“Lisa knows too much about the inner workings of IIC. She’s a loose cannon. And Shanti . . . well, it would be hard to explain the threat she poses to my company. Just accept that the threat is real. She has to be neutralized.”
“What if she just stops working for you?”
“That won’t stop the damage.”
“The damage to what? She’s a teenage girl with a severe handicap.”
“On the surface. Beneath that, she’s the center of an infection that makes the AIDS virus look benign.”
“I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about. Explain.”
“Not yet. I told you, I have to trust you first. I have to know you’re loyal.”
“I can be very loyal to those I care about.”
“Is that why you won’t kill Shanti?”
“It’s one reason. Besides the fact she’s done nothing wrong.”
Brutran stares at me. I feel the power in her cold gaze. It is as if a massive magnet scans me from head to toe, although her eyes never leave my face. I’m surprised when I feel a sudden wave of dizziness. It’s usually I—my ancient eyes—who makes people swoon.
“I didn’t expect you to be so sentimental,” she says.
“I take it you’ve been studying me.”
“From a distance.”
“Tell me what you know about me.”
“I know you’re very old and very strong.”
“Go on.”
“I know you live and act alone. That’s what puzzles me most.”
“Why?”
“It makes you unique.”
“Why?”
She acts surprised. “You honestly don’t know, do you?”
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”
She nods again, to herself. “Interesting.”
“Did you send an assassin to my house last week?”
“No.”
“Who did?”
“What makes you think I know?”
“For someone who is trying to win my confidence, you’re not very forthright.”
“I’d like to win your confidence. But to do that, you insist I confide in you, when I keep telling you I need to know if I can count on you. We’re obviously bumping up against what people call a catch-22. One of us is going to have to make a good-faith gesture. I think it should be you.”
“I disagree.”
“I thought you would say that.” She reaches for the TV control and raises the volume a notch. “They’re talking about the tension in the Middle East. Some experts believe Iran already has the bomb, while others say they are still a year away from having enough purified uranium to build one or two nuclear weapons. What do you think the truth is?”
“I don’t know. But I’m sure you do.”
“Iran already has the bomb. Not one they built on their own, but a dozen they bought on the black market. Saudi Arabia also has the bomb. They have hydrogen bombs, a hundred of them. You might wonder how I know this when the president of the United States doesn’t. The reason is simple. I can write a check for a hundred billion dollars and he can’t. Not without the approval of the House and the Senate.”
“You’re saying these countries bought their bombs from Russia?”
“Saudi Arabia did. When the Soviet Union collapsed, the Saudi royal family looked north and figured the Russians couldn’t possibly keep track of the thirty thousand warheads they were supposed to decommission. No doubt some smart nephew of the king figured that with a hundred billion euros he could buy an already-made nuclear arsenal. Of course, somewhere along the line the king must have agreed to the plan.” She pauses. “You see my point?”
“You’re saying money can buy anything.”
“Yes.”
“Where did Iran buy their bombs?”
“From North Korea. They charged a lot less. Then again, their bombs don’t always work. Iran has to remember that if they go to war against Israel. Speaking of which, they have their own nuclear arsenal. One we sold them.”
“Everyone who goes on the Internet knows that.”
“Yes. But they don’t know why we sold them the bombs.”
“We did so out of guilt. Because we turned our heads during World War Two and let six million Jews die.”
Brutran nods. “Very good. Spoken like a wise observer who lived through those turbulent years.”
“What makes you think I’m so old?”
“Intensive research. For such a rich lady, you have no birth certificate. Nor do you have any death certificates. You’ll laugh at that last remark and say, ‘Of course, I’m still alive. Why should I have a death certificate?’ But let me give you a taste of the advice I can pass on to you if we agree to work together. You should have let your old identities die. It would have covered your tracks better. None of your earlier aliases were ever buried. That’s one of the main ways we were able to track you.”
Her advice is sound. I have been careless at killing off my earlier incarnations. Before the computer age, it wasn’t necessary. Now I see I’ll have to adjust my lifestyle to include regular funerals.
Brutran has scored a point.
“How old do you think I am?” I ask.
She studies me. “Our data reaches back four centuries. You’re at least that old. But sitting with you now, I sense we’ve barely scratched the surface of who you really are.”
“Interesting.”
“Now you sound like me. Good.”
I shake my head. “I’m not like you. You may be right about certain worldly events, but I’ll never believe money can buy everything. IIC can accumulate all they want, but when the public becomes aware of what you’re up to, there will be such an outcry, your wealth will be useless.”
“How is anyone going to know what we’re up to?”
“No secret remains secret forever. Even now, there are cracks in your veil.”
She brushes my words aside with her hand. “We own CNN and your beloved New York Times. Within five years we’ll control all the major media outlets. Events don’t make the news, the people who own the news companies do. Why, I could make you famous in less than a month, Alisa Perne. Or should I say Lara Adams? Talk about cracks in my veil. Your veil is paper thin. I don’t have to physically touch you to destroy you. You have more secrets than any of us.”