"See, Neil, before it could even be delivered, some equipment that I sold to a client has been stolen,, and I was wondering if you could help me locate it". Irina tried to sound nonchalant, as if this sort of ting happened to her everyday.
"Well, my dear, being a detective isn't one of my specialties" he grunted, knowing full well that he was taunting her.
"I know, but these stolen goods are quite big, and the theft happened between Dubai and Muscat, in a country that you know well -Oman. I've tried myself to find my stuff by helicopter and by private plane, but without any results. Because much of Oman is a desert, I believe satellite imagery would be a very effective tool. I thought perhaps it may be a matter of scale, and therefore the satellite imagery could be successful where my flights have failed".
"Ha! Now I understand why you came to me! You should have said so in the first place”. Neil looked annoyed. Suddenly he dropped the lecherous attitude and became all business.
"Irina, tell me, how big is your stuff? I'm asking because satellite imagery, at least in civilian applications, has very obvious limitations, resolution-wise. As you may know, that means the smallest object that can be discerned from another in the imagery. Five meters is a standard today, but before you start complaining let me remind you that a few years ago we were at one hundred meters! Now, I should also add that those son-of-a-bitch military types keep for themselves technology that can actually recognize car license plates, people's faces and who know what other details. Think about this. While we were outside, they could have taken a satellite picture of us and recognized us, and by comparing our images to a computerized data base, positively identified us. And believe me we are not talking about discerning you from me because of my belly or your tits! We're talking about being able to tell if you are wearing sunglasses! Have a look at this table".
Caputo removed from an already open and overflowing drawer, a laminated table of figures comparing satellites and sensors for earth resources satellite systems.
In the column headings were names of the known satellites, such as Landsat and Spot, respectively US and French satellite, and other lesser known such as IRS-1A and 1B, from India, ERS, a European satellite, the MOS-1 from Japan and others from the States and Japan. Under each name the table displayed technical data such as the orbital parameters, frequency of repetition of the same passage, spectral data, resolution, spread as Neil had anticipated, over a large scatter, ranging from five meters to hundred meters.
"Moreover", added Caputo, "look at these data coming from newly released and commercialized Russian imagery, such as the KVR-1000, capable of producing panchromatic photographs with a resolution within two to three meters, depending on the mission flight requirements. This satellite is flown aboard a Kosmos spacecraft which has a nearly circular orbit at about 220km altitude, with a nominal inclination of 65 degrees. Next year, a private consortium will put into orbit a new bird -in panchromatic- with a one meter resolution for civilian applications"
"OK, Neil, listen, my stuff is quite big. Let's say a convoy of 12 oversized trailers. There shouldn't be any problem in detecting it with the satellite imagery, but before we go any further, let me tell you this: you better consider yourself bound by professional privilege. I want complete confidentiality".
Caputo didn't even listen to the last part, he was already excited by the bit of informaton he had gleaned about the convoy.
"Twelve trailers? My God, Irina, are you dealing with intercontinental missiles, airplanes, or what?".
Caputo licked his thick lips.
"Neil, what is in the containers isn't important, at least for you. I cannot release this information, but if you'll help me I'll make sure that you are properly rewarded!".
"Gee, Irina, if you were to reward me personally, I mean, very personally, I think I would move the world for you".
Caputo sprawled back in his chair, letting his foot casually slide across the floor and touch the toe of Irina's high-heeled boot.
November 7th, Slopes above Montreux, Switzerland, No 45
Irina stopped in front of a chalet at the end of the road. As she got out of the car, she heard noises coming from behind the building. Neil Caputo was in the backyard, chopping wood. Short, fat, and with a beer belly hanging over the waistband of his pants, Caputo was even uglier than she remembered.
"Neil, how are you?"
Without stopping to look at her, he kept swinging the ax high above his bald head.
"Not bad, thanks. So you met Mr. Bolomey" The man's rudeness in failing to look at her or even to inquire about her well-being did not astonish Irina.
"Oh, you mean the guy in the car?"
"Yeah, he is nice, don't you think?" he sneered.
"Well”, said Irina, trying to be tactful, “let just say that he gets the job done! Neil, do you remember me?"
"Of course I do, you are Irina Vassileva, and if hadn't remembered, believe me, you would not be here. I had my, ah, lawyers, run a quick check on you before accepting this meeting. We met in Abu Dhabi a few years ago, right?".
"I'm delighted your memory is so clear".
Irina struggled to keep her tone civil, neutral.
"Well, my dear”, Caputo looked at her for the first time, letting his gaze wander salaciously over her body, “you are not the kind of woman that people easily forget, specially if you show up to a party in one of those countries".
Grinning voraciously he continued, “"What's the reason for this visit? Were you missing me perhaps?" As he laughed, his belly bounced and jiggled.
Despite her revulsion, Irina looked at him blandly.
Evenly and almost sweetly, she replied: "No, Neil, I need your expertise...can we go inside? May be you could offer me a cup of coffee since I didn't get to drink my tea"
As they strode to the house, Irina delicately picked her way though discarded gardening tools, and abandoned cardboard boxes. Inside a kitchen that had not seen a trace of cleaning in a decade, Irina sat on the edge of a chair. She looked at the book shelf along the wall in front of her. It was full of all sorts of objects, as well as discarded plates of food, but no books.
Next to it, a bald, naked female mannequin stood proudly next to the door, watching the threshold, draped with two ammunition belts and a M16 rifle. On the other end of the table Irina saw a pipe that certainly was not used to smoke Dunhill Tobacco. She turned to Caputo, busy at the sink with a kettle.
"Neil, how are you?"
Without stopping to look at her, he kept swinging the ax high above his bald head.
"Not bad, thanks. So you met Mr. Bolomey" The man's rudeness in failing to look at her or even to inquire about her well-being did not astonish Irina.
"Oh, you mean the guy in the car?"
"Yeah, he is nice, don't you think?" he sneered.
"Well”, said Irina, trying to be tactful, “let just say that he gets the job done! Neil, do you remember me?"
"Of course I do, you are Irina Vassileva, and if hadn't remembered, believe me, you would not be here. I had my, ah, lawyers, run a quick check on you before accepting this meeting. We met in Abu Dhabi a few years ago, right?".
"I'm delighted your memory is so clear".
Irina struggled to keep her tone civil, neutral.
"Well, my dear”, Caputo looked at her for the first time, letting his gaze wander salaciously over her body, “you are not the kind of woman that people easily forget, specially if you show up to a party in one of those countries".
Grinning voraciously he continued, “"What's the reason for this visit? Were you missing me perhaps?" As he laughed, his belly bounced and jiggled.
Despite her revulsion, Irina looked at him blandly.
Evenly and almost sweetly, she replied: "No, Neil, I need your expertise...can we go inside? May be you could offer me a cup of coffee since I didn't get to drink my tea"
As they strode to the house, Irina delicately picked her way though discarded gardening tools, and abandoned cardboard boxes. Inside a kitchen that had not seen a trace of cleaning in a decade, Irina sat on the edge of a chair. She looked at the book shelf along the wall in front of her. It was full of all sorts of objects, as well as discarded plates of food, but no books.
Next to it, a bald, naked female mannequin stood proudly next to the door, watching the threshold, draped with two ammunition belts and a M16 rifle. On the other end of the table Irina saw a pipe that certainly was not used to smoke Dunhill Tobacco. She turned to Caputo, busy at the sink with a kettle.
November 7th, Turin, Italy, No 44
Martina woke up in a bad mood. Untangling herself from Carlo's arms and legs of Carlo who, she felt, almost kept her prisoner in the bed, she went to the shower. He slept, oblivious to her departure.
The dark marmoreal floor of the bathroom contrasted vividly with the honey-brown one of the hallway separating the bedroom and the bathroom. Carlo's apartment in Turin, was located in Corso Vittorio, not far from the shore of the River Po, at the foot of the magnificent hills separating the town from the vast agricultural region at the south. The house was an old piemontese baroque mansion which belonged to an old man, a count linked to the Savoy family. The elderly man reluctantly divided the mansion into apartments in order to keep up with at least the most important aspects of his lifestyle. Galloping inflation, new taxes, and a lack of new resources had made it difficult for the very inner circle of the old patrician society to stay alive with the decency formerly afforded by their class.
Even with the help of the soothing warm water caressing her taut body, Martina ached with depression.
She'd spent long hours thinking about the reasons for her pain, and the process had been very unpleasant because, by habit, she was not given to introspection.
Her life up to now had been simple.
Her professional life was far from boring, providing her with intellectual stimulation and an outlet for creativity.
Her private life, though superficially happy, was, she realized, at least content.
But now she was miserable.
Since Zeno had met that woman, Irina, her life had filled with constant irritants.
Martina's emotions vacillated erratically, as first she cursed Zeno, then his brother, then the Russian bitch, as she called the intruder, then herself.
She knew she needed to sort out the shit that was clogging her brain.
Uncomfortable in her own skin, she was furious that she couldn't see through the irrationality of this emotional noise, but deep inside she was floundering, incapable of sorting through the muddle of feelings.
Then, suddenly, shocked as if by a revelation, she began to reach across her own multiple defenses, the protective barriers she'd built in her brain to help her live a simple and agreeable life.
Her arms fell along her body and she stood there, immobile, as rivulets of water streamed over her hard body.
Listening to her inner soul, she finally let go and unpacked deeply inner secrets.
She had forbidden herself to love Zeno, the man that had really captured her hart, because, she rationalized, she didn't want to jeopardize their professional ventures. Now, as she stood there squeezing her eyes shut against the spray, Martina realized there were other, abstruse reasons for not allowing herself to admit she loved him -reasons that painfully defied words.
Having constructed such a shield between herself and Zeno had generated two side effects. The first was that she had launched into a relationship with the man that most resembled Zeno, his brother Carlo, and the second was that Zeno, with the typical lack of sensitivity she thought most men had, was going through life sampling lovers and totally ignoring her.
Up until now, she'd been unaffected by this aloofness or by his recreational affairs, and had found a kind of vicarious pleasure in watching, because Zeno's affair had never lasted long enough to take him from her.
But this time Martina sensed that the opportunistic Russian bitch would steal him away for good.
Zeno could actually be in love with another woman.
The though was too much for Martina.
She turned the shower to an icy jet, and with it her resolve.
Barriers restored once again, she decided that she needed to put even further distance between herself and Zeno -not so much to move on in her life, seeking the pleasure of new solitudes, but to truncate any further anguish.
The dark marmoreal floor of the bathroom contrasted vividly with the honey-brown one of the hallway separating the bedroom and the bathroom. Carlo's apartment in Turin, was located in Corso Vittorio, not far from the shore of the River Po, at the foot of the magnificent hills separating the town from the vast agricultural region at the south. The house was an old piemontese baroque mansion which belonged to an old man, a count linked to the Savoy family. The elderly man reluctantly divided the mansion into apartments in order to keep up with at least the most important aspects of his lifestyle. Galloping inflation, new taxes, and a lack of new resources had made it difficult for the very inner circle of the old patrician society to stay alive with the decency formerly afforded by their class.
Even with the help of the soothing warm water caressing her taut body, Martina ached with depression.
She'd spent long hours thinking about the reasons for her pain, and the process had been very unpleasant because, by habit, she was not given to introspection.
Her life up to now had been simple.
Her professional life was far from boring, providing her with intellectual stimulation and an outlet for creativity.
Her private life, though superficially happy, was, she realized, at least content.
But now she was miserable.
Since Zeno had met that woman, Irina, her life had filled with constant irritants.
Martina's emotions vacillated erratically, as first she cursed Zeno, then his brother, then the Russian bitch, as she called the intruder, then herself.
She knew she needed to sort out the shit that was clogging her brain.
Uncomfortable in her own skin, she was furious that she couldn't see through the irrationality of this emotional noise, but deep inside she was floundering, incapable of sorting through the muddle of feelings.
Then, suddenly, shocked as if by a revelation, she began to reach across her own multiple defenses, the protective barriers she'd built in her brain to help her live a simple and agreeable life.
Her arms fell along her body and she stood there, immobile, as rivulets of water streamed over her hard body.
Listening to her inner soul, she finally let go and unpacked deeply inner secrets.
She had forbidden herself to love Zeno, the man that had really captured her hart, because, she rationalized, she didn't want to jeopardize their professional ventures. Now, as she stood there squeezing her eyes shut against the spray, Martina realized there were other, abstruse reasons for not allowing herself to admit she loved him -reasons that painfully defied words.
Having constructed such a shield between herself and Zeno had generated two side effects. The first was that she had launched into a relationship with the man that most resembled Zeno, his brother Carlo, and the second was that Zeno, with the typical lack of sensitivity she thought most men had, was going through life sampling lovers and totally ignoring her.
Up until now, she'd been unaffected by this aloofness or by his recreational affairs, and had found a kind of vicarious pleasure in watching, because Zeno's affair had never lasted long enough to take him from her.
But this time Martina sensed that the opportunistic Russian bitch would steal him away for good.
Zeno could actually be in love with another woman.
The though was too much for Martina.
She turned the shower to an icy jet, and with it her resolve.
Barriers restored once again, she decided that she needed to put even further distance between herself and Zeno -not so much to move on in her life, seeking the pleasure of new solitudes, but to truncate any further anguish.
November 7th, Les Avants, Switzerland, No 43
Simple instructions were plainly typed on the unassuming white paper:
Drive alone to the village of Les Avants uphill of Montreux. Stop at the Café Le Relais. Order a tea. Say to the waiter "Un thé chaud, pas de crème. Non, amenez de la crème aussi". After five minutes, go to the back of the cafè and call form the public phone the number 928'55'23. You will receive further instruction then.
Irina was surprised by the curt, spare instruction, and by the “password phrase” that, she thought, was really stupid: "A hot tea, no cream. No, sorry, bring some cream too". Whoever had dreamt up that password, she thought, was an idiot because the phrase could have come out fortuitously from anyone of the cafè clients.
Irina pulled out her maps of the region. It took her a little while to locate the small village, actually an hamlet, not too far from Lausanne. She carefully folded the map, exposing the portion that would trace her route. Tossing the map and a phone into her stylish oversized leather bag, she grabbed a fur-lined coat and her sunglasses. As she entered the Lobby, Giovanni ran fetch the Porsche. He shot out of the underground like a bullet, screeched to a halt in front of the Hotel doors, leapt out and held the car's door for Irina. and kept the door of the Porsche open to let Irina in.
Wearing a rose bouclé Escada jacket and miniskirt, Irina gracefully folded her long legs into the car. Like all good Italians, Giovanni strategically placed himself to take advantage of viewing much as he could of Irina's beautiful legs as she lowered herself into the sports car.
And indeed, he got a good peek, as the flash of white thigh above the silky black stockings nearly caused him to choke. In an instant he raised his eyes, only to meet Irina's steady gaze. By then he knew that she knew, and when she smiled at him, keeping her eyes in his just a little bit longer than normal, he thought he would have a cardiac arrest.
Instantly she slammed the Porsche's door, threw the car into gear and pounded the accelerator, skilfully sending the car out of the property.
Irina enjoyed playing these little games with men around her -a little flirt here, a little there- just to confirm her power and control on them. Sex, however, and a few other games she liked to complement the sexual act, she reserved for the men she loved or at least admired. There were very few of them around.
She drove the Porsche along the lake shore to Lutry, one of the numerous villages named after the Roman patrician who had a villa built there a couple thousand years ago. that have a name derived from the name of the Roman patrician who had a villa built there a couple thousand years ago. Lutry, for example, stemmed from the latin name Lucius, Lucii, Cully, the next village to the east from Cullius, Cullii, and Prilly from Prilius, Prilii.
After Lutry she swung onto the Corniche road which runs all along the lake high up in the vineyards. The stretch of highway east of Lausanne is not only an incredible engineering achievement, but also allows to observe some extraordinary panoramic and beautiful views. The French Alps form the backdrop with their scintillating tops, carved with glistening glaciers and dark rock faces.
Luckily for Irina the cloud cover raised just enough for her to get at least a hint of what the full scenery must be on a clear day. From the highway it was possible to see how centuries of human work have manicured the slopes to take advantage of each single square meter of earth to grow grapes.
At the Montreux exit she started a steep ascent to Les Avants. She enjoyed driving the serpentine road with almost no traffic. Dense deciduous forests displayed their multicoloured autumn blanket of yellow, orange purple and brown leaves dramatically contrasted with the dark green, almost black tone of the coniferous stands.
This rich chromatic range was pleasing to the eye, but Irina was not ready to trade in the climate for the colors.
Another ten minutes and she was right in front of the Café Le Relais. Les Avants, like many other villages uphill of Montreux had a magnificent hotel-sanatorium, legacy from the era when rich British people would come to the "Geneva Lake Riviera" to quietly die of tuberculosis and other pulmonary diseases. These mammoth structures, with their elaborate jagged roof lines spiked with chimneys, were now empty and abandoned.
Visible for miles around, they resembled the dead dinosaurs that they are. The surrounding villages seemed dwarfed by comparison.
Quickly parking the Porsche, she walked back to the café and entered the tiny dark establishment.
The few dozen men inside immediately stopped talking, silently examining her from head to toe. It was like a scene in a western movie. They had never seen such an elegant and insolent beauty in "their café".
A waitress, ugly as a stormy night, approached Irina with a twisted grin.
"Bonjour Madame, qu'est-ce-que vous prenez? Good Morning, Madam, what would you like?"
Irina, trying her best shot at French recited the stilted "password".
It had the effect of a bomb on the lady who took off as a turbojet in the direction of the kitchen.
Irina waited patiently for five minutes, then proceeded towards the telephone. Lifting the receiver, she dialled and immediately, almost before the first ring, she heard a man voice.
"Take the road to the Col de Jaman, and drive uphill, until you hit a switch back at the end of a narrow valley. Stop there two minutes, beep the horn three times, then start again. Keep going straight when you find an intersection that shows a way to Caux. Four kilometres after that intersection you will be out of the forest. Cross a cattle grid. After another fifty meters there is a road maintenance garage. Stop there and wait. Be sure that you are alone. We will be checking". The caller rang off.
Irina generously pay for the her tea she never received, raced to the Porsche and took off in the direction indicated by the caller. Little wonder, the road was absolutely empty -no traffic- and happily so, because its width barely accommodated her car.
By the time she got at the appointed spot, she found herself driving on an open prairie, where it was possible to ascertain from a long distance that she was alone. She also understood the trick of the forced stop and sounding the horn. Given the narrowness of the road and the fact that there was no way out on the other side of the Col de Jaman, even if she had been escorted, it would have been a piece of cake to divert or waylay any secret escort.
She stopped her car and waited. If she guessed correctly, the man who gave her the instructions, or a partner of his, was observing her from a few kilometres away, perhaps from the slopes in front of her, already in the shadow. There, under a thick cover of vegetation, he would be practically invisible. She, on the other hand, was a sitting duck.
Indeed, a few minutes later a ramshackle old Opel station-wagon, the classic car of Swiss farmers, crept towards her at very low speed, on a cattle drive. The driver was a non-descript man, probably sixty-years-old, smoking a cigar, and wearing a slouched hat -the perfect stereotype of the Swiss peasant, delivering the milk produced by his cows.
The man didn't even stop, but gestured to her to follow him. Irina started her engine and followed.
After driving backwards down to the intersection marking Caux, they turned driving in tandem along a stretch of about twenty kilometres that completely confused Irina's sense of direction.
Then, suddenly, the man's car slowed to a crawl. He lowered his window and gestured to Irina to take a narrow dirt road that diverged from the main road and ascended very quickly along an oblique slope.
Drive alone to the village of Les Avants uphill of Montreux. Stop at the Café Le Relais. Order a tea. Say to the waiter "Un thé chaud, pas de crème. Non, amenez de la crème aussi". After five minutes, go to the back of the cafè and call form the public phone the number 928'55'23. You will receive further instruction then.
Irina was surprised by the curt, spare instruction, and by the “password phrase” that, she thought, was really stupid: "A hot tea, no cream. No, sorry, bring some cream too". Whoever had dreamt up that password, she thought, was an idiot because the phrase could have come out fortuitously from anyone of the cafè clients.
Irina pulled out her maps of the region. It took her a little while to locate the small village, actually an hamlet, not too far from Lausanne. She carefully folded the map, exposing the portion that would trace her route. Tossing the map and a phone into her stylish oversized leather bag, she grabbed a fur-lined coat and her sunglasses. As she entered the Lobby, Giovanni ran fetch the Porsche. He shot out of the underground like a bullet, screeched to a halt in front of the Hotel doors, leapt out and held the car's door for Irina. and kept the door of the Porsche open to let Irina in.
Wearing a rose bouclé Escada jacket and miniskirt, Irina gracefully folded her long legs into the car. Like all good Italians, Giovanni strategically placed himself to take advantage of viewing much as he could of Irina's beautiful legs as she lowered herself into the sports car.
And indeed, he got a good peek, as the flash of white thigh above the silky black stockings nearly caused him to choke. In an instant he raised his eyes, only to meet Irina's steady gaze. By then he knew that she knew, and when she smiled at him, keeping her eyes in his just a little bit longer than normal, he thought he would have a cardiac arrest.
Instantly she slammed the Porsche's door, threw the car into gear and pounded the accelerator, skilfully sending the car out of the property.
Irina enjoyed playing these little games with men around her -a little flirt here, a little there- just to confirm her power and control on them. Sex, however, and a few other games she liked to complement the sexual act, she reserved for the men she loved or at least admired. There were very few of them around.
She drove the Porsche along the lake shore to Lutry, one of the numerous villages named after the Roman patrician who had a villa built there a couple thousand years ago. that have a name derived from the name of the Roman patrician who had a villa built there a couple thousand years ago. Lutry, for example, stemmed from the latin name Lucius, Lucii, Cully, the next village to the east from Cullius, Cullii, and Prilly from Prilius, Prilii.
After Lutry she swung onto the Corniche road which runs all along the lake high up in the vineyards. The stretch of highway east of Lausanne is not only an incredible engineering achievement, but also allows to observe some extraordinary panoramic and beautiful views. The French Alps form the backdrop with their scintillating tops, carved with glistening glaciers and dark rock faces.
Luckily for Irina the cloud cover raised just enough for her to get at least a hint of what the full scenery must be on a clear day. From the highway it was possible to see how centuries of human work have manicured the slopes to take advantage of each single square meter of earth to grow grapes.
At the Montreux exit she started a steep ascent to Les Avants. She enjoyed driving the serpentine road with almost no traffic. Dense deciduous forests displayed their multicoloured autumn blanket of yellow, orange purple and brown leaves dramatically contrasted with the dark green, almost black tone of the coniferous stands.
This rich chromatic range was pleasing to the eye, but Irina was not ready to trade in the climate for the colors.
Another ten minutes and she was right in front of the Café Le Relais. Les Avants, like many other villages uphill of Montreux had a magnificent hotel-sanatorium, legacy from the era when rich British people would come to the "Geneva Lake Riviera" to quietly die of tuberculosis and other pulmonary diseases. These mammoth structures, with their elaborate jagged roof lines spiked with chimneys, were now empty and abandoned.
Visible for miles around, they resembled the dead dinosaurs that they are. The surrounding villages seemed dwarfed by comparison.
Quickly parking the Porsche, she walked back to the café and entered the tiny dark establishment.
The few dozen men inside immediately stopped talking, silently examining her from head to toe. It was like a scene in a western movie. They had never seen such an elegant and insolent beauty in "their café".
A waitress, ugly as a stormy night, approached Irina with a twisted grin.
"Bonjour Madame, qu'est-ce-que vous prenez? Good Morning, Madam, what would you like?"
Irina, trying her best shot at French recited the stilted "password".
It had the effect of a bomb on the lady who took off as a turbojet in the direction of the kitchen.
Irina waited patiently for five minutes, then proceeded towards the telephone. Lifting the receiver, she dialled and immediately, almost before the first ring, she heard a man voice.
"Take the road to the Col de Jaman, and drive uphill, until you hit a switch back at the end of a narrow valley. Stop there two minutes, beep the horn three times, then start again. Keep going straight when you find an intersection that shows a way to Caux. Four kilometres after that intersection you will be out of the forest. Cross a cattle grid. After another fifty meters there is a road maintenance garage. Stop there and wait. Be sure that you are alone. We will be checking". The caller rang off.
Irina generously pay for the her tea she never received, raced to the Porsche and took off in the direction indicated by the caller. Little wonder, the road was absolutely empty -no traffic- and happily so, because its width barely accommodated her car.
By the time she got at the appointed spot, she found herself driving on an open prairie, where it was possible to ascertain from a long distance that she was alone. She also understood the trick of the forced stop and sounding the horn. Given the narrowness of the road and the fact that there was no way out on the other side of the Col de Jaman, even if she had been escorted, it would have been a piece of cake to divert or waylay any secret escort.
She stopped her car and waited. If she guessed correctly, the man who gave her the instructions, or a partner of his, was observing her from a few kilometres away, perhaps from the slopes in front of her, already in the shadow. There, under a thick cover of vegetation, he would be practically invisible. She, on the other hand, was a sitting duck.
Indeed, a few minutes later a ramshackle old Opel station-wagon, the classic car of Swiss farmers, crept towards her at very low speed, on a cattle drive. The driver was a non-descript man, probably sixty-years-old, smoking a cigar, and wearing a slouched hat -the perfect stereotype of the Swiss peasant, delivering the milk produced by his cows.
The man didn't even stop, but gestured to her to follow him. Irina started her engine and followed.
After driving backwards down to the intersection marking Caux, they turned driving in tandem along a stretch of about twenty kilometres that completely confused Irina's sense of direction.
Then, suddenly, the man's car slowed to a crawl. He lowered his window and gestured to Irina to take a narrow dirt road that diverged from the main road and ascended very quickly along an oblique slope.
November 7th Lausanne, Switzerland, No 42
The plane docked at the satellite terminal in Geneva airport.
Irina grimaced as she gazed through the aircraft window.
A uniform lead blanket covered the sky from horizon to horizon.
“One more of these days with a communist sky”, she thought, “gray from morning to dawn -a real psychological torture. Pure sensory deprivation”.
No wonder she found the Swiss, with their continual bustle and somber characters, tobe among the most boring and indolent people to be found on earth: never smiling, not shining, no nothing -just like their skies.
Irina remembered Zeno telling her that he had married a Swiss woman -his "youth mistake" -as he had conied the whole experience. Poor chap, she thought, but on the other hand, he had stayed married long enough to produce three kids. Irina felt a strong attraction for the man, but, if he had been that stupid and slow reacting once, she should probably observe him carefully before letting her heart go. Irina hated false starts. After all, she was not a teenager, falling in love without even knowing it, and at her age, she was beginning to desire settling down in a long-lasting relationship -but not with an idiot!
It took a while to dock at the satellite gate and when Irina finally got at the door of the plane she felt the humid of the air and that cold bite she hated so much.
In her rented Porsche, the ride took her a little more than 35 minutes from the airport to Lausanne. Her destination was Ouchy, the lake shore portion of the town where the Beau Rivage Palace stands majestically.
She sped past the Roman ruins a Lausanne Bellerive, continued on the lake-shore boulevard, passing adjacent swimming pools, and finally reached the Ouchy area. From Roman times, through all nine hundred years of the Middle Ages, up to the present, the lake-harbour of Lausanne supported commerce, fishing and tourism.
Ouchy had been absorbed by the town of Lausanne and contributed to the tourist industry with several Hotels, among which the most prestigious is the Beau Rivage.
Irina relaxed with the pleasure of driving once again. For Irina, driving the powerful little sports car was like a swim in a cool pool after a long afternoon in the heat of the desert. She savoured the sparkling and refreshing sensation of controlling a couple hundred horse power that responded to her every command.
Being a connoisseur of the good things of life, Irina had a suite booked at the Beau Rivage by Schwayb, her agent. This was not the first time she had enjoyed the luxuries of this Hotel, and from a culinary point of view, she particularly relished a few days in Lausanne.
Pulling up to the front of the Beau Rivage, she left the car for the valet, an old Italian named Giovanni, who remembered Irina from her last visit.
He silently took the Porsche into the brand new underground parking carved into the hill just behind the hotel.
As soon as she reached her suite, Irina noticed a sealed envelope elegantly set in the middle of the fresh fruit basket sent by the management.
At first she thought it was the standard VIP welcoming letter of the house, but when she tore it open she noticed that it was written on standard letter paper, devoid of the flashy, ornamental letterhead generally used for such messages.
Her heart raced. Maybe she had not wasted her trip after all.
Irina grimaced as she gazed through the aircraft window.
A uniform lead blanket covered the sky from horizon to horizon.
“One more of these days with a communist sky”, she thought, “gray from morning to dawn -a real psychological torture. Pure sensory deprivation”.
No wonder she found the Swiss, with their continual bustle and somber characters, tobe among the most boring and indolent people to be found on earth: never smiling, not shining, no nothing -just like their skies.
Irina remembered Zeno telling her that he had married a Swiss woman -his "youth mistake" -as he had conied the whole experience. Poor chap, she thought, but on the other hand, he had stayed married long enough to produce three kids. Irina felt a strong attraction for the man, but, if he had been that stupid and slow reacting once, she should probably observe him carefully before letting her heart go. Irina hated false starts. After all, she was not a teenager, falling in love without even knowing it, and at her age, she was beginning to desire settling down in a long-lasting relationship -but not with an idiot!
It took a while to dock at the satellite gate and when Irina finally got at the door of the plane she felt the humid of the air and that cold bite she hated so much.
In her rented Porsche, the ride took her a little more than 35 minutes from the airport to Lausanne. Her destination was Ouchy, the lake shore portion of the town where the Beau Rivage Palace stands majestically.
She sped past the Roman ruins a Lausanne Bellerive, continued on the lake-shore boulevard, passing adjacent swimming pools, and finally reached the Ouchy area. From Roman times, through all nine hundred years of the Middle Ages, up to the present, the lake-harbour of Lausanne supported commerce, fishing and tourism.
Ouchy had been absorbed by the town of Lausanne and contributed to the tourist industry with several Hotels, among which the most prestigious is the Beau Rivage.
Irina relaxed with the pleasure of driving once again. For Irina, driving the powerful little sports car was like a swim in a cool pool after a long afternoon in the heat of the desert. She savoured the sparkling and refreshing sensation of controlling a couple hundred horse power that responded to her every command.
Being a connoisseur of the good things of life, Irina had a suite booked at the Beau Rivage by Schwayb, her agent. This was not the first time she had enjoyed the luxuries of this Hotel, and from a culinary point of view, she particularly relished a few days in Lausanne.
Pulling up to the front of the Beau Rivage, she left the car for the valet, an old Italian named Giovanni, who remembered Irina from her last visit.
He silently took the Porsche into the brand new underground parking carved into the hill just behind the hotel.
As soon as she reached her suite, Irina noticed a sealed envelope elegantly set in the middle of the fresh fruit basket sent by the management.
At first she thought it was the standard VIP welcoming letter of the house, but when she tore it open she noticed that it was written on standard letter paper, devoid of the flashy, ornamental letterhead generally used for such messages.
Her heart raced. Maybe she had not wasted her trip after all.
November 6th, 23h45 Sheraton Hotel, Muscat, Oman, No 41
Captain Cooper had deployed his satellite telephone/fax and dialling the special numeric sequence that would branch him on a decrypting line at CIA Headquarters in Langley, Virginia.
Sitting in a deep arm chair across from his colleague, Deutch sipped a glass of twelve-year-old Glen Livet diluted with tap water. A true connoisseur of all the subtleties of the scotch, he had picked up the habit after receiving a full course on the matter by a British Air Force officer in London. From him, Deutch had learned that the ethers making the aroma of the whisky are water soluble and release their maximum strength at 15-18 degrees Celsius, that is, the usual temperature of tap water. Anything colder, he'd been cautioned, inhibits the solution, thus impairing the development if the aroma. Thus, the British had brilliantly concluded, scotch on the rocks should be banned forever from the face of the earth.
Deutch watched Cooper's fingers flying across the keyboard, entering his simple, factual report:
"Cooper/Deutch report #004: operation BABEL TOWER
Our civilian contact has connected us with an individual potentially linked with current operation BABEL TOWER, a Caucasian male, Dr. Zeno Santucci.
Santucci was first-hand witness of telecom and navigational systems' temporary failure in South Oman desert, general Qurum region.
This individual is the first non-military witness.
Note: that disturbance, like the other noticed by US Air Force Command at Al Jasirah Base, was local in time and geographic extension and happened during severe storm conditions, i.e. when the limited amount of air traffic over that portion of the desert was grounded for meteorological reasons.
Ask instructions on witness follow-up"
A few minutes after, just the time necessary to prepare another scotch, the screen lit-up with the message:
"Please enter password: ********"
Immediately Cooper entered the sequence and the screen filled with data from headquarters' operation room:
"REPLY to Cooper/Deutch report #004: operation BABEL TOWER
Subject: Santucci Zeno; brother to Carlo, sons of Alberto Santucci (deceased).
Alberto Santucci records show heavy involvement with organised crime syndicate.
Possession of military grade telecom devices and navigational systems to be considered as a possible threat.
Zeno and brother Carlo Santucci to be considered as suspects, until further notice.
Extend scope of operation BABEL TOWER to monitor Zeno and Carlo Santucci worldwide.
Monitor and report daily.
No intervention unless explicitly ordered by this HQ.
Notification of reception of this message is required.
End of transmission"
"Whoah, what d'ya think about this?", Cooper asked Deutch who was peering over his shoulder.
"Well, let me tell you, either this Santucci guy is a real nasty crook, or he's an idiot who has wandered into a scene that he can't even comprehend! And as far as I know, he could pull his brother and God know who into the slaughterhouse"
Sitting in a deep arm chair across from his colleague, Deutch sipped a glass of twelve-year-old Glen Livet diluted with tap water. A true connoisseur of all the subtleties of the scotch, he had picked up the habit after receiving a full course on the matter by a British Air Force officer in London. From him, Deutch had learned that the ethers making the aroma of the whisky are water soluble and release their maximum strength at 15-18 degrees Celsius, that is, the usual temperature of tap water. Anything colder, he'd been cautioned, inhibits the solution, thus impairing the development if the aroma. Thus, the British had brilliantly concluded, scotch on the rocks should be banned forever from the face of the earth.
Deutch watched Cooper's fingers flying across the keyboard, entering his simple, factual report:
"Cooper/Deutch report #004: operation BABEL TOWER
Our civilian contact has connected us with an individual potentially linked with current operation BABEL TOWER, a Caucasian male, Dr. Zeno Santucci.
Santucci was first-hand witness of telecom and navigational systems' temporary failure in South Oman desert, general Qurum region.
This individual is the first non-military witness.
Note: that disturbance, like the other noticed by US Air Force Command at Al Jasirah Base, was local in time and geographic extension and happened during severe storm conditions, i.e. when the limited amount of air traffic over that portion of the desert was grounded for meteorological reasons.
Ask instructions on witness follow-up"
A few minutes after, just the time necessary to prepare another scotch, the screen lit-up with the message:
"Please enter password: ********"
Immediately Cooper entered the sequence and the screen filled with data from headquarters' operation room:
"REPLY to Cooper/Deutch report #004: operation BABEL TOWER
Subject: Santucci Zeno; brother to Carlo, sons of Alberto Santucci (deceased).
Alberto Santucci records show heavy involvement with organised crime syndicate.
Possession of military grade telecom devices and navigational systems to be considered as a possible threat.
Zeno and brother Carlo Santucci to be considered as suspects, until further notice.
Extend scope of operation BABEL TOWER to monitor Zeno and Carlo Santucci worldwide.
Monitor and report daily.
No intervention unless explicitly ordered by this HQ.
Notification of reception of this message is required.
End of transmission"
"Whoah, what d'ya think about this?", Cooper asked Deutch who was peering over his shoulder.
"Well, let me tell you, either this Santucci guy is a real nasty crook, or he's an idiot who has wandered into a scene that he can't even comprehend! And as far as I know, he could pull his brother and God know who into the slaughterhouse"
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Book One
The Santucci Brothers Trilogy, 1999, F. Oboni
