigarettes. "A command is still valid until I cancel it, but this implies a constant commitment for my nervous system, as you can imagine."

The short flame of the lighter lit up the whole concern showing on her face, and only when she nervously puffed smoke from one side of her mouth, the girl gave a forced smile.

Carmen made up her mind.

"They don't make life easy for you, those pigs. But there's a chance to change things," she said in a faint voice.

"She is my friend and I'm helping her. I'm not betraying her."

"Of course! Now they can no longer find me whenever they want, right?" Helen seemed to get back to life again and stared at the wildflowers swaying nearby "and then imagine how much we could develop the device. I already tried to superimpose maps and... but what's wrong?"

Suddenly, the former lieutenant saw Carmen's eyes. She had turned because she had literally felt them on her.

"Did you hear me?"

The Spanish immediately regretted the sore tone she had used.

"Mierda, I mustn't scare her!"

Helen breathed in another puff of smoke, arching an eyebrow in puzzlement.

"Excusa. It's just that I wanted to talk to you about something important."

The tone had changed and Carmen added a smile to it, just to make her attitude look less fake.

"Uh, it sounds like a serious thing..."

The former lieutenant had regained her good humor and was looking for a more comfortable position, crossing her legs.

"Bueno. I received an offer... for you."

"An offer?" Helen repeated, hesitant.

"It'll change your life, querida."

"I'm listening..."

"The offer comes from one of my... amigos. He says you could work away from the damn gringos."

"What do you mean?"

A vague sense of disorientation started to take over the American, replacing her initial astonishment, expressed by her eyes.

"Think about it... no one would hunt you anymore and you would have no more nightmares! Never again!"

Carmen opened her arms, trying to display the most radiant smile she could muster.

"I don't understand..."

"Someone is interested in your work, and would be willing to... employ you."

Finally, after much hesitation, the Spanish pronounced the sentence that had been obsessing her for weeks. While waiting for a reaction, Carmen almost forgot to breathe and dared not even move her eyelids, fearing to miss even the smallest signal on the face of the former lieutenant.

"I wouldn't stay in my country, would I?"

Helen stared at the drop of sweat that was running along the Spanish's temple, then met her eyes again. They seemed to be dancing between her and the surrounding landscape.

"You'd suddenly get rid of all the problems that your country caused to you!"

"You're not answering me," the American said, unnerved by the roundabout way used by her friend.

"Bueno. You wouldn't remain in your country, but..."

"Would you come with me?" Helen inquired.

"Well, the offer is only for you..."

Carmen desperately tried to swallow, but her throat was so dry that it seemed to be sprinkled with sand.

One by one, all the cards of her castle collapsed and the former lieutenant could only see emptiness behind the glazed eyes of the Spanish.

"How long have you been thinking about that?" she had the courage to ask.

"Querida, you can't possibly think that I want to deceive you..."

"Do not call me that!"

Helen glared at the girl who was sitting beside her. The sensation that she was a stranger to her was invading her without mercy. She found herself fidgeting with the ring she had earned at West Point.

"I believed I was helping you..."

"How much did they pay you to try and persuade me, huh? Tell me. Come on, tell me!" the American yelled, aware of the abyss that was opening under Carmen's feet.

"Mierda! I did it for you," the Spanish snapped, standing up.

"Bullshit! Did you really think that it would be enough to tell the Agency: 'I'm sorry, you don't mind if I leave taking your device with me, do you?'?"

"You said yourself that now you are no longer detectable..."

"And what kind of life could I expect? They would chase me everywhere and you know it!"

Helen drew an arc in the air with the smoke of her cigarette, and the damn thought of being alone again started to weigh down on her like a boulder.

Carmen tried the last card.

"There would be a lot of money for you, at least think about it!"

From the information that the Spanish had got from the middleman, it looked like the former lieutenant was destined to a wealthy oilman from one of the ex-Soviet republics that had recently declared independence. But she did not know if he would use her to protect himself or sell her to some Islamic state. The only sure thing were his huge financial means, that would allow an even higher offer to reach his goal.

"Money?" the former lieutenant hissed with a face full of contempt "You know how much I've been able to spend last year, with my salary of fifty thousand dollars? Do you want me to tell you, huh?"

"Querida , I'm talking about millions! The offer includes a regular contract, after which you can..."

"I already told you not to call me that! You want to sell me, yes, sell me, just for your crappy business. You don't give a fuck about my destiny and if you really think that maybe in ten years I could frolic under the shade of a palm tree, then I say that money dazed you!"

Helen put out her cigarette under her shoe, then put her head in her hands, noticing only by the drops falling on the ground that she was crying.

That bloody abyss had swallowed Carmen Gonzales.

***

Minerva project operations headquarters – Edwards Base, California (USA).

Thomas Bowdler stared for a long time at his cup of coffee before grabbing it and taking a sip. Then he replaced it exactly in the center of the table, just between him and the smiling face of assistant director Jenkins, inside the nearby monitor.

"Scott, I don't understand..."

Thunder finally succumbed to fatigue. After spending many hours glued to that damn computer, now he was feeling an endless sense of exhaustion.

"Tom, it was a tough day for everyone. Take a few hours to rest," the CIA agent suggested.

"Are you kidding? I don't want to take a break," general Bowdler's face suddenly flushed. "We let Ahmad shoot Prophet and then vanish undisturbed! Why?"

"Hey! Relax, Tom. For sure it wasn't a simple situation."

"Yeah. Moreover, you maneuvered the Red Team ignoring the strategy we had agreed on."

Thunder barely restrained himself, on the brink of letting his rage explode.

"These are minor details," Jenkins said with contempt. "As I told you, now my boys will take care of finding Ahmad and all his accomplices, be sure of that."

"Why all of a sudden you want to exclude the Boutique team?"

The general folded his arms on his chest, only to disguise the tremor that was seizing him.

The assistant director slumped in his armchair, in his office on the third floor of the CIA Headquarters in Langley. He loved that armchair, which was said to have belonged to Will Casey, the legendary director of the Agency in the 80s.

"Quite the opposite, Tom. Each member of the team will be integrated with other groups, forming new units."

"You know, Scott, you could say that clearly," Thunder cut him short.

"Say what?" Jenkins feigned an astonishment he did not feel.

"That the CIA – or rather, the Research Department of which you are the assistant director – wants to get back a technology that you let us develop at the IntelReader. This is why you have insisted on putting Benaski in the Boutique team... am I wrong?"

"It's a technology that doesn't belong to you, you should remember that every once in a while."

"Bastard," general Bowdler thought.

A few weeks of operations had been enough to understand the enormous potential of those devices, and now they probably meant to use them for purposes other than the original project, Thunder thought bitterly.

"Scott, it is a new technology and it would be advisable to tread carefully," the general said wearily, grabbing his cup of coffee.

"A sentence engineer Peter Hawking loved, if I remember correctly."

Jenkins clasped his hands behind his neck, waiting to witness Thunder's reaction.

"Of course. He said that all the time."

Then suddenly an image passed before the eyes of the general, illuminated by the lightning that crossed his mind. The hand holding the cup froze mid-air, while his face paled instantly. Why hadn't he thought of that before?

"Well, he believed that the Minerva project was his creature!" Jenkins went on, moving closer to the camera and filling the screen in front of Thunder entirely.

"That's why you closed the Boutique in Frankfurt, right?"

"Bah! You know we did that to protect the integrity of the base."

"Bullshit! Don't even try to feed that to me! As far as I know, Peter Hawking opposed the shutdown because the device wasn't fully reliable yet. Do you remember?" the general pressed on.

"What does this have to do with it now?" the assistant director snapped, leaning his head back against the armchair.

Of course he remembered the many contrasts with the engineer about that topic, and how. Until he had appointed a couple of agents, the same who tormented Helen, to remind him who was in command, pleading them to use all of the subtle tyranny they were capable of.

"You suggested him to take a few days off too, I suppose!"

Thunder only realized that he still had his coffee cup suspended in mid-air when his wrist began to ache.

"What are you insinuating?"

Jenkins winced recalling that unpleasant episode. Those two cursed agents had gone too far with Hawking. The fact that he had neither wife nor children would make it easier to cover up the whole thing, despite the insistence of the Kriminalpolizeiliche, the German Criminal Police.

"After the engineer's death it was much easier to scatter the Boutique team, wasn't it?"

Thomas Bowdler frantically rummaged in his thoughts to try and find a reason to justify that course of action.

"If it were true, certainly I wouldn't have involved them in the operation concerning Prophet, would I?"

Jenkins looked carefully at his screen, then typed his password in the box.

Enter? Yes. Of course.

"You followed this operation from the start. Better check with your own eyes that the device worked as per your goals, right?"

Thunder guessed the reason that had prompted the assistant director to suggest the use of the Boutique team. The simulations and tests made everything look like a trivial videogame, only a real action would assure him the certainty of dominating all devices.

"Damn Tom, I thought I could trust you! I'll pretend I didn't hear that, but you have to stop making these absurd allegations, do you understand?"

Jenkins moved the mouse and a window appeared on his screen, framed by the logo of the BAMC, one of the biggest U.S. Army hospitals, located in Texas.

Thunder had been there in 2008 to be implanted his sophisticated pacemaker, programmable from the remote computer that also monitored every instant of the life of his heart. The assistant director looked at the menu bar on the top of the window.

Settings? Yes, of course.

"Scott, how can you overlook the good this technology can make?"

A drop of sweat trickled down the general's temple, making its way through the intricate web of wrinkles that framed his eyes.

Doubts were starting to fade, giving way to wonder and to the awareness that the point of no return had been passed. Concealed funding in favor of IntelReader Technologies had allowed to develop devices that could be implanted on humans while keeping a low profile, that is almost secretly. That's why Jenkins had chosen an obscure laboratory in Frankfurt, obtained from a black hole.

"Tom, you're just too tired."

Jenkins eyes browsed the settings menu, eventually finding the desired button.

Account? Bowdler, Thomas.

"You don't think you are the only one in the Agency who's aware of this project, do you?"

After getting rid of hisdisorientation, Thunder's first impulse was to warn Carmen and Helen. For the time being a message on Facebook would suffice, later he would call them to explain the situation.

"You're not listening, Tom."

The assistant director focused on the screen.

Search Medical Device? Yes.

Please wait. Okay.

Download data? No.

New parameters? Yes.

Jenkins took a sheet of paper from his jacket and replaced the contents of some of the fields in the grid that had appeared on the screen.

Activate new parameters? Yes.

Enter? The man rubbed the back of his hand across his forehead, beaded with sweat, then pressed the button. Yes.

General Bowdler realized by the reflections projected onto Jenkins' sweaty face that something was going on. He was sure of that the next instant, when he felt his heartbeat speed up, as if his chest was going to burst at a moment notice.

His wide eyes stared at the seagulls pecking the clods of earth raised by his father's plow in the fields of Maine, where he had always hoped to retire once his engagement with the Minerva project was over. Finally, a sense of pressure seemed to concentrate exactly on his heart, like one of those big dark clouds heavy with rain that induced terror in him as a child, because it seemed to him as if every lightning could strike his body.

Just like the lightning that struck him at that moment.

The last thing Thomas Bowdler saw was the shadow of that black cloud advancing rapidly, stealing the light from his eyes.

***

The Tuscan coast near Punta Ala (Italy).

Tuesday, September 14th, 9:30 a.m.

"But Dad, you promised you'd be home yesterday!"

Christian Masi kept moving the phone from ear to ear, preventing his mother from taking it.

"You're right Chris, but we had some... problem. I hope I'll finish my job today and come home tomorrow, okay?"

Robert looked down the hallway, looking for the slender figure of Kimiya and accidentally moving the phone away from his ear.

"Do you hear me, Robby?"

Vittoria had finally been able to snatch the phone from the hands of her son, but there was no answer from the other side.

"Ah, yes. Sorry Vicky, I'm here now..."

The man made an understanding nod to the police assistant entrusted of taking care of Kimiya during the frequent pauses in her conversation with the investigators.

"Hey, hi. Is everything fine? I closed the agency this week, I bet you didn't remember."

Vittoria stood up, heading towards the large window overlooking the sea, followed by Christian.

"Of course, of course I remember!" Masi lied, hitting his forehead with the palm of his hand and cursing himself for that awful forgetfulness.

"You promised Christian that we'd be going away for a few days. He didn't even go to school for this reason... mind you, don't beat around the bush!"

Vittoria frowned, waiting for Robert's predictable answer, stuffed of "maybe" and "I hope."

"Uh... I hope, maybe I'll get rid of this job later today..."

Masi craned his neck, seeing Kimiya's smile as soon as their eyes met.

"With everything she's been through, the girl is showing a really incredible inner strength," the man thought.

"Hey! Don't be mucking around... we wait for you tomorrow?"

Vittoria had no intention of letting go. And she wanted to see in person the scratches that her husband had shown in video the previous Sunday. She definitely wanted to look into his eyes while he justified them.

"I'm calling you tonight. Kiss Chris for me, now I have to go."

Masi saw the assistant show him the thumb, the agreed gesture to say that the pause was over and everyone had to go back inside.

Although Robert had hung up, Vittoria stood with the phone glued to her ear, staring at nothing. Just like a million times before, he had left her without an answer worthy of that name, an aspect of his character with which she had always been forced to live.

"Chris, get ready to go out. We go to work at the agency. And don't say a word!"

Vittoria's meaningful glare was enough to annihilate from the start the predictable protests of the boy, who went to his room repeatedly flapping his arms and bumping them on his hips.

A few minutes were enough to get into the jeep and set off toward Castiglione della Pescaia, the town overlooking the Tyrrhenian Sea were Vittoria's tourist agency was based.

During the short route neither of them said a word and Christian displayed his typical pout, complete with arms crossed over his chest. The prospect of spending a few days of holiday with his father had enticed him, and he could not understand why it wasn't possible, even though his mother had told him several times that his dad's job had no schedules.

After leaving behind the main road, lined by huge oak trees and populated by doves and woodcocks, Vittoria turned in the seafront, tidy and with its beach strewn of sadly closed beach umbrellas. The big cloud clusters that seemed to emerge from the sea didn't portend anything good, unfortunately.

"So much the better," she thought. With bad weather her agency would fill with people looking for hiking and, who knows, maybe she could sell some tourist package.

The last cedars lined along the waterfront disappeared in the rearview mirror, then Vittoria turned close to the marina and immediately found a parking spot. The first raindrops advised her to speed up, and despite Christian's reluctance she managed to drag him to the front door of the agency almost dry.

An instant after she put the key into the lock, a loud downpour caused havoc in the passers-by, who fled looking for shelter. A myriad umbrellas opened in unison, coloring the sidewalks made grey by the water dust.

Vittoria switched on the lights and the computer, then reached into her purse looking for her phone.

"Gee, I didn't take it... Maremma ladra!"

With a grimace of disappointment she walked to the coffee machine, observing with pleasure that Christian was playing with the old computer she kept there on purpose for him, on the other desk.

The front door suddenly opened and a violent gust lifted the edges of the advertising folders tidily arranged on a display, making a few fall to the floor.

"Sorry, sorry... I'm sorry," the man who had just got in said hurriedly, as he bent to pick up the sheets from the floor.

Vittoria smiled at her client, approaching him and noticing his unkempt appearance, typical of tourist on holiday.

"Leave them, I'll do it!"

"Can I... ask something?" the man muttered in broken English as he dried his face with a handkerchief.

"Yes, sure," the woman nodded.

"I need... a room here..."

The rapid movements of the man's head sprinkled all around the tiny raindrops still clinging to his matted hair, as his black eyes seemed to relentlessly scour the inside of the agency.

"Here, I have a list. You wants me to call for you?"

Vittoria paused to look at the man's muddy shoes and his white shirt, at least two sizes larger than needed.

"No. Um... no thanks. I will do it myself."

The man took the sheet from the woman's hand and browsed it hurriedly, as if he didn't particularly care. Then he folded it carefully, making its corners match.

The door opened again, letting in another gust of air thick with rain and a short boy who greeted Vittoria with a nod. The newcomer grabbed a pamphlet and opened it, moving his finger along what appeared to be a list of locations.

The first man met the boy's eyes without showing any particular reaction, then excused himself from the woman.

"Well. Thank you... thank you very much," he said, briefly looking at Christian before leaving without ever turning his back.

"What a strange person" Vittoria mused, addressing the boy who had just come in and finding out that he was a German tourist looking for hiking.

"Mom, did you see?" Christian whispered, showing his fist with only his little finger held straight.

"What?" said the woman absently, trying to make herself understood by the tourist.

"The man who just left," the boy whispered, "he missed almost all of his little finger!"

"Chris, be careful... you know it's not polite to look at people that way."

Vittoria threw a last look at the man who had just left, meeting again those disturbing black eyes, which seemed hard to escape. He was strangely walking backward, giving the impression that he wanted to exploit every available moment to commit all the details of that place to memory, which mystified the woman.

Then finally Ahmad turned around, rushing to the flowerbed in the traffic island and calling with a nod the attention of Kazim, who was standing near the seashore in a rented car.

A few raindrops insistently dotted the puddles, but Ahmad did not bother to avoid them, immersed as he was in his thoughts.

Reza, the contact he had used in the previous days, had informed him about the arrival of Markar Kazemian at the hospital. The engineers conditions seemed to be seemed basically good, while his daughter Kimiya went around the wards with a strong escort.

"No good news for me," Ahmad mused.

After that communication, they had gone to pick up Reza.

"All this for nothing."

The Iranian agent bit his lip angrily. A valuable contact blown.

The improvised but very effective strategy of the day before, even complete with smoke effects, had proved useless.

Ahmad got into the car without saying a word, merely nodding lazily at Kazim to make him start.

"No one contacted me any longer, and the reason is perfectly clear to me. Obviously this is the best way to make me feel cast out of the mission," the agent mused, "but with what consequences?"

Would destiny mockingly assign him the same fate he had decided for Markar Kazemian?

Ahmad stared at the road ahead, not looking at anything in particular, thinking about the feeling of invincibility with which he had lived up to that moment.

With his shirt stuck to the skin and his mouth slurred, the man increased more and more the rhythm of his breathing until he started panting. His widened eyes were only able to frame Kazim for a moment. It seemed that he was shouting something at him, but he knew that only since he saw his lips moving, because from that moment on he could no longer hear anything.

In Ahmad's mind, the moment in which he had shot three times against the engineer was obsessively replaying. Each frame of that sequence was represented by a very thin, almost transparent veil, that the constant repetition overlapped to one another, creating a sediment very hard to remove.

Then the sequence of pictures became so fast that Ahmad was forced to close his eyes, feeling an incredible sense of vertigo.

Before him passed the dark tunnel of the Gran Sasso, the hospital, the stone bowels of Old Bari, the dusty container and so on, back in the previous days until he widened his eyes uttering an inhuman scream, under Kazim scared eyes.

Download complete.

The assistant director of the Research Division, Scott Jenkins, stared at the notice that had just appeared on the screen.

"Very well," he thought, looking at the grin of satisfaction reflected in the monitor.

Then he sank into the brown leather armchair that had belonged to Will Casey.

He could finally allow himself a cigarette.

***

Civil Hospital, L'Aquila (Italy).

Tuesday, September 14th, 2010, 06:30 p.m.

Robert Masi got out of the car with the phone glued to his ear, trying to convince his wife that one more day would not make any difference.

"Look, I don't care anymore" Vittoria snapped, "in fact, I'm calling from the agency, because today I went back to work and now I'm closing."

The woman was nervously twisting the phone cord around her finger, as with a very meaningful look she discouraged Christian from approaching and trying to grab the phone.

"Vicky, darling... they assured me that tomorrow maybe I'm done here," the man said, walking ahead of Kimiya along the endless corridors of the hospital of L'Aquila.

"Maybe? Did you happen to say maybe? Maremma zozza!" Vittoria said, struggling to restrain her anger. "Listen, I'll put your son on and then we go home," she concluded, still shaking her head even after she has given Christian the phone.

"Hello Chris, are you mad at me?" Robert snorted approaching to the elevator that would bring him and the Iranian girl to the room of Markar Kazemian, after a day spent talking with the investigators of the Information and Security Agency.

"No... but Mom is always nervous and answers rudely to me too..." Christian whispered. "You know that today I saw a strange man in the agency?" he went on in a normal voice.

"Oh, yeah? A tourist I guess..." Masi murmured absently browsing the lift buttons with a finger.

"Well, I think so, but he missed almost all of his little finger!" the boy announced triumphantly, satisfied that he had grasped an important detail, one of those that his father always encouraged him to look for, with the predictable displeasure of Vittoria.

"What?"

Robert felt the blood freeze in his veins, event stopping his breathing. He mentally repeated the last sentence of his son an endless number of times as he watched his finger still stuck on the lift button.

"You said... without a little finger? Chris, describe that man to me," he cried as his lost eyes met the awareness in those of Kimiya, who nodded to show that she understood the drama that was arising.

"So, more or less as tall as you, but much thinner... short black hair. Ah, he spoke in English..."

"Chris, let me speak to mom, quick!"

Robert put his hand on his forehead, then reached out to the two bodyguards, pushing them away almost physically.

"Vicky, you hear me? Vicky," he cried hoarsely.

"I'm here, I'm here! But what..."

"Listen to me. Christian told me that today a man came to the agency, and it seems he missed a little finger. Did you see him too?"

Masi closed his eyes, praying that his wife would answer no.

"Please, tell me you didn't, tell me you didn't...."

"Yes. He was a bit weird, you know him or what?"

"Holy shit!" the man cursed, slapping the wall in front of him, "Listen, did he say or do anything unusual... think about it, it's important!" he incited her, trying to hold off the two mastiffs, by now impatient and intentioned to drag Kimiya away from there.

"Well... he stared at me with two amazing eyes, as black as coal, and then... he started looking all around as if he wanted to remember everything..."

Vittoria frowned, trying to dismiss the sense of uneasiness that was making its way into her brain.

"Vicky, now listen to me," Masi summoned all the self-control that he could muster. "Take Christian and leave the agency. Where did you park?"

"Just out of here... Robby, would you tell me what the fuck is going on?"

"Christ, I wish I was there now..." Robert pounded his forehead with punches, then realized he had to take a decision, "Okay, don't move from there. Don't go home and neither at your mother's... stay in the agency, I'll be there in a couple of hours."

The thought of involving the police went through his mind for a second, but the idea of an Ahmad hunted and prompted to desperate actions made him desist.

"Hey, don't get me upset... so you know that man... he has to do with your job!"

It wasn't a question. Vittoria was struggling to keep control. The anger for having been involved in an event unrelated to her and that she could not control made her furious.

"Okay Vicky, I'll explain... but not now! I pledge you, don't leave the agency, for once, trust me!"

Masi tried to swallow in vain. The weight of that cursed decision had dried his throat, and to make matters worse he felt like an hostage of the thousand thought that deflagrated in his mind like loose cannons.

"But, are you kidding me? You decided that I don't have the right to know!" Vittoria snapped.

"No! I'm only asking you to trust me!" Robert shouted in exasperation, drawing the attention of all those who were passing near that lift.

"Go fuck yourself, go... I have your son here too, remember that!"

The woman noticed she was squeezing the phone only when she heard it creak in her hand, so she loosened his grip, exhausted.

"Okay, okay. That man is... wanted, okay?" Robert finally revealed, heavily leaning against a pillar.

"Why did he come here... what do we have to do with him?" Vittoria murmured, holding back Christian with her free hand.

"Nothing... you have nothing to do with it! Listen, I'm leaving now and I'll do everything possible to..."

"You will do everything possible? Eh, no, that's not enough for your family, don't you understand yet?" the angry woman cried.

"Oh... would you stay put?" she then yelled angrily at Christian, threatening him by raising her hand in the air as he tried to get hold of the phone.

"Okay... Christ, I'll be with you in a couple of hours... I'll send someone anyway, fear not."

The man looked at the two bodyguards who were literally dragging Kimiya away, with the little girl attempting a useless resistance by walking backwards. Finally her eyes disappeared behind the sliding doors of the lift.

Vittoria felt her legs give way and was forced to sit on the floor, next to her son.

"What if he comes back? Maremma allentata! No, look, I'm calling the police."

Masi needed all his power of persuasion to convince his wife not to call anyone and to await for him.

Ahmad could make something foolish, if he saw the cops. Better not to risk it, the agent thought, rushing toward the exit and parting the flow of people that was coming out of the wards.

"No! There's one more thing I need to know before leaving."

Robert went back, furiously taking the stairs to the third floor. It was Kimiya to talk to him first, as soon as she saw him at the door of her father's room.

"It's the four-fingers-kidnapper, right?" she whispered, looking at the Italian agent straight into his eyes.

"Tell me about the dream, please."

Masi had left those subjects out while the girl was talking about them during the trip to the hospital.

"I told you. I struggled to remember, but I just can't recall the circumstances."

Kimiya closed her eyes, in a last-ditch attempt to remember that episode buried in her subconscious, but eventually she gave up, repeatedly shaking her head to show her displeasure.

"Only the first scene is clear to me. And you know it already," she concluded.

"Now I must go."

Masi wrote his phone number on a handkerchief and handed it to the Iranian girl, then took a few steps back and finally turned around, starting to run and wondering why he was so interested in that dream.

"Maybe because it's believable."

Although Robert was born skeptic and had always mocked those who delved in the so seemingly absurd and superstitious abode of dreams, at that moment he decided that even that tiny, invisible piece could make the difference between victory and defeat.

Masi turned on the highway at full speed and called assistant director Leonardi to inform him of the new situation, but the news he received weren't encouraging. No telephone tapping could determine the position of Ahmad or his partner Kazim, and only a few men were available for a possible manhunt. General Bowdler seemed to have disappeared, thus the Boutique team couldn't be used, at least for the next few hours.

At the end of a heated discussion, Masi persuaded Leonardi to do nothing, except sending a couple of men near Vittoria's agency, The Italian agent claimed he didn't want to risk that any movement could persuade Ahmad to do something dictated by despair. He kept repeating that in his mind.

Anyway, if Leonardi arranged to pick up Vittoria and Christian, the Iranian agent would disappear, certainly becoming a nightmare for him and his family.

"What the fuck am I thinking? Do I really want to use my wife and my son as baits for that son of a bitch? Or I am just using this opportunity to cleanse my conscience?"

Those chilling conjectures lingered only for a moment in his mind, because by then his thoughts overlapped almost nonstop.

The ringing of the phone brought Masi back to reality in an instant. The different hues of green that painted that wooded area reappeared before his eyes, just like the ribbon of highway he was running on, lying in the bottom of the valley clothed with beeches and limes.

"Hi. I... well... how are you?" Helen's voice betrayed her obvious tension.

"Uh, it's not a good time. I'm running at full speed towards my house. It seems that a mutual friend... is camping around there," he found the strength to be ironic, then he told her everything.

"Holy shit, what do you think that bastard has in mind?"

"I have no idea. But you know him, he's as cunning as a snake. I won't allow the safety of Vicky and Chris to be endangered by some trigger-happy policeman. I'd rather handle this alone."

"I understand. Um... I could help if you want."

"What do you mean?"

Masi felt his pulse increase.

"I could fly Fat Boy," Helen suggested, hesitating.

"Actually, I was told that general Bowdler is currently nowhere to be found, therefore the Boutique team cannot act."

A prolonged honking forced Robert to go back to his lane, as a powerful sports car passed him by, flashing furiously at the vehicles ahead.

"This is the reason why I called you. I'd love to be wrong, but Thunder doesn't answer the phone, and from a message he sent me on Facebook I understand that his life is in danger."

"Okay, needless to jump to conclusions... do you feel threatened too?"

"Well, certainly I don't feel safe here, especially now that..."

A few seconds of silence followed, filled by what sounded like a soft weeping.

"Helen? Are you okay?"

"No, I'm not, dammit! Even Carmen... I thought she were a friend, instead that asshole tried to fuck me, like everyone else! What the hell of a world is this?" the girl sobbed.

"Listen, I'm going to get to the airfield where you are. You think you can come with me and explain this?" Masi suggested, realizing he was heavily breaking a lot of rules.

"Surveillance here is minimal because... well, I'll explain later, however, I can easily get out of here."

A few minutes later the two were speeding toward Castiglione della Pescaia. Helen informed Robert of the latest news about the device, and of course about the matter with Gonzales.

"So you're telling me that you can go around and no one can detect your position, right?"

Masi glanced again at the girl, trying not to look at her bare legs on which her neuronal helmet was resting. A very bad idea wearing a miniskirt right now, the man mused, but she had claimed she had left exactly as she had been at that moment, without thinking about clothing.

"Since Dr. Hawking died, I trained a lot on this. And I will keep my promise of flying Fat Boy," the girl said, cuddling her helmet.

"I thought you also needed Carmen and her laptop, to get the drone moving," Masi objected, struggling to look into Helen's eyes and ignore her legs.

"No, I don't. Fat Boy is designed to be driven exclusively by the helmet, without the aid of external devices," the girl explained, lifting her valuable tool "and it should be a pilot to fly it. But I am, dammit! I am the first of a series of new super-skilled pilots! But they only want to use me for dirty operations. That's not what they promised me, damn it!"

Helen nervously lowered the sun visor in front of her, checking her appearance on the small mirror, then tidied back her long hair, looking straight ahead.

"Um... if I remember correctly, Hans mentioned another laboratory, in addition to the Boutique. You might not be the only one..."

The ringing of the phone interrupted the man's sentence. Robert stood listening for about thirty seconds, and when the call ended he stood silent, waiting for Helen to speak first.

"Bad news?" she ventured timidly.

"You were right. They informed Leonardi that general Bowdler died. A heart attack, it seems. I'm sorry..."

Robert pulled a hand away from the steering wheel, resting it on the girl's shoulder. He realized that Thunder had probably been the last pillar that kept her in some kind of balance, precarious as it might be. After losing Hawking and Gonzales, now even the general. The worst news at the worst time.

Helen raised her hand to her mouth, her glassy eyes weren't looking in any direction, even though they were wide open.

"What did they tell you?" she found the strength to ask, after swallowing several times.

"Well, Leonardi informed me that it was Jenkins to tell him news, adding that from now on he will personally manage the Boutique team and the whole operation regarding Prophet."

Masi looked at the clock in the middle of the dashboard, remembering that he should call his wife.

"It seems that Jenkins has already given orders for your team to go back, while the Red Team will work with my colleagues at the Internal Services to find Ahmad."

"Leonardi spilled where he is, didn't he?"

Helen tormented the sun visor again, lowering it repeatedly to examine her face, one detail at a time.

"Ahmad, you mean? No, according to my boss, you did too much already. Now it's up to us."

Robert wondered why she didn't leave the damn visor down instead of torturing it. It made him think of his wife, when, while setting the table, she kept opening the silverware drawer instead of leaving it open as it would have been logical.

"For sure, if Jenkins gave orders to get back, he didn't find me there to answer" the girl frowned, taking on an almost diabolical expression.

"Since I left my phone in my room, I should not be detectable in any way now," she added with a grin that looked like a sort of smile.

"Won't they find you immediately once Fat Boy takes off?" Masi asked.

"We'll take them by surprise, and anyway I am still carrying on the original mission. I'm still an employee of the IntelReader, therefore I am not required to take orders from the CIA, but from... Thunder."

Helen realized the nonsense she was saying, but she cast that annoying thought aside.

"I say that we are putting ourselves into trouble, but you could still avoid them."

"Okay, let's settle this matter with Ahmad. I have a strange feeling that I cannot describe."

"I... well, your help will be crucial, thank you. I should call Vicky now."

"Feel free. I'll wear the helmet and begin the takeoff process."

Helen put the inside of the translucent visor into focus, sending orders and ignoring the trees, suddenly become opaque, that slipped away, mingling with the surrounding valleys and the sky.

A cluster of dark, menacing-looking clouds seemed to own one half of the sky, as a pale sun that seemed painted behind a background of thin purple clouds painted delicate reflections on the wings of Fat Boy.

Another few minutes and the precious aircraft would mix anxiety and technology, under the star of another mission that should never have existed.

Helen swerved the drone once again, before having it attack the air like a bird of prey and launching it towards the nearby town.

She knew it would be its last flight.

***

"How are you?" the man asked, his voice rough, sucking another puff from his cigarette and filling the vehicle with smoke.

The other one did not answer, he just draw a gesture in the air to describe his frustration. Then he straightened, sitting up and pulling out a plastic bottle from a drawer in front of him.

After unscrewing the cap, he lifted the bottle over his head, pouring all the water on himself, uncaring for the effect that this was having all around. Finally he leaned his head back, letting even his face get completely wet, keeping that position for the several endless seconds before staring at the sun that was disappearing behind the horizon.

Ahmad really didn't remember when it had happened, but it didn't matter anymore by then, he said to himself, clenching his jaw.

The singular awareness of having a foreign body inside his own preceded only by a second the desire to touch his head, searching for and finding the imperceptible scar behind his right ear.

"A scar!"

But how long had it been there? Ahmad touched several times that flat, smooth surface with his forefinger, then turned to his companion, finding the most quizzical look he had ever seen.

"How are you?" Kazim repeated, intimidated, handing him a cigarette.

"How long have I slept?"

"Only a few hours. You really needed that, believe me."

The young Kurdish noticed that, in spite of eight hours of sleep, his partner seemed tense and was breathing through almost labouredly.

"We have to go."

Ahmad closed his eyes, concentrating on the absurd sensation he was feeling.

Markar Kazemian, the main target of his mission, was disappearing from his priorities, dissolving into the thousand fragments that were taking up his memory.

The information he had obtained about Robert Masi had brought him there. Ahmad vaguely recalled a conversation with the man's wife, then the sudden vertigo.

There was something he had to do, but it was slipping.

Or had he already done it?

The impression of wandering in a completely empty stadium was taking over, then the man abruptly opened his eyes. Something was making its way into his mind, like a file that was being opened.

His target had changed, he was sure.

His new priority was surviving.

***

Private airport near L'Aquila (Italy).

Tuesday, September 14th, 2010, 08:30 p.m.

Hans Benaski stormed into the room, violently slamming the door.

"Where is Helen? Come on, tell me!"

Carmen jumped in fright, dropping the clothes she had been holding, about to put them in her suitcase.

"I don't know... mierda , why should I?" the Spanish answered, bending down to pick up the clothes scattered on the floor.

The American agent did not give her time to stand up. She grabbed her hair and forced her to kneel, then slapped her face with the other hand.

"Bitch! Don't waste my time! That fucking drone took off and that bitch Helen is nowhere to be found. You don't know anything, do you?"

Benaski's eyes seemed to be bulging and his arteries swollen with blood reddened his face, making it purple.

"You bastard... let me go... let me go!" Gonzales gasped, trying to grab the arm that held her down.

"Mierda, let me explain!" she finally shouted, exasperated by her impotence and upset for having been taken by surprise.

Hans stood in front of the girl, then put a foot right between her breasts, pushing her violently back and releasing the grip on her hair at the same time.

The Spanish gasped desperately in the air, before finding herself laying on her back with a painful thud. The agent did not lose a moment, mounting astride her and pinning her arms under his knees.

"I'm all ears," he hissed, moving his face close to hers.

"Hijo de puta! Who do you think you are?"

Carmen could not move an inch, even though she was twitching like a dancer.

Another stinging slap reached the Spanish's cheek. Hans had never hit a woman before, but now he was furious.

When Jenkins had informed him of the death of general Bowdler, a few minutes earlier, he had also informed him about Helen's situation, and he had replied that there really was no problem, he was perfectly able to handle the situation.

"Wrong answer," the agent thought, the problems were just about to begin if he didn't immediately found that damn hybrid.

"So, where's that bitch? And why did you make Fat Boy take off without authorization, huh?"

Benaski reared his arm as if to strike again, then chose not to vent his anger immediately and left that slap suspended like the sword of Damocles.

"Mierda, she did it! Let me get up and I'll tell you!"

Carmen's face was flushed too, and her bloodshot eyes seemed to be spewing fire at the man over her.

"Okay, I'll let you get up. But try anything and you'll find yourself in a black hole without even realizing it..."

Hans stood up abruptly, then grabbed the Spanish by an arm and dragged her against a wall, looming over her like a big black cloud about to unleash a storm.

"I'm going to get a cigarette..."

Gonzales didn't have the time to take the first step, because Benaski hooked her neck with his hand and slammed her head on the wall.

"Fuck you! Time's up. The next words I want to hear from your mouth must tell me the exact place where Helen is, do you understand?"

Hans kept squeezing her neck, regardless of the worrying hue her face was taking. When he finally decided to let her go, the woman bent down, gasping and rubbing her neck in the hope of improving her breathing.

"Hijo de puta..."

The moan that came from her mouth was painful, like the deafening screech that she heard in her head at the same time.

"She doesn't... need me... to fly... Fat Boy..." Carmen murmured between coughs. Then, slowly, she informed Benaski of the new possibilities that Helen had developed through the device.

"Damn... what a shitty situation" said the agent, raising his arms and letting them fall heavily at his sides.

A moment later he started angrily kicking all the furnishings close enough, until he moved again a few inches from the girl, stretching his arms at the sides of his head, then leaning with his hands against the wall and holding her in a sort of cage.

"Okay, let's make a deal," he growled with his mouth slurred, a thin white drool around his lips.

Carmen was starting to breathe regularly, only her inflamed cheeks betrayed the suffering she had just gone through. When she raised her head, her eyes seemed to electrocute the American agent, who stood impassive, waiting for a reaction.

"You want me to betray Helen, don't you?" she suggested.

"No. You help us find her because she has something that belongs to us, and we don't want it to get lost."

Hans nodded at her handbag, implicitly allowing the Spanish to take a cigarette.

Carmen ignored the invitation, standing up against the wall and assessing the opportunity to collaborate. If she found her first, could she maybe convince her to go to her side?

"What will you do to her?"

"Put it this way. You give us a hand, and this way we prevent Jenkins from unleashing his guard dogs. I think you call them... Blues Brothers, right?" Hans grinned, knowing that time was running out inexorably.

It wasn't an empty threat. A shiver ran through the Spanish's back as she reflected on the prospect of being face-to-face with those damn gringos again.

"Bueno, we find her. But you have to assure me that you won't immediately deliver her to Jenkins' agentes."

Her trembling hands managed to grab a cigarette. After a couple of failed attempts, she even managed to put it in her mouth.

"You can't be so naive as to think we'll get there first, can you?" Benaski raised an eyebrow, "As soon as Helen is detected, the Red Team mastiffs will be on their prey like hungry wolves, it's obvious. And without Thunder's protection, you run the same risks..." the man said, still nodding.

"So I have to think about saving myself. Is this the deal?"

"You start working. When Jenkins calls again, I want Helen already packed on a plane, on her way to the United States."

"Don't think it's that simple," Carmen warned him, weighing the difficulties caused by the absence of a traceable signal. "Helen is talking directly to Fat Boy without using satellite transmission."

Benaski didn't answer and looked up at the sky, showing the same impatience emerged the day before, when he had let the two Iranian escape, together with Masi and the Red Team.

Right... Robert Masi. Why hadn't he answered the phone and had not bothered to call back?

***

A sky heavy with rain had now taken over, obscuring the first stars that had timidly tried to illuminate that end-of-Summer night.

"Robby, do you have any picture of your wife and son?"

Helen needed them to store them in the memory of Fat Boy.

"Yes, in the phone."

Masi knew perfectly well that it was not allowed by the rules, but those two pictures represented his entire family, during the solitary missions.

The girl lifted the visor of her helmet, just long enough to look at the two faces framed in the small screen, then the information passed through her optic nerve to the device, and finally the helmet transferred it to Fat Boy, which began to scan the underlying area, starting its search.

It wasn't yet raining on Castiglione della Pescaia.

A moist south-westerly wind was blowing from the sea, insolent vanguard of the impending storm front, while whirlwinds dancing on the seafront lifted eddies of dry leaves and dust, amassing them in every corner, away from the street lights.

"Okay Robby. I'm lowering Fat Boy" Helen announced.

"Wait... yes! I found Ahmad," she added raising her arms and keeping them up.

The man whirled around, finding the girl's lips twitching in worry.

"Don't waste time to designate the target, tell me where he is!"

Robert slowed down the vehicle on which they were traveling, letting a couple of cars pass it by and sped toward the marina.

"Ahmad is traveling in the passenger side in a jeep driven by... your wife. Robert, it's your wife," Helen exclaimed incredulously, struck by her own words.

Masi spent the following two seconds trying to keep control, and failing.

"Christ! I called them a few minutes ago, how is that possible?" he snapped, punching the dashboard in front of him and startling the former lieutenant.

"Hey, take it easy, holy shit!" the girl said. "If you still haven't noticed, I'm piloting that big drone below the minimum safety altitude! Okay?"

Helen regained the manual control of Fat Boy, without using the usual satellite, trying to find again the required concentration.

"Okay, I'm sorry. But I don't understand... shit, that man is a real snake! Where is the jeep now?"

Robert took a deep breath, trying to put back together the pieces of his confidence, the same one that had suggested him to keep the police out of that matter.

"Wait, I haven't finished..."

Helen pursed her lips again, in her typical gesture of concentration.

"I have two more targets," she added, "okay, it's Kazim and... your son Chris. They are moving to the north in a car, that is the opposite direction than Ahmad."

A long breath marked the end of that horrible sentence, as Helen kept maneuvering Fat Boy in relation with the two different targets.

The explosion the man felt inside didn't spread outside, it was confined inside his body. His crazed heart was franticly pumping all his anguish to his brain, preventing any reaction. The vibration of his phone made the Italian agent open his eyes again.

"Robby, damn it, why don't you answer the phone, at least every once in a while?" barked Benaski.

"Uh, sorry, but it's not a good time. I'll call you later."

Masi was already thinking about the phone call he would immediately make to Leonardi, asking him to get the police on the move.

"No, wait a minute. Just tell me if you've seen Helen in the last few hours."

"Where are you now?"

"We're almost at the air base of... um, Grosseto."

"Who's there with you?"

"Gonzales. We must embark because we got orders to withdraw, and Helen seems to have escaped, the bitch."

Robert glanced at the girl beside him. She was helping him against all logic, exposing herself to the risk of being detected. Why was she doing that?

"Please Hans, listen to me. You're just a few miles from me and I need a favor."

In the seconds that followed, Robert informed his colleague of the drama he was going through, then he remained in apnea, relentlessly tormenting the steering wheel of the car.

His eyes stared at Helen's chest, betraying an increasingly frequent breathing. If the American agent had agreed to cooperate, she would be immediately discovered. Sure, she did not have many choices, but there she was.

"Why is she doing that?"

"Of course you're a fucking clever bastard! You really needed to fuck her, huh?"

Benaski was losing control again but he restrained himself, as he met Carmen's astonished gaze.

"Christ! What does this have to do with it now? Just tell me if you're helping me or not!"

Masi stopped the car near the bridge that connected the two sides of Castiglione della Pescaia, separated by the river Bruna. The wind intensity was increasing, whipping the tops of the pine trees that at times seemed to reach out even more to the black of the sky.

"Ah yes, first you fuck her, then use her. Well! Remember that you are violating..."

Robert ended the call with an angry gesture.

"What did that idiot say?" Helen ventured, breathing normally again.

"We've known each other for a long time... oh well, maybe I asked too much. Tell me the direction Chris is going, while I call Leonardi. Let's move!"

He felt dejected by Hans' attitude, but also surprised, because he was so informed about his recent sexual activity.

"How the hell did he know?"

In the meantime, the car they on which Benaski and Gonzales were travelling stopped at the gate of Grosseto airport, home of the 4th Wing of the Italian Air Force and occasional site of the U.S. aviation operations.

The Learjet executive that would bring them to the United States was inside a secondary hangar, ready for takeoff.

Benaski considered the implications of Helen not returning. He would have to call Scott Jenkins and inform him of the failure of his search, admitting that he had been fooled like any idiot.

"Okay," Hans thought, "let's do the damn call."

A few miles away, Masi turned onto the bridge, turning north following Helen's indications, then picked up the phone to call Leonardi, but it vibrated again. For a moment he was tempted to ignore the call, but his finger had already automatically moved to the answer button.

"It's Kimiya. I'll only take a few moments... may I?"

"Yes, but fast please."

Robert was paying the girl an attention he would not grant anyone else, because he suspected the subject of that call.

"In the dream I told you about, the one in which the four-fingers-kidnapper faces his nightmares, there's a dog that seems to bite your son. You have to follow that dog, you understand?"

The girl seemed in the grip of uncontrollable emotion.

"Okay, I'll remember. Anything else? "

"Well... just a yellow house with no windows. That's all I remember."

"Thank you, really, thank you."

Masi impatiently hung up, because he heard a call waiting tone.

"Hey, you're not mad at me, are you?" Benaski said with a blatantly false incredulous tone.

"What the fuck do you want?"

Robert knew well what his colleague aimed at.

"Look Robby, I'm almost at the bridge. Still need that help or not?"

Masi silently watched the boats in the marina, swaying to the rhythm of the wind, then stared at Helen and at those lips he had kissed. He even thought he saw a nod, but maybe it was an unconscious gesture made while flying Fat Boy.

A damn sliding door was opening in his mind, a door he had to decide whether to cross or not. In or out. With that choice he would change the destiny of many people. Including his own.

"All right, Hans. Where are you exactly?"

Robert imagined the grin that was sprouting on his colleague's face.

"I'm handing this girl in the hands of her executioner."

That nagging thought started to pound on his brain, preventing him from focusing on the disaster that was coming down on his family.

"Okay, Robby, tell Helen to connect to Carmen's Journal. As soon as we have the map on the screen, we'll move to intercept Ahmad. You will see our position as well."

Benaski was already looking forward to the moment when he would finally grab his prey, going before Jenkins with both girls, and the device intact.

"Okay. I'm connected."

Helen knew she had to communicate with Carmen somehow, but she chose not to be the first to do that.

"Put on your earpieces and avoid designating targets," the girl concluded while pointing to Masi the direction of the vehicle containing Kazim and Christian. The only one who had not yet spoken was Carmen.

The Journal only showed the map to the benefit of Benaski and nothing else. No parameters had been linked by Helen, who was also independently in charge of piloting Fat Boy. The audio channel was open, but the Spanish had the possibility to type a message on the laptop and send it directly to the device, so that the former lieutenant could receive it without the aid of ears.

Carmen looked sideways at Benaski, just to make sure he was busy enough, then her fingers flew on the keyboard.

Hola. Are you still mad at me?

A few moments later, Helen's answer appeared on the monitor, under the guise of a common service message.

Fuck you.

Think again about my offer, because your prospects are no better.

You exploited the friendship I offered you!

No! What do you think will happen to you as soon as that demented, Hans, will have his hands on you?

Leave me alone!

Do you think Robert is your friend? He's using you!

I... I volunteered to help him.

Bueno. Think about it, anyway. A contract and a lot of money, remember.

"Kazim's car stopped just at the end of this road."

Helen drove the thought of Carmen away and pointed at the windshield, at an invisible location.

"Is Chris still in the car?" Masi squinted, trying to see beyond the glow of his headlights that lit up that country lane. "How far are they?"

"Um... less than two hundred meters and... wait! They both left the car!"

"Oh shit! Tell me if Kazim is armed!"

Robert opened the door of the car and literally flung himself in the street, engulfed in a dull haze. He held the torch pointed at a low stone wall that ran along the path, obtaining a very precise reference.

"Negative! He's not armed!"

Helen tried to ignore the sudden sense of unease that was seizing her, that she believed was due to being alone, in the dark of an empty alley.

"How far?" Robert whispered in his earpiece, crouching and keeping the light almost on his feet, causing of a myriad of insects to run away among the glistening grass blades.

"You're there... you're there! You should already see his car!"

"Where's Chris? Can you still see him?"

Finally, the outline of a car materialized in front of the man. The sudden cry of an owl made him wince.

"Don't stop, go... go! I think he's going into some sort of cave because I'm losing him!"

"But why is this anxiety coming over me? Why?"

Helen took a deep breath, trying to narrow down what so far was still only a nuisance.

"Damn it... the road ends here," yelled the agent "where the fuck do I go now?"

Then he cursed the circumstances that had prevented him from having the precious night vision goggles provided to the Boutique team.

"Wait! An animal is coming toward you... be careful... a dog! It's a dog!"

Robert's heart leaped, speeding its pulse. For long moments he stood frozen in place, hearing Kimiya's words echoing in his brain. Then the instinctive reflex toward a silent shadow made him light up the air in front of him and the face of a German Shepherd came out of the darkness.

"But Christ, why a dog!?! Damn dogs!"

Robert forced himself to ignore the phobia for that animal, trying to make sense of those eyes staring at him, heedless of the glare of the flashlight pointed at them.

"Robby? Did you stop?"

Helen was barely holding her anxiety in, not even her device seemed to be of help.

"What the hell, the dog has something in its mouth. It's Christian's sweatshirt, holy shit!"

The animal held the garment between its teeth and seemed to run away, but stopped after a few yards, almost as if to check that the man was following him.

You have to follow that dog.

Masi started to run, around him the scent of rosemary and echoes of night birds of prey. Then, inside a depression in the ground, he saw three large irregular openings, which seemed to be painted of a dense and impenetrable black, much darker than the darkness around.

Robert stretched out his arm holding the flashlight, illuminating the entrance of the cave in which the dog slipped without delay, moving away from the endless chirping of cicadas. The unpleasant sensation of the mud he threaded on beneath those cold damp walls almost immediately attacked him, mingling with the puffs of his breath and the hum of the animal that was moving ahead of him, determined and with ears pricked.

"Christian! Christian!"

That sort of little cave returned no echo, Robert noticed. Certainly it wasn't deep. Then the dog started to wag his tail and his jaws, until then tightened on the boy's sweatshirt, opened, allowing the animal to bark furiously.

The man tightened his grip on the gun he was holding with both hands along with the flashlight, until the beam of light fell on two wide and frightened eyes that were screaming their desire to escape from that horrible place.

"Chris! Chris... it's you! It's you!"

Robert swung the flashlight around before approaching his son. There was no sign of Kazim.

The dog jumped on the kid, licking his face and swinging his tail like a propeller, while Masi gently removed the tape from his son's mouth.

"Chris, are you okay? Where is that man?"

Robert was almost begging, his voice broken by emotion, as he freed Chris' hands and feet as well.

"We... we left the agency..." Christian sobbed "they... took us..." he went on before finally yielding to tears.

"All right, little one... okay," the man hugged his son, inadvertently including the dog that had led him there, "but where is the man who brought you to this place?" he insisted.

"I don't know... he just left me here," Christian whimpered, caressing the dream of his life. He had repeatedly asked his father for a dog, always receiving a refusal.

Robert stood up, flicking the flashlight in front of him again.

"Now we have to go."

"Ahmad deceived me once again" the agent thought "he made me follow my son only to be free to... what? And where did Kazim disappear?"

"Come on... let's go!"

Robert grabbed Christian's hand, running along the few feet that separated him from the exit.

"Hans... are you there?" he shouted in the earpiece.

"Positive! Please tell Helen to reconnect with us... I'm calling her but that stupid girl doesn't answers!"

Benaski finished the sentence with his voice altered by frustration. The idea that the girl could disconnect at will made him mad.

"If I'm not connected, I don't have the map, do you understand Robby? I don't have the map, dammit, and I can't help you," he yelled.

"Okay, got that. I'm coming, Chris is here with me," Masi gasped, stepping again on solid ground, covered by wet grass.

"Helen! Are you there? Christ, Helen... answer me!" he cried, hurrying toward his car, sparkling with dew.

Inside the car the girl was breathing furiously, overcome by an anxiety that should not have existed in the logic of the device.

No one was measuring her intensity value, the parameter that determined the total flow at the expense of her nervous system, and she had decided that the limit for that mission would be determined by panic. Just what was about to happen.

Helen had disconnected from Carmen's Journal and isolated herself from the audio channel, failing to improve that way her emotional situation. She found herself clinging to her seat, her skin wrapped in an unbearable cold sweat that made her shiver, making even the simplest gesture impossible. And then there was that word, which seemed to have surreptitiously entered her mind.

Answer.

Any other thought appeared marginalized and that single word was raping her brain, wedging mercilessly between amazement and reason.

Answer.

The wide eyes of the girl were staring at the inside of the visor, unable to initiate any optical command and leaving Fat Boy on an infinite straight route.

Answer.

The conjecture that eventually developed into her mind took her breath away.

So it was true. There was at least another device able to communicate directly with hers. But who was the sender of that single word?, Helen wondered, exploring with increasing frenzy the possibilities offered by the brain buttons to formulate a response.

The former lieutenant was finally able to send out her message via her device, holding her breath.

Who are you?

I'm not going to hurt this woman.

What woman are you talking about? Who are you?

You haven't figured that out yet?

The side window was rocked by a powerful punch and the former lieutenant winced.

"Helen, dammit! Why did you disconnect?"

Masi opened the rear door of the car, letting Christian and his dog in, then sat down on the driver's seat.

"Robby you're a jerk! I already told you not to do that!" the girl hissed, thinning her lips until she showed her teeth.

"Okay, okay," Robert replied, raising his hands, "please, connect to Carmen again. We managed to find Christian, but Vicky is still hostage to Ahmad," pleaded the man.

"Vicky is not in danger. She never was, just like your son."

Helen's lips curled, their surface creased slightly.

"What? And how do you know?"

Masi drove off, making the tires screech on the asphalt and going back along the lane.

"Ahmad's target is not you, nor your family," the girl said with confidence, resuming her control of Fat Boy.

Helen turned her head slightly toward the rear of the vehicle, as if to question Christian with her eyes, then returned to her initial position.

"That man contacted me," she said with a confident tone.

"When? Tell me when you heard from him!"

Robert's eyes darted between the girl's face and the asphalt that ran toward him.

"He's looking for me, only me," the former lieutenant nodded, her chin trembling.

"Hey Robby! Do we have the damn connection? Shit, we are stuck here like idiots!"

The evident frustration of Benaski seemed to come directly into Masi's earpiece.

"Okay, Hans, wait..."

The Italian agent sank his foot on the pedal following Helen's instructions. Christian did not seem scared at all, and was in fact following the events with excitement, holding back the thousand questions he wanted to ask.

"Christ! What are you waiting for?" the American agent roared, furious "Robby! We are standing still, you understood? S-t-i-l-l!"

Masi looked up at the sky. That irritating voice was beginning to grate on his nerves.

"Okay, you asked for it! Bastard!" Benaski shouted in the earpiece, grabbing his phone to call Jenkins.

"Nothing yet?" he growled looking at the Journal in Carmen's lap.

"Nada."

The Spanish shook her head, aware that she had lost the connection, five million dollars and her only friend in the past two years.

"Mierda."

Masi contemptuously threw the earpiece on the dashboard, facing yet another curve at high speed.

"Helen, tell me. How did Ahmad contact you?"

"Through my device," the girl admitted, "it seems clear that he has been implanted one too..." she tried to explain, above all to herself.

Only now that she had said it and not just thought it, Helen realized how many incredible consequences had been triggered.

"Dad, we go get mom now?" the boy asked, stroking the dog curled up at his feet.

"Yes, but now stay low like I told you," Robert ordered him, wondering how it was possible that Ahmad had in his body the same device as Helen.

The tree-lined avenue that the girl was pointing to seemed endless and Masi immediately recognized it. He could not glimpse its end, and the trunks of the trees seemed to stretch toward the sky, sinking their branches directly in the thick black clouds illuminated by lightning.

Both stood silent, bewildered and unable to express with simple words all the questions swirling in their minds.

"Okay. We are approaching your wife's car," Helen said, wondering why all that was happening.

Why a mission started under the star of Markar Kazemian was ending in such an incomprehensible way?

"Why?"

The former lieutenant closed her eyes, until a blinding flash lit up a boundless area of the sky.

"No! No! We just needed this... shit!" Helen shouted, angrily shaking her fist in the air.

The sudden lightning that attacked Fat Boy ended its run in the wooded area below, incinerating some tree trunk. The structure of the drone came out of it unscathed thanks to the devices placed along its wings and tail, but some of its circuits were damaged.

"What happened?"

Masi jumped due to a mighty thunder, as he was running at full speed toward his house, following the latest information received.

"A fucking lightning struck Fat Boy. There are some systems out of order and I'm having trouble maneuvering it... look what bad luck!"

The former lieutenant put hers hands over her face, dejected.

"Do you think it will fall?"

It's like running an obstacle course with bound feet, Robert mused looking up at the sky.

"I think I'll have to call Carmen and put her in control... fuck it!"

"Is it really necessary? You'd be immediately detected, wouldn't you?"

"I can make it land, but I need the satellite connection. They'd find me immediately anyway," Helen explained with a very meaningful grimace. "By the way... we reached our target. Over there! "

The girl pointed at a group of low houses that stood out against the darkness, lit by a few street lights.

"Yes, I see Vicky's jeep" Masi snorted, feeling his heart beating furiously.

"Okay, I'm going. Chris, stay in this car no matter what happens, is that clear?" he ordered pointing is forefinger at his son.

"Dad, can we keep the dog? Please!" the little boy pleaded, hugging his new friend.

"Well... we'll talk about that," the man conceded, showing his palm to the boy as if to put a stop to that unforeseen request. "Helen, please, stay with him until I come back, okay?"

"You don't understand!" the former lieutenant exclaimed in wonder, pulling off her helmet. "He's looking for me," she spelled with emphasis, pointing at herself with both her forefingers. "I... I think I helped you because subconsciously I knew I had to meet him, you see?"

"Let's say I go first and in the meantime you connect to Carmen to have that beast land?"

Masi rushed out of the car without waiting for the predictable answer of the girl, then ran along the windswept bushes placed around a little square.

Vicky's jeep was right in front of their house, a delightful yellow chalet within a group of houses still under construction, intended for tourists. There was no one in sight, and the streetlamps swayed to the rhythm of the wind, spreading around a halo of uncertain light.

Staying close to the bushes, Masi approached the jeep, finally crouching behind that reassuring shape. After glancing at the front of his house, a nagging thought started to pound on his mind.

A yellow house with no windows.

Kimiya's dream seemed to overlap the image of what he was seeing, creating a rough feeling in his mind.

"Something is going to happen," Robert thought, observing a multitude of dry leaves whirling between his feet.

The next moment he saw with horror the unmistakable silhouette of Helen approaching the bushes, evidently determined to follow him. He decided to meet her halfway, glad after all to be moving away from the likely epicenter of that damn dream. After a few steps, he felt the distinct sensation of a sudden and overwhelming silence that engulfed even the wind.

It might be a coincidence, or might it?

The dazzling light that tore the darkness right afterward anticipated by a split second the roar that spread in the air, causing a shockwave that hit him squarely. After fumbling uselessly, as if looking for an invisible hold, the man was thrown a few yards forward, right at the edge of the square.

The wreckage of the jeep fell heavily to the ground, after having been lifted by an explosion that had also damaged the facade of the house. The eyes of those who would come shortly thereafter would see a square disfigured by the wreckage, and the facade of a house with all windows broken.

A yellow house with no windows.

***

Vittoria was restless. She kept tugging in vain at the rope that bound her to the radiator, with the only result of getting deeper marks around her wrists.

"What did he do? My God, what did he do?"

Ahmad opened his arms, exasperated by the fact that the woman refused to understand.

"I warned you that your car would be blown up."

He himself was confused and bewildered by his new priorities, which seemed to have deleted all past events. Now he was speaking in English with the wife of Robert Masi, and could even communicate from a distance with a woman with the same ability.

"Where is my son?" Vittoria sobbed "please..." she pleaded, collapsing on the floor of the basement of her house.

"Bah! I already explained that I'm not interested in you," Ahmad hissed contemptuously, accompanying the statement with a gesture drawn in the air, as if to ward off something annoying.

"Then let me go!" the woman found the strength to scream, her eyes shiny with tears.

Ahmad pulled his cigarettes out from his pants pocket, deliberately ignoring Vittoria's groans, and brought one to his mouth, lighting it with deliberate slowness.

"Did you hear me? Let me out!" the woman shouted at the top of her lungs, now at the height of exasperation, "why... why? What have we done?" she insisted, naively trying to break free from the ropes that held her prisoner.

"Stop it," the man ordered in a peremptory tone, moving closer to Vittoria and pointing his forefinger at her.

"No! Not until..."

Ahmad slapped her cheek, catching her by surprise and leaving her gasping for air.

"Sorry. But I'm not patient," he admonished her, arching an eyebrow.

"Coward! Asshole," she growled, dominated by those black, dull eyes.

Ahmad suddenly turned his back to Vittoria. He didn't want to focus on such trivialities, but on the disorder that reigned in his mind, from which escaping seemed impossible.

He had attracted the woman with whom he talked from a distance by abducting the Italian agent's family. It had been simple, he was pleased.

The jeep had exploded at the best of times, blocking Robert without taking his life.

"I've only known the secret location of the explosive since this morning" the man mused "immediately after the endless vertigo that seemed like it would never leave me again."

The conjecture that emerged from that disorder took shape in an instant. All his memories had been wiped out, leaving only one priority alive, imposed by the file that had crept into his mind.

Survival. Not of his body, but of the device he bore behind his ear.

Ahmad ran his fingers again on the little smooth surface of that scar. He just could not remember when he had got it, but that was meaningless now.

The neural button that appeared in his mind informed him that it was possible to talk to that American woman. Finally.

Answer.

Why did you cause that explosion?

How should I call you?

Helen.

Come behind the house, Helen. The door you'll see leads to a basement.

Was it really necessary? Tell me, Ahmad!

After having been the prey of that woman for so many days, the Iranian agent was not at all surprised that she knew his name.

He wanted to look into her eyes.

***

Helen could not remember clearly the latest moments of her life.

After passing the control of Fat Boy to Carmen, she had left the car, promising a beautiful gift to Christian if he waited in there and behaved.

The last thing she remembered was the problem found in going down the few steps leading to the square. Then nothing.

The burning wreckage of the jeep and the debris scattered everywhere had brought her back to reality. After opening her eyes and moving her arms and legs one at a time, she had found herself staring at Masi's body. He had most likely been hit by the explosion and was now lying on the steps, motionless.

With tentative steps, Helen approached him, her heart went crazy. Holding her breath, she clearly perceived the pulse at the man's throat, and it was then that she started to tremble.

"Are you an angel come down from heaven?" the man found the strength to whisper, squinting.

The girl could not hold back the tears that were now streaming down her dusty cheeks, then she closed her eyes, overcome by fatigue.

"Fat Boy had smelled the explosives and I was running to tell you..." she murmured, still shaking her head.

"Chris... where's Chris?"

Robert's beautiful green eyes looked like emeralds laid on ashes, just like the look of his face.

Helen smiled, trying to wipe away her tears with her hands.

"Your son is fine, I left him guarding my helmet. Vicky is in no danger, but she still is with Ahmad. Now I really have to go."

The fire burning nearby painted the specks of gold in her sad and shiny eyes like rays of sun, while the surrounding darkness was recovering its domain. The gusts of wind had died down, a clear indication that rain would soon fall, suppressing that awful silence.

The girl stood up, going without rushing toward Robert's house.

Helen, why aren't you here?

You unleashed hell out here.

It was necessary. You had to come alone.

You know what awaits you, don't you?

I know. We have the same priority.

The back door was open, revealing a few steps illuminated by a cold neon light.

Helen bowed her head, her eyes lingering on the foot going down the first step, checking all subsequent ones.

"Please, help me!" Vittoria begged. Almost forgetting she was tied, she tried to move towards the American girl, holding out her wrists, without getting the attention she was seeking.

Helen had stopped suddenly, staring at Ahmad. She seemed like enraptured by the absolute black of his eyes, so clouded that they seemed to absorb the surrounding light, overshadowing the gun that the man was pointing at her.

The eyes of the Iranian refused to move away from that woman, with her long blond hair and an absurdly short wrinkled red dress.

"Why did they trust a woman," he thought, "ignoring the higher – well-known – abilities of men?"

So... you're Helen.

You're pointing a gun at me, I see.

My priority requires me to.

Maybe you think you might save yourself this way?

Vittoria knelt on the floor, stunned. Her eyes rebounded tirelessly from that girl covered with a patina of dust to the man who shook a gun in front of him. The small basement, with its low ceiling and uncertain light, seemed to turn around her as she guessed that something was going on between those two. A dialogue without words, made up by looks and gestures that evoked tension and fear, as if taken from a story by Edgar Allan Poe.

Ahmad, you don't remember anything, do you?

I remember my priority. Survival.

I know. It's the same order I received. Doesn't it ring a bell?

No. You tell me.

Ever since you got the device, they've been always maneuvering you, Ahmad.

The man touched again the scar behind his ear.

The device... but when did it happen, and why?

You are part of a project called "Minerva", and you have simply been... recruited.

I don't remember being recruited!

You've been caught a few weeks ago, and the device that was implanted erased from your memory... the unwanted parts.

Why are you telling me all this? You too have that shit in your head!

I need to ensure the survival of your device, Ahmad.

Helen had known about her new task only recently. The file containing all details had opened in her mind while she was in the woods, when she had realized she wasn't the only one equipped with a device.

Then the horrible feeling of having been simply used to retrieve Ahmad had crept into her head.

So none of the actions of those troubled days could be considered random, the former lieutenant admitted, even her spontaneous offer to help Robert had been somehow controlled to advance her toward that goal.

After a moment's hesitation, the Iranian lowered his gun, then pointed the weapon at himself, putting the barrel into his mouth, under the terrified eyes of Vittoria.

"No! Don't do it!" Helen shouted, rushing forward with her arms outstretched.

With one unpredictable jerk, Ahmad pointed the gun back at her, without a word, his eyes expressionless, overcome by humiliation.

The shot struck their ears first, spreading a loud bang in that cramped room. Then the sudden vibration went through their bodies, and their pulses skyrocketed.

Helen turned around, disoriented by the shadow that was stretching on the floor.

A vaguely familiar figure was moving into the small basement, holding a gun with both hands. The dim neon light seemed to embroider the coils of smoke that were still coming out of the barrel of the weapon, eventually dispersing all around.

Ahmad raised one hand to his chest, compressing the dark stain that was spreading on his white shirt, before falling heavily to the floor with a feeble whimper.

Helen slowly backed away, flattening her back against the wall, only wishing to get out of the line of fire.

"Ka... zim..." Ahmad muttered in a faint voice. "Why?"

At the very moment in which the Iranian clumsily tried to raise the gun, his recurring nightmare overlapped reality. He had already felt before the next two bullets that hit his chest, waking up immediately afterward in the throes of sweat and panic. But this time it would end differently.

Ahmad's eyes remained open, almost giving the impression of being still alive while he was no longer breathing.

Kazim approached him without losing sight of Helen. On the opposite side, Vittoria was moaning, curled up against the radiator. The man kicked away the gun of his team leader, murmuring something that sounded like a prayer.

A sudden screech of tires startled everybody, and three pairs of eyes stared at the same time at the confused beams of flashlights that seemed to cleave the darkness like swords of light, ahead of the raid.

The two members of the Red Team who swooped down in the basement already knew where to jump. Shouting the words imposed by their training, they brutally threw Kazim with his face to the ground, pinning him under their combat boots and handcuffing his hands behind his back.

Benaski exploited Helen's bewilderment, coming up to her and pressing the barrel of his gun against her neck. The girl's eyes widened, as she tried to suck in as much air as possible from her open mouth. Then she felt someone grab her from behind, unable to do anything to prevent it.

"I warned you, bitch..." Hans whispered in her ear, bending her arm behind her back in an unnatural way. He glimpsed from the corner of an eye that Vittoria was raising her hands over her ears, trying to protect herself from an as yet unknown ferocity. Then Benaski grabbed a lock of Helen's hair, making her bend her head back, while with his other hand he pressed the gun against her throat, looking for a reaction that authorized him to go hard on her.

"Forget that bullshit! Shoot her and that's it," a member of the Red Team shouted, exploding in turn a point-blank shot against a terrorized Kazim.

Hans looked into Helen's eyes, hoping to find fear, that would have made him rejoice again. Instead he collided with resignation, revealed by a blank face and an apparently insensitive body.

"Why isn't this cursed hybrid woman afraid?"

With a grimace of distaste Benaski pulled the trigger, wishing with all his might to see that girl go limp and fall at his feet. Instead that damn gun only fired a microcapsule, one of those that could be detected by the mobiles provided to the Red Team, exactly the same treatment that had been just reserved to Kazim.

Helen did not show any visible reaction. She did not mean to play the strings that dwelt in the depths of her soul, thus offering that bastard the opportunity to torment her again. Her body had pulled the plug.

A plastic canvas bag appeared in the basement and Ahmad's body was quickly placed inside it, without care for his blood that stained everywhere. One of the Red Team men quickly inspected the head of the corpse with some kind of scanner, then raised his thumb to his colleague, a sign that the device was intact.

Ahmad' s face disappeared behind the zipper of that awful black bag. The two men grabbed the handles on the sides of the envelope and carried it out of the basement.

Kazim stood sitting on the floor with his legs crossed and his wrists handcuffed behind his back. The isolation caused by the black hood that had been put over his head made him swing back and forth, endlessly, as he prayed quietly.

Nobody took any care for Vittoria, and when Masi laboriously climbed down the steps of his basement, he found her with a vacant stare in her eyes and her hands on her mouth.

"Vicky... oh Vicky! I'm here..."

Robert limped for a few steps, then fell on his knees before her, hugging her.

The woman seemed to wake up, blinking and swallowing repeatedly.

"Chris... where's Chris?" she asked in a faint voice, clinging to her husband.

"He's in the car, outside. He's fine..."

The man took Victoria's tried face in his hands, touching her forehead with his.

"It's over Vicky... it's over!" he assured, untying her wrists.

The sneer of Benaski emerged from the shadows like a ghost. At his side, Helen was staring at the floor, subdued by the grip the American agent had on her arm.

"Robby, you're in a lot of trouble... you know, don't you?"

"Fuck you Hans. It's thanks to your Agency if we got this far," Masi replied standing up, his voice full of resentment.

"Oh, yeah? Well, it wasn't me who fucked Helen and then used her without authorization!"

The idiotic smile that appeared on Benaski's face emphasized his pleasure in reporting those details.

"What? What did that man say Robby? You did... what?"

Vittoria's eyes ran from that blonde girl to the scratches on Robert's cheek and back, once, twice, five times.

"No, Vicky, don't listen to him! Without her I would never have found you and Christian!" Robert pleaded, trying to drag that conversation out of the minefield in which Hans had thrown him.

"I'm going out, to Chris..." Vittoria stammered, crossing Helen's vacant stare and trying to ignore the horrible blood stain right in the middle of her basement.

"Sure you really are a piece of shit!" Robert growled when his wife was gone, "what need was there of doing that? We recovered Kazemian... that was what you wanted, shit!" he shouted, realizing that he was panting because of the pain.

"Ah, Kazemian, right..." Benaski snorted, waving a hand in the air with clear disgust.

"Christ! The goal was never the Iranian engineer!"

Masi winced, realizing immediately that he had been used for a purpose unknown even to Leonardi. Or was he? Whom had he risked his life for, and in whose name had the safety of his family been put repeatedly on the stake?

"You know, I'm curious as to why this rogue shot Ahmad. Are you still able to help me?"

Hans ostentatiously ignored the amazement on the face of his colleague and moved towards Kazim, dragging Helen with him.

Clenching his jaw, Robert approached that hooded figure that wouldn't stop swinging, then touched his shoulder, stopping his motion. When he took off the hood he found himself in front of a sweaty but quite calm boy that was staring at him, frowning.

"Hasti Kazim? ...are you Kazim?"

Masi tried to bend his knees, but gave up because of the pain he felt with every movement.

The boy showed no sign of wanting to answer. His eyes explored his surroundings again, lingering on Helen.

Without warning, Benaski kicked him square in the chest with the sole of his shoe, pushing him violently backward. Kazim uttered no sound and stood huddled on the floor, breathing heavily.

"This is not necessary, shit! Wait a minute," Masi cried, grabbing and dragging the boy against the wall, regardless of the painful consequences this would have on his body.

"Helen... do you have... a cigarette... please..." he begged, panting.

Without a word, the girl plunged her hand into the pocket of her jacket, fishing out of it a packet and a lighter.

"Lotfan, Hasti Kazim? ...please, are you Kazim?" Masi repeated, putting the cigarette to his lips without lighting it.

"Bale, as Kazim-am... yes, I'm Kazim."

"Can you tell me what happened?"

"We hadn't been instructed to abduct women and children..."

The boy kept shaking his head, then stopped, parting his lips. When Robert made him breath in a puff from the cigarette he went on.

"You need to know. Ahmad took personal initiative, without consulting his superiors. And then in the last few days he behaved strangely, he was like... crazy."

Kazim squinted, as if to erase a horrible memory, then leaned toward the cigarette.

"Ask this bastard if he received the order to kill, or if he took the decision himself," Benaski ordered with contempt after hearing the translation.

"I didn't wait for the order," said the boy, "his behavior was against the interests of the mission and of our nation... no, I didn't wait for that order. They know that it's not necessary, when they throw mud and disrepute on our people," Kazim murmured, overwhelmed by the infamy of the act he had been forced to undertake.

"Okay, let's get moving. Soon there will be pandemonium here and I want to be on a plane home as soon as possible," Hans barked, pointing at the exit of the basement.

The storm that was lashing the area seemed to lose intensity. After suffocating the last tongues of fire that snaked out from the wreckage of the jeep, it left a vast oily slick that made the underlying water look solid.

The two members of the Red Team had already left with the body of Ahmad, thereby ensuring the survival of the device. Scott Jenkins had been clear on the matter, demanding the overall integrity of the head and pointing out that the chest was the only part to hit. Nobody would have imagined that it would be his companion to shoot, and right at the chest, unheedingly saving the precious equipment.

Masi ignored the downpour that greeted him when he left the basement and ran limping towards the dark sedan that Benaski was pointing at, without looking back. When he opened the luggage compartment, he turned around just in time to see Hans, heedless of the rain tormenting his face, come outdoors pushing Helen and Kazim in front of him, both handcuffed.

The blow that Benaski vibrated on the head of the young Kurd brought him down, with his torso inside the trunk. In a few moments also his legs were pushed into the narrow compartment, accompanied by a grimace from Robert, doubled over in pain because of the effort.

As soon as he managed to straighten himself, he saw Helen, standing in front of him. The cold light of the street lamps highlighted her features, carved by the hair plastered on her face.

It seemed that the girl was about to say something, but Hans did not even give her time to open her mouth. He grabbed her arm and pushed her forcibly in the passenger side of the car, turning the handcuffs around the sturdy handle before tightening her wrists.

"Don't say anything. Got it? Anything!" Benaski warned, pointing his finger at his colleague.

"Christ, there's no need for this!" Masi said, opening his arms, "you and your people put my family in danger and she helped me, that's all!"

The pang he felt in his chest advised him to avoid other sudden movements and made him bend forward, aching.

"You refuse to understand, don't you?" Hans growled, moving closer to Robert and almost casually letting his gun hang at the end of his dangling arm.

"Are you threatening me? Is that what you're doing?"

"You know, we should never have involved you," Benaski said, going back and sitting in the driver's seat of the vehicle.

"Really? You gave a new meaning to the word 'collaboration'," Masi shouted hoarsely.

"Go away, Robby!"

Helen stared straight ahead, ignoring Robert's eyes.

His eyes slid on that girl, sitting uncomfortably, before Hans unceremoniously slammed violently the car door and started toward the airport of Grosseto, tires screeching on the road.

***

"Hey, let me wear the belt," Helen complained, nodding toward the buckle.

Her hands ached inside those unbearable handcuffs and were starting to get numb. She moved her fingers so that the blood would circulate with a minimum of continuity.

"Shut up!" Benaski barked, looking at the blue glows lighting up his rearview mirror, the first sign that the first nosy people were coming.

"Come on, fasten that fucking belt, damn it!"

Helen was cold and an uncontrollable trembling started to spread throughout her body.

Hans didn't even deign to look at her, calculating instead the optimal outcome of his mission in Italy. The two subjects to whom the device had been implanted were returning to the United States, and never mind if one was dead. Even engineer Kazemian and his family would take the same flight, while the Iranian spy Kazim would be withheld, after all he had never existed.

Perfect.

The man looked at his watch. Few minutes and he would be at the air base in Grosseto, where the Learjet was waiting for them.

"Did you hear me? I want that belt, do you understand? I panic if I don't wear it," Helen barked, twitching nervously in her seat.

From the corner of an eye Benaski watched those bare legs thrashing about so close to him. The lace panties he could glimpse excited and infuriated him at the same time. His breathing now labored, the man pulled the car between two trees, stopping along a dark path that skirted a ravine.

"What the hell are you doing?" the former lieutenant asked worriedly, turning pale and sensing that something had snapped in Hans' mind.

Turning to her, Benaski took her face in one hand, squeezing with increasing strength and insinuating the other hand between her sweaty breasts.

Helen's eyes widened in disbelief and terror. She could not scream, she almost couldn't even breathe, with that man above her. Perfectly aware of the scars that she would get around her wrists, she kept yanking the damn handcuffs, until she felt Benaski's hand sliding up along her thighs, still wet from the rain.

"You'd better not. You will get a lot of trouble because the device records everything... asshole!" she lied, mumbling with her mouth twitched by the man's grip.

Hans pulled his hand away abruptly, but did not loosen his grip on Helen's face. He spent a few moments staring at those eyes reflecting the red of the car instrumentation, then decided he'd had enough. With a angry movement he pushed the girl's head away, then grabbed the buckle and fastened the belt without saying a word.

Helen felt the fear leave her body, dragging away also part of the tremor glued to her skin, a clear legacy of that moment of panic.

The following miles were crossed in silence, not even the sound of water raised by the tires could break the oppressing atmosphere inside the car.

Close to a small, badly lit crossroad, the girl suddenly leaned forward, thus locking the seat belt.

Hans turned to her, slowing down the vehicle unintentionally.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

Ignoring the man, Helen put her head between her knees and raised her feet onto the seat, almost achieving fetal position.

"Damn, tell me what's going on! Hybrid asshole!"

Benaski slowed down some more and reached out to the girl, intending to seize a lock of her hair to lift her head.

Helen closed her eyes.

I'm ready. Now!

Something that at first appeared like a diluted dark stain in the dark suddenly fell on the left side of the car, attracting Hans' attention.

"What the hell..." he had time to say before an SUV with its lights off materialized a few inches from his right window.

The crash was tremendous.

After the roar of the SUV at full throttle and the thud of the impact, the air was invaded by the screech of deformed metal. Finally the rammed car ended its run on the edge of a field, sliding on the wet tarmac.

A gust of wind waved a strangely oblique maritime pine, spraying water from its leaves onto the windshield of the SUV stopped across the road. The lights of the mighty vehicle flickered on and a single movement of the wiper cleaned the glass surface.

Helen, are you there?

Shit, where do you think I could go? These damn handcuffs are sawing my wrists!

Mierda... I'm coming.

A first attempt to restart the car failed.

Carmen Gonzales insisted, finally managing to bring the SUV she had borrowed from Grosseto airport's car fleet back to life. She maneuvered to avoid the myriad of glass shards gathered around the point of impact, then parked on the edge of the road, engine running.

Como estas querida, are you whole?

Yes, more or less. Come on, hurry up because I can't do much with these cuffs!

Estoy Aqui, you see me?

Helen managed to turn her head toward the window in which the Spanish had appeared, not remembering ever seeing her so beautiful.

Carmen put the Journal on the roof of the car, then opened the back door.

"Where's the key?" she asked entering the vehicle.

Benaski seemed as conscious as a beaten boxer. The curses coming out from his bloodied mouth chased the streams of breath expelled from his lungs.

"In the pocket of his shirt. Come on, it hurts... shit how it hurts!" Helen sobbed.

Anchored by the seat belt, she had remained steadfast in her place, but Hans had ruined on her because his belt hadn't been on, and all his weight was on her arms, still tied to the handle.

Carmen unceremoniously fumbled in the man's pocket, finding nothing.

"It's not here...! Mierda!" she said, exasperated.

Undaunted, she pushed through the airbags, now deflated, searching the agent with increasing agitation, until she realized that the key had probably flown somewhere during the crash.

"Wait... I try to move him," she gasped, pointing one foot against the dashboard and dragging the man away from Helen.

Benaski strained to see something with the only eye he could open, but the pain caused by the displacement made him resume his chanting of moaning and cursing.

"The key! The key!"

The former lieutenant pointed with her foot at an object on the floor of the car, lit up by the red glare of the lights on the dashboard. Carmen overstepped Hans and grabbed the precious piece of steel, frantically inserting it into the lock.

"Please..."

Helen pushed back the lump in her throat, but could not hold her labored breathing.

"Please, I can't take it anymore..." she groaned, with moist eyes and an irrepressible trembling.

When the handcuffs unlocked, the girl could no longer hold her tears, and abandoned herself into Carmen's arms, in a fit of tears.

"Querida, we have no more time."

The Spanish gently pulled away from the hug, then, with her usual coolness, she took the handcuffs, hooked one end to one of Benaski's wrists and the other at the steering wheel.

The man was startled when his only open eye met Helen's scowl, a few inches from his nose. The slap that hit the side of his face that wasn't swollen was painful and shook his entire body.

"This is for putting your hands on me... and also because you must always wear the belt... pig! Fuck you!" the former lieutenant shouted, putting all her anger in that single insult, then falling to her knees, exhausted.

"Vamos."

Gonzales was forced to push Helen out of the car, but not before stealing the phone of a dazed Benaski. The two women reached in a few moments the road, deserted at that hour of the night, quickly moving away on the SUV.

"You know, I almost got a stroke when I heard you in my head earlier," Vidali lit two cigarettes, handing one to Carmen with trembling hands.

"Madre de Dios, I logged out of desperation," the Spanish greedily sucked in a mouthful of smoke, "I don't resign to losing the only friend I have."

"Well, I was caught by surprise. The pig had just shot a detector in me, believing he would scare me, not knowing that I can dispel that kind of signal."

The American looked at her wrists, thinking about the violence she had suffered, and the one from which she had saved herself mainly due to the dense brain dialogue Carmen had started.

"Hey, what would you say, that I almost forced you to listen to me?" the Spanish protested, feigning indignation.

Helen didn't answer right away, she defiantly lowered the sun visor in front of her, staring at her reflection in the mirror.

"I don't know. I confess that when you connected, my heart opened up with joy, I will not deny it..." the former lieutenant looked at her hair glued to the contours of her face, considering the possibility of giving it a vaguely decent shape "and while talking to you I felt... reassured. But I can't forget what you've done."

The girl closed the visor then, holding the cigarette between her teeth, she took her hair with both hands, pushing them backwards.

"Ah, you can't forget," Carmen said angrily, "but you're here with me now!"

"I... fuck, I was scared shitless and I trusted you, okay?"

"I'm asking you one more chance. Please, you won't regret it!"

"You... ah, how I wish you could feel at least a bit of my distress, Jesus!"

The American shook her head, her cigarette drawing flaming circles in the dark.

"Hey, I am feeling it, we breathe the same air! Madre de Dios, You won't get rid of me so easily!"

Helen took her face in her hands, nodding.

"I've never had a friend like you. You are protective and kind... you didn't do that just to steal my trust, did you?"

It was almost a plea.

"No te preocupes, I'm really fond of you!" the Spanish laughed.

"You have to give up a lot of money, I guess."

"Mierda! I wasn't running after dollars, I wanted a different life, maybe a better one."

"We must not allow Ahmad's device to reach the laboratories of the Research Division intact," Helen said abruptly, without taking her eyes off the dotted line on the blacktop, illuminated by the headlights of the SUV.

"You've taken the words out of my mouth. The Minerva project is degenerating into something horrible," Carmen confirmed with a grimace.

"You said the body was taken by the Red Team," she finally asked, frowning.

"Yes. I believe that it's already on the plane that should have taken me as well."

Helen rubbed her eyes, starting to feel tired.

"Then it will be better not to waste time, right?"

"Oh, yes. Tremble, tremble, the witches have returned!"

The American raised her hands, mimicking a spell of which she would willingly do without.

The wheels of the powerful SUV attacked the asphalt even more, penetrating the mist that floated motionless on the road and turning it into an evanescent trail, ready to dissolve at the first light of dawn.

It was three in the morning of a gloomy and wet day. A thin strip of clearer sky was emerging from the horizon, prelude to dawn that the two women would see from up there, above those leaden clouds.

***

"Mind you, you won't charm with your chatter this time!"

"Vicky, I already told you more than I should have, please..."

"Like hell! I want to know if it's true that you fucked that girl!"

The woman turned to Robert, thus occupying only a small portion of the passenger seat. Her eyes could not help but stare at the scratches on her husband's cheek. Damn it, she had even dreamed about them the night before.

"Christ! With everything that happened? This is the thing you care for the most?"

The man glanced at the rearview mirror, checking that Christian was busy enough with the dog.

"Hey... I've had enough! I won't spend another minute with this doubt, you understand?" she whispered, moving closer to those scratches almost as if she wanted to question them.

"Well, it's not that simple..."

"Then it really is true!"

Vittoria sank in her seat, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Hey, I never lied to you, Vicky, and I won't do it this time either. Okay, I admit it, there was something. She took advantage of a moment of weakness..."

A moment later Masi wondered why he hadn't just lied.

"What an asshole! You're accusing another person, you realize that? Maremma ladra!"

"No! I'm just sharing the responsibilities properly," Robert cried softly, waving his forefinger.

"I wonder how many times you took advantage of such opportunities... what an idiot I have been!"

Vittoria kept shaking her head, her eyes were filled with tears.

"Afrter all, even that priest could not keep his dick in his cloth... males just can't restrain themselves, right?" she added, remembering a terrible event of child abuse happened in the previous year in Castiglione della Pescaia.

Masi turned to check Christian, but the boy was still playing with the dog, not noticing anything.

"But what does it have to do with it! Shit, you can't compare me to a priest with his instinct inhibited by the Church! And I never took advantage of any opportunity. I never did, I swear!" he finally begged, almost whispering.

She said nothing, she merely looked at the dark and ripped the pages of her memories one by one, throwing them into the fire of anger.

The car turned onto a long straight road, along a channel filled with black water. The cluster of lights that was approaching seemed to be reflected on the impalpable milky veil that hovered on that liquid surface, then the glow seemed to scatter around a perimeter, with a light tower on one side.

"Well, we're at the airport of Grosseto."

Masi looked at the SUV that seemed to be waiting, near a service gate.

"It will be a matter of a minute," the man added, releasing the seat belt.

After getting out of the car, he opened the rear door and grabbed Helen's neuronal helmet.

"Okay, I'll be right back. Hey, have you already thought of a name for this dog?" he asked Christian, smiling, receiving a look full of enthusiasm in return.

"I'm coming with you."

Vittoria's sharp look brooked no argument, it nailed her husband on the spot, and he stood half-inside the car, unable to react. In a moment the woman left the vehicle and walked toward the SUV.

"So, must we go?" she urged him with a meaningful gesture of her hand.

"Perfect. A face-to-face is just what I needed at this hour," Robert mused, walking ahead of Vittoria.

The door of the SUV opened to let Carmen's head peek out, her hair more tussled than ever.

"Okay, come in!" the girl yelled, pointing at the back of the vehicle with spasmodic gestures.

The Spanish did not seem upset by the presence of Vittoria, who entered the SUV without even looking where she was going. From the first moment she pointed her eyes on Helen, studying her every move and receiving just a single indifferent glance in return.

"I didn't just have to deliver the helmet... did I?"

Masi was referring to the phone call he had received a little earlier, in which Carmen had urged him to return the precious equipment.

"And leave you without your bedtime story?" she smiled, winking at Vittoria.

"Mierda... we have little time," she added, glancing at the clock. Then she turned to the newcomers, so as to form two pairs arranged opposite one another.

"Bueno... it all started two years ago with the birth of Minerva, an ambitious project born from the Research Division of the CIA and developed by the IntelReader Technologies, to which Helen and I belong. Well, we thought we were working on a military program, but we were wrong."

The wrinkles that appeared on Carmen's forehead revealed the concern for what she had discovered only a few days ago.

"Everything revolves around the implant in the human body of a revolutionary neural device," the Spanish went on. "Those who have it have the ability to talk to one another without speaking, acting with their minds directly on the equipment. All these neural connections are monitored through Minerva, by the Research Division, that programs and updates the devices constantly."

Carmen paused, breathing in the absolute silence and meeting the incredulous gaze of Vittoria.

"Excuse me, but this is absurd! Who would have a thing like that implanted in his head?"

The naive question of the woman didn't make anyone smile.

"When they offered it to me, I was a junkie with the rank of lieutenant," Helen's hoarse voice expressed a bitterness that went under the skin and caused shivers. "For sure I was the ideal subject for the first implant... but I don't regret doing it. The device in my head allows me to do the one thing I really want to do, fly."

The girl's eyes wandered around the car, as if Fat Boy could fly in there.

Vittoria raised her hand to her mouth in shock. Then she stared at the incredible specks of gold in the girl's eyes as she tried to separate her from the words she had just said. With her body she could have been a model, she thought, looking at her scarred wrists and mauled legs. Why did she reduce herself to that?

"I know what you're thinking," Helen's eyes came back to the present, going back to stare at Vittoria "I could have made other choices, that's true. Let's say that I launched hoping that the parachute would open before I crashed to the ground. And if it doesn't... well, at least I will have lived an exciting experience" she concluded tormenting her West Point ring.

Carmen took a deep breath, looking at her watch again.

"The clock is ticking and we're at the end of this estupida fable. When engineer Hawking, the creator of the device, was killed one week ago, I was able to acquire the notes he kept in his computer," the Spanish closed her eyes, reliving that moment. "When I read them I couldn't believe it! The real purpose of Minerva is to implant the device on foreign agents as well, in order to control them," Carmen revealed, theatrically emphasizing the wonder that should have appeared on the face of anyone who had listened to her statement.

The roar of engines suddenly pierced a silence that had become unbearable. Then a plane taxied on the runway and its lights were sucked in by the thick layer of clouds above the airport.

"They did it with Ahmad" Helen nodded, her voice rough as she stared at the floor of the SUV, "they implanted him the device unbeknownst to him, abducting him a few weeks ago. Afterwards Minerva constantly instructed him, and that's why he was always one step ahead of us."

The girl's eyes suddenly lit up.

"Ahmad's target was always to test the device, you see?" Helen said, looking for a confirmation in the eyes of the others and ignoring the staring eyes of Vittoria.

Masi now knew for sure he had been used, but at least he wanted to understand something.

"I don't understand... so what has Kazemian to do with all this?"

"Mierda, the escape of the Iranian engineer was real..." Carmen said with a grin, "and it happened at the right time. The CIA simply exploited the opportunity. Even the general believed he was handling the Boutique team just for that goal. He was unaware of everything else, and Jenkins had only asked him to keep the work of the IntelReader Technologies hidden, decentralizing it in Frankfurt."

"Ah! That's why Kazemian was not picked up during his trip to here. Shit, they needed a bait to start the competition between the two devices! Well, that's really crazy," Robert snapped, raising his hands in surrender.

"But why was this... Ahmad... killed by his partner?"

Vittoria felt like she was reliving that horrible scene when she asked the question, then she allowed herself a moment of comfort by peering out the window at Christian, who was playing with the dog in the car as if nothing had happened.

"On Tuesday Minerva sent an update to Ahmad's device," Helen swallowed several times, but this failed to improve her voice, "they went hard on him, the bastards. The file containing the new instructions didn't open progressively as it should have, but all at once, causing an unbearable neuronal load. Since then Ahmad was all but insane."

The former lieutenant finished the sentence touching her temple with her forefinger several times.

"Kazim executed the first precept of his training," Carmen added while putting her hands in her hair in an attempt to shape them "unaware of what had happened to Ahmad, he just removed what was proving to be a big problem, especially for the Iranian Ministry of Information."

"We saw the deadly effects of this project," the Spanish went on, "and this could be just the beginning. Helen and I want to prevent the Research Division and Jenkins from getting back the device that Ahmad still has in his head, perfectly intact and ready to be examined."

Gonzales rubbed the bridge of her nose with her forefinger and thumb, then uttered a long sigh looking at her friend.

"The body of the man is already on the plane on which Carmen and I will embark as well" Helen revealed, pointing vaguely at the airport "at such a close distance I will be able to activate the self-destruct mechanism inbuilt in every device. No, no explosion, God forbid..." the girl smiled bitterly, watching the wide eyes of Vittoria and Robert. "A short brain link will suffice to 'liberate' a small quantity of enzymes that will destroy the DNA in his equipment, turning it into a lump of junk."

The former lieutenant rubbed the fingers of her hand to stress the concept.

"If I understood correctly, you have the same device too, don't you?"

Vittoria found herself enthralled by that incredible story, to the point of forgetting the reason why she had gone aboard that SUV.

"Yes, it's true, Vicky," Helen returned that look veiled with sadness, parting her lips into a shy smile, "they could do that to me too, I know. And believe me, I have a fucking fear of that."

The girl covered her face with her hands, immediately comforted by Carmen.

"Ahmad's device will be explanted like a proper organ, and when they realize they can as well flush it in the toilet... well, mine will be the only one left, and they'll be able to take it whenever they want to, since I'm going to be captured as soon as I set foot on that damn plane."

Helen was able to finish the sentence despite the lump in her throat.

"Why are you explaining us all this?"

Masi leaned forward, staring at the two components of the Boutique team.

Carmen handed Robert what appeared to be a common USB memory stick.

"In here there's everything. Even the addresses to which to send the documentation in the event that Helen doesn't call you within a month. Claro?"

The man stood motionless, focused on the enormous responsibility that seemed to be in stark contrast with the obligations of his role.

Vittoria held out her hand firmly toward the Spanish, but looking straight into Helen's shiny eyes.

"All right. I'll take it," she said.

Carmen nodded in understanding to the American, then handed the precious stick to Vicky.

"Bueno, it's time to go," she muttered, starting the engine.

Helen didn't know whether those would be the last minutes of her life as a free woman, although that word had for her a relative meaning. She kept looking for a word, sentence, something else to express her gratitude to that woman, with her simple questions and honest eyes.

Then she saw her face move closer, half-lit by the lights of the airport. She felt the warmth of Vittoria's skin, after feeling its wetness, and the kiss she felt on her cheek was worth more than any word.

The last look of Vicky threw the seed of a certainty that would grow around the wreckage of that day, like ivy clinging to the trunk of a tree.

That was not a farewell, because each of them would bring with her something of the other, and the excitement that ran through the surrounding air would keep it inside of them, waiting for a phone call that, they were certain, would come.

***

A year later.

Village near Quonset Point – Rhode Island (USA).

A crackle of dry leaves spread in the crisp air of the morning, revealing a cadence of slow and regular footsteps. The man raised the collar of his jacket, bothered by a breeze that slightly rippled the surface of the sea, and that seemed to want to make fun of his hair, while the constant roaring of the surf took possession of all the air that he could feel.

He had always hated that incessant melody, but at that moment he realized that he hadn't wanted anything else for the whole night. Ignoring his tiredness, he quickened his pace along that coastal path, bathed by Atlantic currents that seemed to forcibly wedge in that land, forming an incredible amount of islands and bays.

A long row of oak trees, their foliage swaying, separated the dirt path from a small group of low houses, lying on a lawn. The man stood immersed in the sunny portion of that path to the end, then decided to cross the line of trees, pointing at a small wooden house with yellowed shutters and the roof covered by grey tar sheets. The smell started to become unpleasant, a mixture of dried seaweed with gusts of rotten fish, but he did not care and kept walking in a straight line.

After a few steps, he saw her.

The short-haired girl who was spraying water with a hose did not notice him and kept rinsing the nets hung along the entire side of the house.

The man kept advancing, trying to somehow announce himself by trampling all of the dried leaves within reach of his shoes.

"Hello Helen," he spelled in a firm voice, slipping his hands into the pockets of his beige velvet trousers.

For a moment that seemed to never end, the girl stared in disbelief at that stocky white-haired figure as if it had been a ghost.

"What do you want?" she murmured, her heart pumping crazily.

"Well, I find you well. Do you work here now?"

After stopping at a safe distance, the man ventured a step forward, removing his sunglasses.

"How did you find me... ah, Richard? He told you, right?" Helen hissed, squeezing the hose in front of herself and drenching the surrounding lawn.

"Ah, of course! You know that Captain Richard McConnell is a friend of ours. Well, I almost had to torture him to make him spit out this... um... secret."

The smug expression of the man included a wink that should have broken the ice, at least in his intentions.

"Tell me what are you doing here, Dad," Helen spelled slowly, bending down to lay the water hose on the lawn with unnecessary carefulness.

"Well, you have to believe me... the last few years made me grow old all of a sudden..."

The girl stood up abruptly, making the sun shine on the rainproof overalls she was wearing over a striped sweater.

"No! I refuse to listen to you!"

Michael Vidali sadly opened his arms as he watched the stream of water flowing between his feet.

"Please... just give me a minute, damn it!"

Helen moved forward threateningly, shrouded in the steam coming from her wet clothes under the sun. Against the light she seemed to be enveloped by a wondrous luminous halo, causing her father to step back.

"Leave me alone! And spare me your sermons. I can't stand them anymore, do you understand?"

Michael's mind was reeling, desperately clinging to what looked like a raft in a stormy sea.

"Don't do it for me, but at least for your mother, okay?"

Helen stepped forward again, her face was but an inch from his father's.

"Why did you mention her? Come on, tell me!"

"Tell me," she screamed at the top of her lungs, pounding the man's chest with her fists "Tell... me..." she finally sobbed, yielding to the tension and falling to her knees in the wet grass.

Michael let his daughter vent her anger on him, then knelt in turn, looking for her eyes.

"Hey, cat eyes, don't worry. Your mother is fine!"

The man stared at Helen's face, starting from the small mole on her cheek, up to the spectacular specks of gold that had made many boys go crazy, from primary school onwards.

"Well, with your hair so short you sure look like a little girl!"

"Okay," Michael thought "the raft resisted."

"The last time Mom called me cat eyes, I had just been appointed lieutenant."

Helen's raspy voice and rapt attention proved to be the perfect telltales of the sudden emptiness that seemed to have absorbed her emotions, like a black hole. Then a puzzled look came over her face, seizing a dazzling reflection that had somehow filtered through the leaves.

"She really misses you, Helen. Your mother tried to call you on the phone, but it's always switched off."

The wrinkles on Michael's forehead relaxed and he finally allowed himself a deep breath.

The girl gestured vaguely at the scenery in front of them, full of the hot colors of that season.

"I no longer have a phone, I don't need it here."

"Richard asked and obtained to be moved near here, at the Quonset State Airport, to stay close to his mother, who is seriously ill," Helen went on, standing up "when he left Wiesbaden we spoke on the phone, and I was... let's say unemployed."

Given its poor results and huge cost, the Minerva project had been shelved, and the IntelReader Technologies shut down, deprived of the black funds, now diverted to projects with more immediate results. Having excluded the possibility of removal, and after Helen had undergone a mental conditioning program, the technicians of the Research Division had determined that her device was inactive, and bought her a one-way ticket for Rhode Island.

"Richard's brother breeds oysters, if I remember correctly."

Michael struggled to his feet as well, blushing, and looked with dismay at his trousers, wet from the knees down.

"Yes. I work for his cooperative. His family gave me a big hand," she said sharply.

"Well, we haven't heard from you for such a long time..."

"What do you mean? Christ! You completely ignored me, dammit!"

Helen stretched out her arms, angry and frustrated at the same time.

"No! I only allowed you to choose. And here's the result."

"Bullshit! There was never any choice with you!"

"I mean, look at you! I certainly didn't do this to you... breeding oysters..."

"Of course! The uniform above all, isn't it?"

"Yes, it's true. But you had earned the ranks yourself, and you managed to flush it all down the toilet!"

"Damn it! It was right on those occasions that you should have been a father!"

"Don't you... talk to me like this!"

Helen dominated her urge to scream, shaking her head, exhausted.

"Please, go away."

Michael Vidali raised his hands, giving in to a reality that he could no longer change.

"I can't make up for my mistakes," he conceded at last, "but if you want I'm here now, and your mother too. Here, I travelled all night to tell you this," the man concluded, holding back his emotion.

His blue eyes, once bright and transparent, were now dull. They conveyed all the discomfort he felt looking at his daughter at that moment, after they had admired her in her lieutenant uniform. He couldn't understand what he had done wrong.

"Come on, come here."

Helen opened her arms, vastly expanding her yellow overalls, and welcomed her father in a prolonged hug. They both stood silent, immersed in the ceaseless murmur of the surf, until she gently pulled away, wrapping her hands around his head and kissing his forehead.

"I'd like to ask you a favor..."

Helen looked straight at her father, putting a finger to his mouth to prevent him from answering.

"Please, don't come here again," she said, almost pleading, her eyes shiny.

Michael Vidali did not react immediately. He contracted every muscle of his face in the attempt to hide the myriad of emotions that were investing him like a tornado. Then he gave up, relaxing the cobweb of wrinkles on his forehead and around his eyes. Nodding, he took a few steps backwards, just to see his daughter finally smile for the first time that day. Hinting in turn at a smile, he walked toward the path covered with dry leaves that he now tried to avoid, silently disappearing from sight.

Helen glanced toward her house, aware of the work that awaited her. But first she had one last thing to do.

With determined steps she walked the few yards that separated her from the jetty on the beach, quickly climbing the few steps two at a time. It was there that the boat that picked up the floating cages and set them in the bay docked, perpetuating the work of care and maintenance that employed the dozens of employees of the cooperative.

Helen ran faster and faster on those wooden boards, frantically tugging at the golden ring around her middle finger.

When she got to the end of the jetty she stopped abruptly, watching it one last time. The sea eagle, part of the West Point Military Academy emblem, was proudly displayed in the front, while under the band her name and the words "31 March 2008" were engraved. The date in which she had officially been appointed lieutenant.

Without thinking, Helen threw the ring into the sea with all the strength she could muster.

The memory of her father's smug face on the day of that damn ceremony rose unexpectedly. There had been a cold spring drizzle and she had been shivering, just like her mother when she had seen the ring and the stripes. And then Tom Stalker, the Blues Brothers, Hans Benaski... every single face became a nightmare that was consumed in an instant, and the ring had always been there.

Before that jewel fell into the water, Helen closed her eyelids. She didn't want to see the point where it would sink, and symbolically she would lose all trace of it forever.

When she opened her eyes, the sea was still there, moved by a breeze that shook a number of masts grouped in the nearby marina. She ran a hand through her hair, as if to make sure of a length she still wasn't completely used to, representing the perfection of her present.

Hola, querida.

Hey, hello Carmen.

I bring pizza tonight as agreed?

Absolutely!

The usual for you?

No, from now I change. Bring me a mexicana.

Mierda, what happened?

Ah, I'll explain later.

Bueno, see you tonight then!

Carmen threw the phone on the seat and drove on, smiling.

Helen sank her hand into her pocket, pulling out her cigarettes. Then, walking towards her home, she threw the packet in a waste bin, only then becoming aware of the excitement that was animating that morning, with small carts creaking and a multitude of people bustling around the boats about to set sail.

A seagull, with its unmistakable spotted plumage, was hovering nearby, and Helen recognized it immediately.

"Hey, Lucky," she bellowed "Come here!"

The girl waved her arms to get its attention, under the amused eyes of the people around, then waited for the bird to glide toward her, enticed by the fish she usually gave him.

When the gull was close enough, Helen started running toward the house, with the sun caressing her face and her heart bursting with joy.

### Epilogue

Nothing comes by chance, you know.

That whole affair had returned to him a different woman, and Robert felt he loved her even more for that. And not only because Vittoria had faced his betrayal with him, but also because she had put herself in competition with discouragement and disappointment, reassembling every single fragment of the fabric of a family that could have dissolved in a stormy sea of anger.

And then, she would have made him pay anyway, in some sophisticated way that only females were able to enact.

"Women," Robert often thought "you must find a way to deserve them."

Women like Helen, for example. When she called Vittoria, they seemed old friends with so many things to talk about, where men had no place. The undeniable courage she had shown made of her a special girl, and he kept a vivid memory of her eyes and her strange curled lips.

Or Kimiya. Robert did not know whether that girl had the gift of premonition, but it was still true that, whatever it was, it had won over sophisticated technology, no doubt about that. Of her, he remembered the incredible dignity and the features, drenched of an ancient nobility.

His father, Markar, had pretended to know about Iranian nuclear programs, even if the information he had originally passed to his contact to make himself believable were authentic, thus deceiving half a dozen CIA analysts. His sole purpose had been escaping from that country, but it had never occurred to him to betray it. After a few months of detention at a secret structure of the Agency, probably the engineer would be given the opportunity to join again his family, already settled in a town on the west coast of the United States.

"Maybe it's true," Robert was thinking "even if fate is our invention and chooses us, we must not let ourselves be its prisoners, although it crosses every moment of our existence. We can decide what happens between our births and our deaths, even if sometimes it is difficult, but this way we have the chance to change the course of a life determined by others."

Those people were proof.

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The Author

Antonio Traficante was born in 1960 in Monfalcone, in the province of Gorizia. Married and father of a daughter, he earned a technical diploma and, after trying various experiences, started a few years ago his activity as retailer, spending his scarce spare time in sport practice. Passionate about contemporary music and mystery literature, he did not prevent his creative streak from taking hold of his night, a true melting pot of ideas and emotions. "Escaping fate" is his first novel.

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