Concept YUS (Cross-World Murder Cases Book 1) Read online

  “Enough! Everything is quite—normal. It’s just that we have separate groups, and the work of each is strictly classified. Each receives its assignment from the directorate”

  “Aha! And you, the chief of this Special Sector, don’t know what these groups directly under your authority are doing? Excuse me, but what are you coordinating then—maybe the domino tournaments between them or the performances of their musical groups?”

  “This is taking us nowhere, young man!” Genetti exploded, reinforcing his exclamation with a few incomprehensible Italian expressions.

  He was right. We were getting nowhere.

  I tried again, very calmly. “Fine. Just tell me exactly why I’m here.”

  He sighed heavily, as if the hardest part of our conversation was yet to come—and unavoidable. As we sat in silence, I seemed to sense an underlying tone of menace in the concatenation of city sounds that floated into the office.

  Finally Genetti roused himself enough to continue, “You must solve this crime, Simon, no matter what it takes. Do you understand me?”

  “Are you hoping that I will twist the truth to do your feckless sector a favor? To make it easier for you to accomplish this pitiful project, conceived by a gang of mad cowards? That, no matter what it takes, I too will do my part to satisfy the whims of the Yusians?”

  Almost fatherly concern seemed to flicker in his tired, dark eyes.

  “Not just for those reasons, Simon,” he said gently, “not just for that. On Eyrena you will have a chance to understand the situation better than I can, better than anyone on Earth could. Just don’t rush your decisions! It’s easier for some people to sacrifice themselves than to judge if that makes sense, and such people sometimes cause harm that even the worst bastard or coward would be incapable of inflicting.”

  As I listened to him, I could see the journey that awaited me with merciless clarity: in an isolated chamber on a monstrous Yusian starship, I would be locked in, looked at with inhuman curiosity, left alone.

  “You have to understand me, Simon—you have to!” Genetti doggedly tried to hold my gaze. “Do you think that during this year I haven’t asked myself the same questions you are asking now? And other questions you will ask yourself later? And questions you would probably never ask yourself? Oh, thousands of times! But even if I have found the answer to some of them, so what? I—

  “But why are we talking about me?” He waved his hand in a gesture of grief and self-humiliation. “We’re just wasting time.”

  He slowly moved to the window and stood there looking out before turning to me again. His huge laboratory suit drooped in ugly wrinkles over his frail body, the unbuttoned collar revealing thin, angular collarbones. His shabby shoes looked enormous under his scrawny ankles. I only now realized what a small and brittle old man he actually was.

  “Eyrena!”

  I strained to understand his whispers.

  “What if it’s our only chance? You understand me, don’t you? Don’t you? Those—creatures! Maybe they will finally leave us alone, and we—”

  He didn’t have the strength to continue. Or perhaps he had found the strength to stop. His white head dropped as if he were awaiting sentencing.

  I stood up. The awareness that I was going to go away from this man, probably forever, without telling him anything positive, bothered me. But all I could offer was, “I’ll do my best to complete the investigation quickly, Professor.”

  As I took the key to the briefcase, his face suddenly turned deadly pale. I stared at him, and he gave me an almost imperceptible nod, crossing his trembling hands in front of his chest. What did he mean by that!

  I put the key in my jacket pocket and casually reached for the briefcase. As I grasped the handle, yes, I felt an oblong piece of foil, glued to its underside.

  “If I have any additional questions, I’ll find a way to reach you,” I concluded, while unobtrusively removing the foil with a twist of my thumb and placing it between my pointer and middle fingers.

  “You will hardly have time to do that,” Genetti said hoarsely, “since the starship conveying you to Eyrena will be launched from the Erdland site at five p.m. today.” Then he gasped for air, his terrified eyes staring at my fingers.

  “Today! At five! That’s the limit! And what if I hadn’t accepted your proposal?”

  As I had hoped, this last stupid question revived him like smelling salts. He answered contentiously, “I’m not offering you a trip on a gondola, Inspector! And I certainly haven’t asked you to accept anything!”

  Then he stopped, looked at me cunningly and smiled.

  “Well, go, Simon—go! I wish you a speedy return. And good luck!”

  He stepped back and hid his hands behind his back, confused—a handshake, of course, would reveal our secret. I tried to thank him with a nod as I picked up the suitcase and walked toward the door, but I don’t think he understood what I meant.

  Chapter 2

  Leaning against the wall just across from the professor’s office were two husky Neanderthals, complete with sloping foreheads and jutting jaws. As soon as I walked out the door, they attached themselves to me.

  “Sorry, but you’ll have to come with us,” one of them muttered politely. He had an impeccable face and scarred knuckles, cause for sober reflection.

  I inquired, also politely, “Where?”

  “There,” the other answered noncommittally. He had thick muscles, broad shoulders, keen eyes, and an unreadable expression on his face.

  I looked around. Not a soul in the long corridor. Yes, there was certainly a sudden interest in my eternally priceless self. I had become a ticking time bomb of compromising information, so someone was making sure I didn’t go off before I was safely ensconced in the Yusian starship. After that, there would be no reason to worry—since there could be no greater isolation on this side of the grave.

  So far, so good. But where was “there”? These people were not amateurs, and the Genetti interview had its flaws. If their monitoring had picked up on those, I could expect a quick and thorough search.

  With that last thought, the piece of foil seemed to burn my fingers. I had to do something quickly. I could claim a misunderstanding later, if necessary. I casually shifted the briefcase to my left hand and was about to step forward when the two, as if on cue, closed in and pinned me between their shoulders. I could feel their muscles tense, but their expressions remained serene. I took the hint and, rather than create a scene, forced myself to relax. In fact, why hurry?

  I hesitated for only a few seconds but long enough to make my new companions uneasy, so I nodded, and we moved down the empty corridor like a single unit. Soon we changed directions from the way I had entered, crossing the elevator landing and passing through a carefully hidden exit. Then, still shoulder to shoulder, we descended a narrow, spiral staircase. When we reached the ground floor, my companions checked their watches almost simultaneously and then grew visibly calmer. I relaxed too: if our handling of the foil had been detected, the retaliation measures couldn’t be this elaborate, not with these needless delays and their preoccupation with the exact time. Clearly they haven’t discovered anything so far, but what was Genetti trying to tell me? It must be something extremely important to take such a crazy risk.

  Across from the staircase were two dark bulletproof doors, side by side. We stood near the one on the right, and the built-in monitor flashed “Synchronizing B5–D3.” With a slight nod, my companions directed me to the left door. As we approached, it quietly opened, releasing an unrecognizable pungent odor, but the room was empty. We crossed through to another door and started down a labyrinth of low, brightly lit corridors. We still moved three abreast, evenly, which I guess pleased whoever was observing us, but I was finding the whole journey more and more torturous.

  An alarm clock was going off in my head, telling me to end this charade, when events entered a new and thus slightly more hopeful phase. After they checked their watches again, we picked up our pace sig
nificantly until we encountered a massive metal gate. My companion with the battered knuckles worked the control panel, and the barrier slowly opened. We stepped out of the building into a back parking lot just as an ambulance pulled up and stopped in front of us. The driver, a white-coated misanthrope, waited until we were settled in the side seats before skillfully maneuvering out of the lot and speeding off.

  Meanwhile, the two Neanderthals also donned white coats. Then out of their pockets appeared surgical bonnets, which they jammed on their heads to complete their flimsy attempt to pass for hospital attendants.

  “Very elaborate, boys!” I complimented them, momentarily impressed by their efforts.

  The “boys,” of course, simply stared at me without blinking, their faces as blank as the tinted window behind them. The bonnets didn’t look good on them.

  When we exited the sector premises, the driver turned on the siren. As the ambulance rushed through the foggy, unfamiliar city, I hoped—but did not expect—to be taken directly to the launch site. Instead, we jumped on the south freeway. As the haze lifted, the lights of a low-slung sports car glittered in front of us, while the dark-blue Toyota I had glimpsed earlier behind us now grew clearer and closer. We shifted to the far-left lane, despite the light traffic and our moderate speed. A black BMW replaced the Toyota. The sports car stopped. We passed it and zipped forward as if unleashed, or maybe as if we were being chased.

  After passing the first motel, we exited and turned down an empty back road, followed by the BMW. A disturbing rattle came from the medicine cabinet next to me, and the stretcher on the floor rocked clumsily, flipping its carefully folded sheet onto the feet of one of my companions. He kicked it back, anxiously touched his bonnet, and sank again into gloomy apathy.

  A few minutes passed, dull enough to make my eyes blur before they glimpsed the wings of an iron gate. The ambulance slowed to a crawl as we drove down the narrow paved drive. The boys both perked up—obviously the moment of our separation was approaching. My uncertainties prevented me from sharing their joy. Wherever we were going, the fact that they didn’t hide the road from me was hardly a manifestation of trust.

  We stopped in front of a modest building with a sign above the main entrance: “Milera Private Clinic.” Though nothing was any clearer than before, by now I was ready to destroy that piece of foil without even reading it first. Six people met us outside as we exited the ambulance. Two devoted their attention to me, while one went back to the BMW that had followed us in. After a few words were exchanged, the car turned around and drove back down the drive. The last three had joined the ambulance driver and the boys, who now seemed quite nervous. Obviously events had not gone as anticipated.

  I entered the clinic with my two new companions. In the lobby, the younger one quickly reached for my briefcase. I pretended I didn’t see him until he peevishly whispered, “Give it to me!”

  Seeing no way to avoid the inevitable, I turned as if to hand him the briefcase. When he reached for the handle, I kicked him in the knee. As his leg collapsed, I kicked him in the neck. As the briefcase fell to the tile floor, he tried to regain his balance. His partner instinctively caught him under the armpits but a moment later dropped him and made a rapid, almost successful, attempt to smash my nose. Wrestling one another, we fell to the floor. A fat man now approached us at a loud trot. Soon he was moving in circles around us, looking for a convenient moment to show his abilities. Finally he kicked my ear. When he lifted his leg a second time, I managed to grab it. I pulled him down sharply, attached the foil to the sole of his shoe and rolled to the side as he fell. A scream convinced me that he had flattened our “sparring partner.” As I started to rise, the first one showed me that he had recovered: his fist hit my head with the force of a mace. I put off my getting up for a while.

  I was dragged up the stairs, my ear buzzing like an overheated electrical coil. I wasn’t feeling well. Psychologically either, but not that bad. After all, there was a possibility the old man could escape discovery. Actually my attempt to hide the foil wasn’t very clever, but with a little luck. When they don’t find anything on me, these guys will ransack the ambulance and its crew, the lobby, even their own clothes. But they might not check the soles of their shoes right away, and under the weight of the fat man, that foil should be rubbed out in no time.

  We entered a luxuriously equipped changing room, where a flight suit lay ready for me. Obviously the airport was nearby, but I wasn’t exactly anxious to get there. Two of my guards pulled out chairs and sat down, waiting for me to undress, their eyes glued to my hands. The third guard, the one so interested in my briefcase in the lobby, now tackled it. He limped over to a corner table, unlocked the briefcase with his own key, and turning to watch me, proceeded to open the lid slowly, with two fingers. Despite his apparent impassivity, his eyes eagerly anticipated a reaction from me, but he was to be disappointed. I merely pulled a clean towel off the shelf next to me, put it across my shoulders, and kept watching him.

  Finally he flipped the lid back, donned a pair of plastic gloves, and carefully started cutting something inside with a razor blade. I recognized the rustling sound of unfolding cellophane as he pulled out a flat metal case. Then, from under the table, he produced a similar briefcase, only gray. He transferred the metal case into it and, with a flourish, pushed the new briefcase toward me. I crossed to him, picked it up, and headed for the bathroom, not without noticing that the black briefcase now contained nothing but the ripped cellophane wrapping.

  Between the changing room and the showers was a narrow, oblong hall, ideally suited for, thus confirming my belief that I would be subjected to, a thorough laser examination. As I passed through it, I fervently wished that all such searches would be as futile. I then put the new briefcase far from the showers and went under one of them. For some time I diligently alternated the warm and cold water, which is supposed to ease the swelling of bruises, clumsily wrapped the towel around me, and then returned to the changing room.

  It was empty. The black briefcase, as well as all of my personal belongings of course, was gone. Like it or not, I was forced to don the flight suit. As soon as I was dressed, one of my guards reappeared at the door. Carefully scrutinizing me, he crossed the room toward me, followed by two people in PSD uniforms and another man, a civilian. Without exchanging a word, we left the room together. And what could we have had to say to each other indeed?

  Chapter 3

  I was led into a spacious room with drawn blinds and soft, luminescent lighting. A short, plump Chinese man stood next to the door, gently smiling at me. I recognized him instantly: that wide, fleshy nose; those deep-set, sly eyes; and the thin lips, always stretched into a smile. In short, before me was Vey A. Zung himself, heartily extending his chubby, well-groomed hand to me. I took it listlessly, and after a long handshake accompanied by many friendly nods, he waved hospitably toward the table in the middle of the room.

  As we sauntered over, the plainclothesmen took their places and stood at attention, while the other two from PSD marched on either side of us and pointed to one of the huge leather armchairs with icy politeness. Zung waited for me to sit down before, fastidiously adjusting his trouser legs and sitting across from me in a chair specially equipped with multicolored buttons. After his security team carefully checked out the room, making sure there was no apparent danger, they marched out in a straight row through the slightly opened door. While I was watching them, I felt an oppressive, exploring stare, filled with tangible malevolence, crawl over me. Yet when I turned around, my famous host was glowing with sympathy and responsiveness.

  “A cup of coffee?” he offered. When I accepted, he was obviously surprised. Nevertheless, he pressed a button and started smiling again. No matter how silly it was, I smiled back. What else could I do?

  Soon a young man, his face as wide and flat as a griddle, peeked in the room. He squeezed inside, balancing an exquisitely embossed silver salver, and inched his way toward us. As he began to serve th
e coffee, Zung patted him on his bent back.

  “This is my nephew!” he announced with pride. “He not only makes perfect coffee but also has many other skills.”

  The nephew straightened up, flipping his straight bangs back from his forehead. He tried to appear unmoved by this praise, but when he couldn’t muffle his spontaneous chuckle, he grabbed the empty tray and ran out of the room.

  Once we were alone, Zung decided it was time to get down to business. “I know the head of your bureau well, and I trust his choice completely.”

  The first part was true, but I knew that the rest was a lie.

  We exchanged friendly looks. Zung continued, “You have already talked to Professor—hmm, hmm?”

  “Yes.”

  “Enzo Genetti.”

  “Yes.”

  “So everything is clear to you?”

  “I would be exaggerating to say that, Mr. Zung.”

  “I’m not referring to that terrible double tragedy—”

  “Nor am I.”

  A slight shadow of displeasure crossed his face: the special chairman of the Security Council wasn’t accustomed to being interrupted.

  “What was your name again, young man?” he asked politely but intimidatingly.

  “Simon. Terence Simon.”

  “Ah, yes. Monsieur Simon. No, Terence! Allow me to call you Terence. You could be my son.”

  Now that struck me as absurd. “Of course, Mr. Zung!” I said with a youthful affability. I was very nervous, and every minute spent with him increased my tension. It’s common knowledge that no one is eager to meet him.

  “Let me put your mind at ease, Terence!” Zung sipped his coffee, quietly smacking his lips. “Your assignment is not as difficult as it seems. Except for the inconveniences of the trip, the investigation itself should be a piece of cake—even prosaic.”