Killing Time

wheel or a Geronimo's mounted gun, while a wider pattern could reduce both land and air units to so much shrapnel — and human body parts. All of this, or so Tressalian had said, was for my benefit: an effort by Larissa not only to impress me with her flying and combat skills but also, it seemed, to let me know that what I had stumbled onto was some kind of mortal struggle. But over what?

Excitement, horror, and, yes, some satisfaction (given that our pursuers were doubtless ultimately controlled by the same people who had killed Max) were registering inside me; yet I was still clearheaded enough to be curious. 'Their bullets,' I said. 'They're not reaching us.'

'It has been said,' Tressalian explained, 'that the man who controls electromagnetism controls the known forces of our universe. I don't pretend to have mastered the area yet, but we have enough insight to be able to project fields that will cause far more complex forms of matter than bullets to change their behavior. Even without the fields we'd be in little danger — the ship's superstructure and sheathing, even its transparent sections, are constructed of advanced composite resins. Stronger than high-quality steel of a much greater thickness and far lighter.' Tressalian paused a moment, still watching me. 'You're appalled, no doubt,' he finally said. 'But believe me when I say that if the governments of the world left us any choice—'

'Of the world!' I echoed in a whisper. 'But I thought—'

'Oh, our efforts are quite global. Here, come and look at this, Doctor.' Tressalian turned and hobbled over to a bank of monitors that was installed on a low table at the center of the observation dome. 'It may help you understand.'

I soon found myself staring at half a dozen images of a considerable military force on the move. There were ships at sea, remote-piloted fighter-bombers in flight, their ghostly cockpits empty of anything save computer equipment, and carrier crews loading still more warplanes with bombs and missiles.

'What is it?' I asked.

'The reason your friend Mr. Jenkins was killed,' Tressalian replied. 'An American task force, on its way to inflict what will certainly be a massive attack.'

'On whom? Where are they going?'

'The same place we are — Afghanistan.'

CHAPTER 11

'Afghanistan…'I said, thunderstruck. 'But why? And how in hell are you getting pictures of all this?'

'By satellite,' Tressalian answered simply. 'Our own satellites.'

My mind made a sudden connection. 'Satellites… satellites! Tressalian—Stephen Tressalian, the man who devised the four-gigabyte satellite system, who created the modern Internet!'

'He was my father,' my host acknowledged with an ambiguous nod. 'And that sin was indeed his, along with many others. But he paid for his transgressions in the end — and his money did allow us to undertake all this.'

'But what in God's name are you doing?'

'The more important question right now,' Tressalian answered evasively, 'is, what is your government doing?'

' 'My' government? Isn't it your government, too?'

Tressalian, slightly amused, shook his head. 'Not for many years. Those of us aboard this ship have renounced all nationalities — largely because of these sorts of national behaviors.' He indicated the screens.

'What do you mean?' I asked. 'What are they doing?'

'It would seem that they intend to finally eradicate the very impressive underground complex that has been the principal training ground for Islamic terrorists during the last two decades.'

I looked at the busy screens again. 'Retaliation for Khaldun killing President Forrester?' I asked.

Tressalian nodded. 'Your country is, after all, nearing a national election. But there's a slight problem with the government's decision, one that I have reason to believe it has begun to suspect but which it cannot, given the political rhetoric that led to this launch, allow anyone such as yourself to discover. You see, Tariq Khaldun wasn't a terrorist — and he certainly didn't kill President Forrester.'

'But the disc—'

'The man on that disc' — Tressalian touched a keypad on the table and brought up the assassination images that Max and I had studied for so many hours—'was in fact an actor of Afghan origin who enjoyed some slight success in the Indian film industry during the last part of the twentieth century. We—borrowed his image.' Tressalian shrugged with a smile. 'How could I know that there was a minor Afghan diplomat in Chicago who might be the man's double? Don't worry, though, we've arranged for Mr. Khaldun's escape. At any rate, the actual killer of the late, lamented President Forrester was' — another touch of a keypad, and the image before me changed to the second version of the event that I'd seen, the one in which the assassin's face was Asian—'this fellow. Hung Ting-hsin, a major in the Chinese external security force.'

I paused, now wholly unaware of the dance of fire and death that was going on beyond the transparent shell around us. 'You deliberately distorted what happened?'

'I'm afraid so.'

'So Price created those images for you—you were the 'private contractor' his wife told me about.'

'Correct again. None of us was happy about Mr. Price's death, Doctor — but he'd decided to try to blackmail us. Then, when Larissa and Jonah went to warn him against such a course, he became violent. Actually knocked Jonah against a wall, and would have done worse, but — well, Larissa …'

All the pieces surrounding the mysteries of John Price's and Max's deaths were falling into place — but none of them explained why in the world Tressalian was doing any of this, and so I asked him straight out once more.

'Oh, I have my reasons,' he said, sighing again; but the sound was heavier this time, and as it came, Tressalian suddenly winced. 'I have my—' His eyes opened wide as the apparent attack of pain seemed to rapidly worsen. 'You must — forgive me, Doctor. I seem to—' Suddenly he clutched his head and pitched over with a muted cry, bringing Colonel Slayton to his side even before I could offer any help. 'I — think, Colonel,' Tressalian said through gritted teeth, 'that I'd better rest for a bit. If our guest will excuse me…' His breathing became labored as Slayton pulled one of his arms around his own neck and lifted his disabled body as if it were weightless. 'I'm sorry, Doctor, I know you want answers,' Tressalian gasped. 'Dinner — we'll talk at dinner. For now — remember—' He brought his head up and, through his agony, gave me a look that I will never forget: it was full of all the mischievousness of his sister but at the same time conveyed a dark, terrible urgency. 'Remember,' he went on, 'what you saw on the door…' And with that, Colonel Slayton whisked him away.

Tressalian's sudden attack, combined with the images on the screens at the table as well as the ongoing combat outside — not to mention the fact that I was now alone — served to turn my growing anxiety into the beginnings of what I feared would soon become panic. I tried to calm myself by focusing on what Tressalian had said, by forcing my mind to delve deeper into the Latin I'd learned so long ago in order to come up with an answer to the riddle of the legend on the door.

I don't know how long I stood there, watching Larissa decimate our pursuers and mumbling to myself like an idiot. 'Mundus vult decipi,' I repeated over and over, as bullets streamed around the ship. 'Mundus, 'the world,' yes. Vult, 'wills'? 'Wants'? Something —'

And then I froze at the sudden sound of a pulsing alarm that echoed throughout the vessel: not a harsh tone, exactly, but enough to let me know that something big was happening. I scanned the horizon in all directions, trying to catch sight of what might be prompting it — and looking forward, I got my answer:

The wide expanse of the Atlantic Ocean had appeared on the horizon.

I spun around when a voice I recognized as Julien Fouche's began to speak over some sort of shipwide address system: