Killing Time

'And you can,' I said, astonished. 'But where is the damned thing?'

'The projecting unit is on Malcolm's island in the North Sea! It operates through a series of satellites — Tressalian satellites!'

Suddenly and from all too close came the sharp report of small-arms fire. With a speed that shocked me, Fouche almost flew in my direction, enveloping me in his big arms and then gracefully rolling with me behind some nearby rocks. When we looked up, we saw that the shots had been fired by a man who was trying to keep any more people from boarding his already overloaded helicopter, which in a few seconds took off and began a flight toward the southeast.

'Do not stand,' Fouche said, 'until we have received the all clear from the colonel.'

Breathing hard and shaking my head, I studied my companion for a moment. 'Julien,' I gasped, 'what the hell are you doing here, anyway?'

He smiled again. 'Saving your skin, just at the moment, Gideon.'

'You know what I mean,' I said. 'What are you doing out here with this bunch? You were one of the most renowned and respected scholars in your field.'

'Yes,' he said with a nod. 'And one of the unhappiest.' Then, catching sight of a signal from Colonel Slayton, he pulled me up. His voice softened somewhat as we continued to move forward through the dust and the heat toward the target tunnel's entrance. 'You see, Gideon, my wife was one of the first victims of the staphylococcus epidemic.' I tried to express my sympathy, but he quickly waved me off. 'There were many millions who shared my tragedy. But what troubled me most was that she had predicted the manner of her own death years earlier. She was a surgeon, you see. And she had repeatedly told me that economic pressures were causing her colleagues and their nursing staffs to attend to so many patients that they had begun to ignore fundamental practices that took up precious minutes — such as washing their hands. Did you know, Gideon, that the breakdown of hospital hygiene was the single greatest cause of the '06 plague? And why? Why should people like doctors and nurses, people with lives dependent on them, feel such pressure?'

He spat at the ground, anger mixing with his sorrow. 'Because our world had sanctified the goal not of success but of wealth. Not of sufficiency but of excess. And nothing has embodied and propagated that philosophy more than the Internet and all that has followed in its wake. All that mindless, endless marketing of useless goods to those who do not need them, who cannot afford them— until one day compassion is utterly destroyed by avarice gone mad. Politicians, insurance companies, and, yes, even doctors and nurses become so madly bound up in the desire for profit and acquisition that they forget that their first duty is to serve and to heal. They neglect every fundamental principle and practice — even something so simple as washing their hands…'

So there it was. Of all the people on the ship, Fouche was the one whose reasons for participation I hadn't yet been able to fathom, simply because molecular biology didn't seem to have any obvious connection to the business of revising history and combating the information society. And, as it turned out, it was less a professional imperative than a personal one that had driven him into this active exile.

'At any rate,' he went on, 'when I was a teacher to Malcolm and les freres Kuperman, I at first thought them simply an amusing collection of university pranksters. But when I later learned how deep their convictions ran, I decided I would cast my lot with them. And perhaps if we succeed — perhaps if Malcolm is right and the great body of the world's people can be shown the dangers of this age— then perhaps also the deaths of the millions in such nightmares as the epidemic will mean something.''''

His eyes went narrow as he continued to watch the others, and then his voice picked up strength: 'Ah! We are cleared to enter the tunnel, I see. Time for you to make your first appearance on the grand stage, Gideon!'

The events of the next hour or so were a strange but exhilarating combination of a visit to a hospital for the criminally insane and some boyhood adventure tale brought to life. Leaving the Kupermans to stand guard at the tunnel's entrance, Slayton, Tarbell, Fouche, and I made our way down through the Islamic terrorists' labyrinthine underground lair to an enormous chamber that was hung with silk banners. Against the walls of the chamber sat a collection of young women who appeared, through their veils, to be extremely beautiful, along with a dozen children. And atop some cushions placed on a plush carpet in the center of the space reclined its sole male occupant, that internationally infamous character who went by the rather ambitious name Suleyman ibn Muhammed. From the look of things in the chamber I guessed that ibn Muhammed was a firm believer in polygamy; and from the look in his eyes, I could see that he was also quite a disciple of opium, the sickly sweet smell of which mingled with the strong scent of earth to produce an oppressive atmosphere around us.

It was obvious that ibn Muhammed was in a deranged state, so I focused my attention on his women. Speaking through Tarbell— who turned out to be a master linguist, in keeping with his work as a consummate forger — I described what was about to happen to the countryside around them, using what imagery concerning divine fire I could remember from a college reading of the Koran. As I was speaking, the temperature, even that far underground, continued to rise at an alarming rate, and I pointed out that this had nothing to do with the Americans, which meant that if the women and children died, they would not enter Paradise as martyrs. Ibn Muhammed tried to voice protests but could make no sense; and so eventually the women took their children and followed us out, boarding one of the last vehicles to depart the area and leaving their leader behind to bake in what would shortly become an underground oven.

Our team got quickly and safely back aboard our vessel, to be greeted by Malcolm, whose condition was much improved. As the ship began to withdraw to the. north, he asked a flood of questions about the mission, but I for one was utterly spent and told him that I couldn't possibly talk without getting some more substantial rest than I'd had that morning. Stumbling back through the corridors and into my quarters, I found them darkened, save for the glow of a lone candle that was sitting on an antique night table—

And by the light of that singularly low-tech implement, I could see Larissa waiting in my bed, naked under a comforter and smiling her most charming smile. Ordinarily this would hardly have been an unwelcome sight; but given all I'd heard that morning, there was nothing ordinary about the situation.

Larissa instantly read the trepidation in my face. 'Oh, dear,' she sighed, the silver hair wafting around her face and the dark eyes glittering. 'The boys have been talking, I see.'

'Yes,' I said.

She studied me carefully, and behind the coyness I thought I could see genuine disappointment. 'Scared you off, did they?'

I shook my head. 'Not necessarily. But I'm curious, Larissa. You see, they didn't tell me the only story I really need to hear.'

'Oh?' She dipped a finger in the candle's pooling wax. 'And which one might that be?'

I took a tentative step inside the doorway. 'What drove you and your brother to do all these things? Originally, I mean. I'm sorry, but I am a psychiatrist — you must've known that I'd ask. Surely Malcolm knew.'

Larissa just kept smiling. 'Yes. We both did. Well…' She lifted the comforter that covered her. 'You'd better come to bed, Doctor, and let me explain.'

I stepped fully inside and closed the door to my quarters just as, in the distance behind us, the first of the pilotless American fighter-bombers began to release their payloads, raining cataclysmic destruction down on the now-burning Afghan plain.

CHAPTER 19

That man's brutality conceals itself behind a respectable face more often than an evil one should come as news to no one, though I've never found it any less sad or infuriating for being so apparent. Having passed my own childhood among socially admired but covertly violent adults, I've always felt a particular kinship with those who have not only suffered abuse but suffered it at the hands of people who are deemed in some way estimable by society at large. Which is why, I'm sure, my comradeship with Larissa and Malcolm Tressalian was cemented so firmly during our journey north that morning. Among the many cases of childhood horror that I've investigated, theirs remains the only one I can call truly unique; and if ever there were a story guaranteed to rouse the familiar pangs of sorrow and outrage in my heart, the one that I listened to Larissa tell in the candlelit stillness of my