Abandono

Amália Rodrigues, Asas Fechadas

The night before impact

• - May I please have a word with the two of you outside? – special agent Muller asked, the sweat on his forehead intensifying.

• - We are in our room, can’t you...

• - No! – the head of the FSI’s crisis unit snapped. – Get your coats!

• - But why would...

• - Mr. and Mrs. Nobelqvist please do as I say, now! – Muller interrupted. – Get your coats, and meet me behind the trees in the back of your house.

Muller had been perfectly calm up until then. Moments before, as he read the for-your-eyes- only-ransom-letter addressed to the Nobelqvists, he had been focused at the task at hand, still hopeful things would work out for Karina in the end. When he read the part stating that one of the three would die tomorrow, his nerves had raced through his arteries. But those last two words on the white paper, “The Senator”, had sent him over the edge, increasing his heart rate and causing a slight shaking, shortness of breath and unexpected nausea. He directly zoomed from pre-panic to nihilistic helplessness: something terrible, unstoppable, had been set in motion.

The human brain contains 86 billion neurons which use 20% of our energy, although weighing only 2% of our total body mass. It has a deep-rooted limbic system that runs the show, from sex drive to memories, from the body’s vital functions to emotions. Fear, love, rage, pain, pleasure, sadness and horniness arise instinctively, at the whim of nerve pathways and networks buried deep within the brain, underneath its faithful slave: the cortex.

The cerebral cortex, the outer part of our brain, is the gray matter that thinks: it even thinks it thinks. It thinks it is in charge, the way humans think they are in charge of Mother Nature. This is where those persistent little voices we all have in our minds play out the theater of life, fooling around in drama, cognition, perceptions, language. The conscious mind, humans’ most esteemed and cherished illusion. And yet, the cortex is actually little more than the puppet of our Geppetto unconscious mind.

When we panic, the limbic system takes full charge over operations. It does not allow the cortex to do its job, to think. If one wakes up in the middle of the night with one’s house on fire, and finds the time to take important documents and cash out of the safe, that’s still the cortex speaking. If one just bolts out of the burning house with only the children in hand, that’s pretty much thanks to Her Majesty, Queen Limbic. Thinking is what allows humans to know how close to their panic zone they are. But there is a stage that’s even worse than panic, which happens when the limbic brain doesn’t even set off the fight or flight mechanism: and there was Muller, on the verge of panic, drowned in disorder and too close to the threshold of sanity, or lack thereof.

By the time the Nobelqvists joined agent Muller, hiding behind the dense camouflage of sycamore trees and bush, he had already set fire to the letter, holding the flaming piece of paper in one hand and the burning envelope in the other. He wanted to make sure every single word and trace of ink had been scorched, erased from history. It would be the Nobelqvists’ word against his.

• - If you tell anyone I have told you what I am about to say, I will deny it – the special agent said.

• - But...

• - But nothing! Now you don’t talk. Now you listen.

Both owners of the largest, most powerful A.I. robotics company in the world swallowed a glump of saliva. No one dared speak to them like that. Nobody. Ever. But the words “The Senator” sent the agent over the edge. From MI5 to SVR, from SIS to CIA, ven Sicilia’s La Cosa Nostra Mafia families knew the weight of that name. It showed up once every decade or two, and it meant something truly gruesome was about to happen. These Senators throughout the millenia took their rules very seriously. No one was aware the current Senator was active again. Only Muller and the Nobelqvists had seen the letter.

What letter? There was no letter.

• - You shouldn’t have shown this to me. I understand why you did, but you shouldn’t have. You have put my whole team in danger. My family.

• - I’m going to call the president – Mrs. Nobelqvist said, and reached for her phone.

• - I told you clearly, now you just listen – Muller said, aggressively snatching the phone out of her right hand. – Listen to me carefully, the both of you. I will do nothing, even if the president asks it herself. Even if you manage to ring up the Pope.

The Nobelqvists had been bulldozed into submission. They were listening. Finally.

• You have been very unlucky. Tomorrow, no matter what you do, one or all three of you will die. If you are lucky and follow the instructions to the very detail, Karina will live. You must follow his rules. We cannot help you. Personally, I will not help you from this conversation onward: I will go back inside, pretend there was no letter and tell my team I have to leave. If you tell them anything, it will only make things worse for everyone. Especially Karina. You have no choice but to listen to what I am saying, and then go back upstairs and start making the calls you need to make to gather up sixty-six million within the next five hours. Follow every step he describes, or all three of you will die. Discuss whatever you have to among the two of you, but do not tell anyone about that letter. I am certain I have been perfectly clear. I am sorry for your loss. Goodnight.

Muller left them speechless. After confirming every single piece of paper had been obliterated into ashes and scattered in the wind, he handed Mrs. Nobelqvist’s phone back to her, walked into the house, his coat still on, whispered something into his second-in-charge’s ear, got into his car and drove away. He received a call from his bosses’ boss, the director of the FSI, beside herself in fury. Two words, the last two in the alleged letter, quietened her in disbelief, and she ended the call. Shortly afterwards, another call followed, directly from the president of the Swiss Confederation herself. Muller told her he had no idea what the Nobelqvists were talking about and explained that, in times of crisis and stress, victims often conjured up horror scenarios from Hollywood movies and such. It not convince the president, but it would be Muller’s unwavering official version of the events. He knew he would be fired but that was not his biggest concern. Either I lose my job, or I lose my family he thought, still in pre-panic mode as he drove through the swirling, dark slippery roads of the countryside, in the outskirts of Bern.

He parked his car in the driveway, kissed his two children goodnight and was about to hug his wife as she lay defenseless, asleep. A white woven envelope with nothing written on lay on his pillow. Inside, six words written in blood:

Switch The DNA Sweet Dreams, Muller.