Zig Zag (59 page)

"It
could just be surges." Victor Lopera was a physicist, and his
brain had gone into overdrive. He knew nothing about cadavers, nor
did he want to, but with electric circuits he was in his element.
"Sometimes power surges suck all the energy out of a system."

"And
the batteries from a flashlight not connected to the electricity in
any way?"

"I
admit that that's pretty odd."

"Indeed
it is," Blanes agreed. "But somehow it serves as a point of
departure for us. Zig Zag and the power cuts are related one way or
another. It's as if he needs those cuts in order to act."

"The
dark," Jacqueline said. "He always comes in the dark."

That
seemed to spook everyone. Elisa noticed them all glance at the dim
glow that the reading lamp cast over the table. She decided to
interrupt the deep silence.

"OK,
so Zig Zag produces power cuts, but that doesn't explain what could
have been doing this to us..." She fidgeted, anxiously smoothing
out her hair. "Tormenting us, murdering us. I mean, this has
been going on for years now."

"Well,
as I said, Reinhard is going to give us his final analysis. But I can
tell you one thing: Zig Zag is not some supernatural being, he's
no
devil.
Physics created him. We're talking about something demonstrable,
something concrete that Ric Valente created on New Nelson." Amid
the stupor that this news was met with, Blanes added something even
more outlandish. "Valente might even
be
Zig
Zag."

"What?"
Victor noticeably paled and glanced at them all in turn. "But
Ric ... Ric is dead..."

Carter
stood before them, his arms crossed.

"That
was another one of Eagle's lies, the easiest one. Valente was never
found guilty, and there was never any proof of his death, but they
decided to blame the murders that took place on the island on him so
no one would ask any questions. His parents buried an empty coffin."

Elisa
stared at Carter, aghast.

"As
far as we're aware, Valente is still around, though his whereabouts
are unknown."

HE
heard
a humming noise, felt his stomach tingling, and experienced the
slight dizziness of descent. His ears needed to pop. The cabin
lights, dimmed for landing, gave off a soft golden glow. Any frequent
flier would realize they were preparing to land.

Suddenly,
the speakers crackled.

"Ten
minutes to landing."

The
man across from him stopped talking to his partner and gazed out the
window. Silberg did the same. He saw a dark expanse, the lower part
of it dotted with lights. He'd been to Madrid several times, and he
loved that uniquely small "big city." He pulled back his
sleeve to check his watch: it was 2:30 in the morning on Thursday,
March 12. He thought of all the things that would happen after those
ten minutes had passed. The plane would land, the Eagle men would
escort him to the house, and from there he'd be transported with the
rest of them to the Aegean base ... or who knew what remote part of
the world. They'd have to work out an escape plan with Carter. Only
if they managed to break free from Eagle's talons could they come up
with a way to confront the
real
threat.

But
what could they do? Silberg had no idea. He wiped the sweat off his
face with his jacket sleeve as he felt the landing gear engage below
him.

One
of the men leaned over toward him.

"Professor,
do you know what the..."

That
was the last he heard.

The
lights went out midquestion.

"Hello?"
Silberg called. He heard only his own voice.

No
reply.

Nor
could he hear the Northwind's engines. And his vertigo was gone.

For
a second, he thought maybe he was dead. Or perhaps he'd had a brain
hemorrhage and still had a sliver of consciousness left that would
slowly fade out in the dark. But he'd just spoken, and he'd heard his
own voice. Besides, he now realized, he could feel the armrests, and
his seat belt was still on, and he could barely begin to make out the
shape of the cabin in the dark. But everything around him was quiet
and still. How was that possible?

The
Eagle men must have been just a few feet away. He remembered both of
them. The guy on the right was taller and pudgier, with sideburns
down to the middle of his cheeks; the one on the left was blond and
burly, with blue eyes and a marked harelip. At that moment, Silberg
would have given anything to see them again, or at least hear them.
But the blackness before him was too dense.

Or
was it?

He
looked around. A few meters to his right, on what must have been the
cabin wall, there was a faint glow. He hadn't noticed it until just
then. He inspected it carefully. Wondered what it could be.
A
hole in the fuselage?
A
diffuse, peaceful light.
The
spirit of the Lord, floating over the water.
Nothingness.
Philosophers and theologians had tried for centuries to come to terms
with what his eyes were taking in at just that second.

As
a child, Silberg's passion for Bible study had often led him to
wonder what it would be like to witness a miracle: the parting of the
waters, the sun freezing, the walls crumbling as trumpets rang out,
the body coming back to life, the placid lake in the midst of life's
storm. What did those who lived through those things feel?

Now
you know. But this isn't one of God's miracles.

In
a flash, he realized what that circle of light, and the stillness
around him, meant.

Zig
Zag. The angel with the flaming sword.

He'd
known all along, of course, and simply refused to accept it. It was
too horrific.

So
this
is it. Even on an airplane.

He
brought his left hand to his hip and groped for his seat belt, but he
couldn't get it unfastened. The flap and buckle seemed to be all one
piece. With increasing desperation, he yanked it forward, the belt
cutting right into his flesh (he seemed to be wearing no clothes),
hurting him, making him wince and whimper in pain, but the thing
wouldn't budge.

He
couldn't move. But there was something far worse than that.

Worse
than that was the feeling that he wasn't alone.

It
was an absolutely chilling sensation on that still, eternal night.
More than a feeling, it was the certainty that
someone
or
something
was
at the back of the cabin, behind him, by the restrooms and the last
row of seats. He looked over his shoulder, but between the darkness,
the back of his seat, and not being able to turn his head, he
couldn't see a thing.

Still,
he was certain that the presence was real. And it was approaching.

It
came down the aisle.

Zig
Zag. The angel with the...

In
an instant, he lost the cool he'd maintained up till then. He was
overcome by utter panic. Nothing—not the thought of Bertha, not
his Bible study, his education, or his courage— helped him get
through that moment of sheer terror. He trembled. He whimpered. He
burst into tears. He struggled insanely with his seat-belt buckle. He
thought he would lose his mind, but he didn't. He had a sudden
realization: insanity cannot conquer the brain as quickly as anxiety.
It was easier to cut off an extremity, extract entrails, or rip flesh
from bone than it was to strip a healthy mind of its reason, he
deduced. He intuited he was to remain mindful to the end.

But
he was wrong.

A
moment later, that became clear.

It
turned out that in fact there were things that could strip a healthy
mind of all reason, in an instant.

IT
was
a fragile night. A dim, black patchwork of tiny lights. The
Northwind's pointed nose sliced through it like a blade of ice. The
hydraulic shock absorbers took the weight of the aircraft as the
brakes halted its propulsion with a deafening roar.

Harrison
didn't wait for the plane to stop. He left the airport official
standing there and nodded to the van parked on Terminal Three's
runway. His men jumped in, silent and efficient. The last one slammed
the door shut and they cruised over to the plane. There were hardly
any commercial flights at that time of night, so they had no fear of
interruptions. Harrison had just received a report from the pilots:
no incidents to report. The first part of his mission—bringing
all the scientists together—was taken care of.

He
turned to his right-hand man, seated beside him.

"No
violence, no weapons. Understood? If he refuses to hand over his
briefcase, we'll let him hold onto it for now. We'll have time once
we get back to the house. The main thing is to get him to trust us."

The
van stopped; the men piled out. Wind swept across the grass around
the runway and ruffled Harrison's snowy white hair. The staircase was
attached, but the plane's hatch hadn't opened. What were they waiting
for?

"The
windows...," his man said.

For
a second Harrison didn't know what he meant. But as soon as he turned
to look at the plane, it dawned on him.

All
of the windows aside from the cockpit, the five porthole windows on
the luxurious Northwind, looked as though they'd been painted black.
He couldn't recall that model having smoked glass. What were the
passengers doing in the dark?

Suddenly,
the windows lit up as slowly and softly as streetlights on a lonely
road at dusk. Light seemed to float from one to the next. Someone was
carrying a flashlight around in there. But the weird thing was the
color of the light.

Red.
A dirty, uneven red.

Or
it looked that way because of what was covering the inside of the
windows.

A
tingling in his gut rooted Harrison to the spot. For a second, time
stood still.

"Get
onto that plane," he said. But no one seemed to hear him. He
took a deep breath and gathered his courage, like a general
addressing his troops before an imminent defeat. "Get onto that
goddamned plane!"

It
was as though everything was frozen still and only he could move. He
stood there, screaming.