Resonance (42 page)

"So if Graham stays out of his usual places, he won't flip."

"Exactly."

Everything suddenly became clear. In a strange way, he'd been right all the time. His routines, his rituals, his daily repetitions. They
had
stopped the world from unravelling. By limiting choice he'd reduced the opportunities for flipping worlds. He'd kept himself sane by obeying his internal laws of repetition and ritual; he'd removed choice from his world and, in so doing, had saved himself from a life of constant flipping.

Which was why the frequency of flips had increased over the last two weeks. He was making more choices. His routine had been upset. It was all so clear to him now.

His stomach rumbled. And something else became clear.

He'd missed breakfast.

Gary told him about a small cafe off the High Street.

"A bit of a greasy spoon but their bacon sandwiches are to die for."

Graham didn't need more of a recommendation than that. He left the building with a bounce in his step. He was beginning to understand things that had confused and terrified him for years. The world wasn't such a frightening place. There were reasons behind everything. Strange reasons, but reasons he could understand and control.

Even having Annalise walk beside him didn't faze him. For the first time in days he could walk alongside her without feeling overpowered by her proximity. He could appreciate other sensations: the beauty of a brilliant white cloud against a deep blue sky, the soft touch of a warm summer breeze, the smell of a full English breakfast.

Graham salivated as he stood outside the cafe, reading the menu by the door.

"Should you be choosing from a menu?" asked Annalise.

"Just checking they have it," he said. "I always have the same Sunday breakfast—two pork sausages, three rashers of bacon, one slice of fried bread."

"Neat," said Annalise, far from convinced.

They went inside. Formica tables and red-checked tablecloths. Bacon sizzled, tea steamed and the smell of fried food hung over everything like a dripping fog bank.

"What is this place?" asked Annalise. "Cholesterol Central?"

Graham smiled and ordered his breakfast. Annalise had an espresso.

As he sipped at his coffee, a newspaper headline caught Graham's eye. Something about ParaDim. He screwed up his eyes and peered across the tables.

America and ParaDim sign deal on New Tech weapons development. 
 

Graham charged into the room and threw the newspaper towards Gary.

"I thought you said it would never happen here!"

Gary looked startled. He glanced at Annalise, at Graham and, finally, at the paper.

"What does it say?" asked Howard, hurrying over from the far end of the room.

"ParaDim's developing New Tech weapons," said Annalise, her voice as angry as Graham's.

"I don't understand," said Gary, his eyes flicking from side to side as he read the article.

"It's easy," said Annalise. "ParaDim's climbed into bed with the Pentagon to develop New Tech weapons."

Howard looked shocked. "That's not possible," he said, shaking his head.

"Wait," said Gary, holding up a hand. "It says here the project is to develop shield technology. There's nothing about offensive weapons. Defensive weapons only, it says."

Annalise leaned over and pointed to a paragraph at the bottom right of the page. "Have you seen the list of defensive weapons? Antimissile missiles, New Tech pulse cannons. I've read the Chaos files. It's the same technology—defensive, offensive—once you've produced one, you can produce the other."

"No," Gary continued to shake his head. "This has to be a mistake. Kenny wouldn't do something like this . . ." He paused. "Unless . . ."

"Unless what?" asked Howard.

Gary exhaled deeply and nodded to himself. "It could make sense."

Graham wondered if he was ever going to come to the point.

"How?" said Annalise, sounding as exasperated as Graham.

"One of the major problems leading to the Chaos was the animosity between America and ParaDim. This could be a clever move. Building bridges with the Americans could help prevent the Chaos and maybe keep New Tech weapons out of the hands of terrorists."

Gary looked from face to face, looking for support. Annalise bit her lip. Howard rubbed his chin.

Graham sighed. Couldn't Gary see what was happening? New Tech weapons research was starting. Shields first, then what? Good intentions, curiosity, and resonance. How had the other Howard put it? The genie was loose and no amount of shoving would force him back in.

Graham wasn't the only one to become agitated by a news story. Annalise 141 made contact midmorning.

"It's all over the news," she fumed. "Internal ParaDim investigation uncovers massive fraud. They're framing the Resonance guys. Making out they've been stealing money and have skipped the country. No one's gonna look for their bodies now, they're gonna think they're all living it up with new identities." 

"Did you find Graham?" asked Six.

"Yeah, didn't I say? He's with me now. Anyway, tell the guys to check their bank accounts. Looks like ParaDim's clearing the way to explain their disappearance. They planted millions on the guys over here." 
 

"At least we don't have to worry about that here," said Gary after Annalise had told him.

Annalise was about to make some snide comment about having enough to worry about with New Tech weapons but thought better if it. Gary's complacency was becoming annoying. His world was perfect. Kenny Zamorra was perfect. He even defended Adam Sylvestrus. Was he naive or a crazy optimist?

She stopped. When had Annalise Mercado become a cynic?

A question she didn't have time to consider.

Gary's phone rang. It was Tamisha. She was speaking so loud Annalise could make out every word. She was downloading the latest translation. She'd cleaned up the problems with the contradictory equations and was feeding everything she had into the resonance models.

"It all makes sense," she shouted. "It really does."

A strange crackling sounded over the phone, like rain falling on a plastic sheet. Were people clapping?

Gary laughed and folded his fingers over the mouthpiece. "Get the others," he said to Annalise. "Tell them Tamisha's done it. Tell them to get the simulation tests ready."

Annalise Fifteen waited behind the door. She hadn't heard anything for thirty minutes. A fireman would have gone for help, wouldn't he? The crazy lady would have been reported to the police and someone would be hollering up at her from the other end of a megaphone.

Which meant?

Which meant her gamble had worked.

Again.

The hall light flickered on. A bead of light at the foot of the door. Voices. Had she spoken too soon?

She pressed her face up against the peephole in the door. People were walking by. One dressed in his pajamas. Residents returning to their apartments. She opened the door, grabbed Graham and slipped out.

She held her breath as they walked along the corridor. She felt conspicuous, nervous, distrustful. Everyone looked so normal, ordinary people displaced in the middle of the night—dishevelled, weary, chatty, quiet.

But any one of them could be an agent for ParaDim.

She kept going, avoiding eye contact, took the main staircase down to her floor, hovered by the fire doors, held out a hand, steeled herself, and pushed.

Two men were standing outside her apartment, their backs toward her. One was on the phone. He turned. It was Mark.

Two hours later her apartment was full of people. Police, security men, strangers. All wandering around, poking into this and that, asking questions. Annalise fended them off, told them most of what had happened and shielded Graham.

"He's traumatized," she told them. "Can't you see? He won't say a word."

"He doesn't look traumatized to me," said the policeman in charge.

"And you're an expert, I suppose?"

"No, but I know a man who is."

"And I know a lawyer," she snapped, balling her fists and glaring at the man until he smiled, closed his notebook and turned away.

The police left soon after that. No fire and no intruder—he'd apparently run off after knocking Mark to the ground. And no mention of the crazy woman with the gun on the fifth floor.

Jenny arrived as soon as it was light. She'd brought a photographer, who flitted around the apartment, taking pictures of Annalise, the broken window, Mark's bloodied face and Annalise again. He appeared captivated by her, taking pictures of her from all angles.

"You ever done any modelling work?" he asked.

"You ever been pushed out a fourth floor window?"

Gradually, the apartment cleared. Graham's window was repaired and the steady stream of people was reduced to four. Annalise, Graham, Jenny and Jermaine—the latest bodyguard.

The two women talked, closeted on the sofa.

"Adam Sylvestrus has a lot of friends," said Jenny. "And deep pockets. His lawyers are lining up government ministers to lobby on his behalf."

Typical, thought Annalise, running her hands through her hair.

"Everything the police do is going to be scrutinized," continued Jenny. "Everything they do against Sylvestrus that is. Dave has the Met Police Commissioner on the phone to him every hour."

"But they'll back off once they see Sylvestrus is guilty, won't they?"

"Faster than fleas off a drowning rabbit but until then he's whiter than white."

"So who broke in here last night?"

"You did."

"What!"

"That's what they're saying. I've been on the phone all morning. Sylvestrus's people are lobbying like crazy. They say you have no defense so you invent a conspiracy and when that doesn't work you invent a break-in. And because you're getting paid by a newspaper, we're in on it as well. They're briefing all the media, trying to get our rivals to take the bait—evil newspaper in league with deranged psycho."

"They're calling me a psycho?"

"They're calling you everything they can think of. They're even saying you're a threat to peoples' jobs because ParaDim's thinking of pulling out of the UK."

Annalise shook her head. "But that's crazy."

"Not as crazy as you, apparently. Sylvestrus's lawyers want you locked up. They've already applied for an injunction against you. They're painting you as a deranged stalker obsessed with Sylvestrus. You're not allowed within four hundred yards of the man."

"I don't even know where he is!" she said, waving her arms in exasperation.

"The Cavendish Clinic, Knightsbridge," said Jenny. "He's supposedly undergoing treatment."

"You don't believe he's injured?"

"I'm a journalist, dear. I distrust everybody."

Annalise wondered if she should feel remorse for what she'd done to Sylvestrus. She knew she should—if she were a good person—but she found it hard to feel anything for the man. He'd been in the car. He was going to harm Graham, put him in a coma. And all for what? Some motive that no one could fathom.

And had she actually seen him? That instant before she'd thrown the bin, had she registered a presence in the back of the car?

She tried to tell herself that she hadn't. That the inside of the car had been a black void, that she hadn't seen anyone, couldn't have seen anyone through the flaming heat haze of the burning bin.

But she must have known—somewhere, deep inside, that people had to be inside that car. Someone had opened the back door; she'd seen it swing open. She must have known that someone could get hurt.

She shook her head.
People
had not been in that car, kidnappers and murderers had been in that car. People who would kill and torture and lie and probably laugh about it afterwards. She'd done what she had to do. No more, no less. And that was an end to it.

Jenny left, came back and left again. Pressure was being applied at the paper as well. Questions about the wisdom of bankrolling a dangerous psycho were being raised and Jenny was having to reassure her editor—and the legal department and various members of the board.

Jerry Saddler stopped by just after twelve.

"Ignore the flummery," he told Annalise. "Sylvestrus's people are worried and becoming desperate. The police have warrants out for the arrest of four men, the two with Sylvestrus's car and the two men posing as police officers. They're picking them up now. The police will probably want you and Graham to attend an identity parade later today."

Annalise's spirits sank. "Does Graham have to go to this line-up thing?"

"Of course. Without him it's your word against theirs. If you want, I can go through the procedure with him. He won't have to meet these men and no pressure will be placed upon him at all."

As soon as Jerry left, Annalise pushed open the door to Graham's room. He was kneeling on the floor by the window, picking through the tiny pieces of jigsaw. He looked so peaceful, so controlled. Less than twelve hours ago, someone had abseiled down from the roof and smashed their way into his bedroom. And now he was back in front of the same window as though nothing had happened.

She walked over to the window and ran a finger along the base of the new pane. You could hardly tell it had been replaced.

"Strange things happen," said Graham, unexpectedly reaching out and squeezing her hand.

The words came out so matter-of-factly, so unexpectedly, it took her by surprise. They were the first words she'd heard this Graham say. He smiled up at her, fixing his eyes somewhere to the left of her shoulder. She felt like crying. Stupid, stupid emotions. She choked back the tears and squeezed his hand.

"They do," was all she could say.

Sunday afternoon flew. A video conference link had been quickly thrown together to link London with New York, Boston and Kyoto. The images of Tamisha and various people Graham had never seen before flickered from wall screens, their voices slightly out of sync with the stuttering video.