Yesterday (Part Two - Ch. 39 & Part Three - Ch. 40) (Patreon)

CHAPTER 39

Aminarti was still confined to the Congregation's house. He was now quite recovered, but as he got better he began to worry about the nature of his isolation.

He would listen to nine o'clock mass every morning on the tiny radio on the bedside table, with the chaplain coming to see him several afternoons to offer confession. He was no longer on medication, but he still ached all over, probably from lack of exercise, at his age it was not good to remain bedridden for so long.

That Wednesday, shortly after finishing Mass, he had a very revealing visit. His old friend, the vicar Alfredo Fonseca, came to see him with dismal news.

—Well, I am glad to see that you are feeling better Lorenzo.

—Alfredo, when are you going to let me out of here? I must solve my problem.

—Your problem?

—Yes, only I can stop Jonah.

—See, Lorenzo, “your problem” as you like to call it, is more serious than you imagine. Things have gotten complicated.

—What happened?

—Oscar Samper's wife, Martha, I was told her name was Martha, died in a traffic accident.

—When?

—Last Thursday, we didn't want to tell you about it so as not to make things worse.

—Poor woman, — sighed Aminarti, bowing his head.

—But we have also received some disturbing news. Look, I am not entirely aware of the nature of your work with that boy, and there are matters that are none of my business,— he said, twisting his eyes, —but I have received a cable from Rome which obliges me to pass this on to you and to let you do as you see fit from now on.

—Finally — sighed Aminarti in relief, incidentally earning the Vicar's reproachful glance —anything else?

—This past Sunday morning, Jonah infiltrated our residence in Dublin.

—At the Prelature? — said Aminarti, stunned.

—No, at Erdini, the students' residence. There he met Professor Walter Hebert, a member of the Congregation whom I am told of your acquaintance

—But that's impossible.

—It appears that your Jonah was conveniently disguised as a priest and took advantage of the house’s chaplain’s absence due to illness to pose as his replacement.

—Amazing.

—Not at all, wait for it, the amazing part is that in the cable they ask me to inform you that they took care of it, that the meeting was foreseen, and that Hebert fulfilled his mission. What’s all this mess about, Lorenzo?

Aminarti crossed his arms and stared straight ahead with renewed confidence, feeling more in his element again, and decided not to maintain his submissive attitude any longer. After all, the man couldn’t possibly understand the nature of his work. He nodded gravely and asked him to continue.

—As you wish,— the Vicar snorted. —Furthermore, another member of the Congregation contacted us on Monday to warn us that Mr. Samper is investigating the circumstances surrounding the adoption of two twins, and that you would understand. Tell me you are not involved in anything funny, please…

—Alfredo, I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you anything.

—You will know Lorenzo, but I’m telling you, these times are not ripe for nonsense. Don’t harm us all with your intrigues.

—Answer yourself to that cable, if this is a problem for you. I’m leaving today, —concluded Aminarti.

—As you wish.

Left alone in his room, Aminarti allowed a brief expression of satisfaction to cross his face. If Hebert did what he had imagined, Jonah would welcome him like Christmas. He just had to find him before the others did.

His most immediate problem was Oscar Samper. He deeply regretted the man’s loss, but he needed to find a quick way to neutralize his investigation before he blew it with his inquiries. Perhaps by offering him some kind of truth. Something useful to console his suffering. He would figure it out on the way to Madrid.

End of Part Two

THIRD PART

“Make sure your words aren’t worse than your silences”

Anonymous

CHAPTER 40

Spencer Kelt seemed like an ordinary man. As a matter of fact, everyone assumed he was working as an accountant in that small office on the 25th floor of the Brown Towers building in midtown Manhattan, which he had been coming and going in and out of punctually for years.

Every day, at the same time every morning, he opened the door to his tidy office, and every afternoon, at five o’clock, he dutifully closed it and walked out with a newspaper under his arm and a slim black leather briefcase in his hand. No one paid any attention to him. The occasional receptionist greeted him as he crossed in front of the building’s reception desks, but so many had been in that post for so many years that he had finally achieved his purpose, becoming part of the furniture so that no one would notice him.

Had anyone wandered into his office by mistake, they would have been in for a surprise. Kelt was a man of few luxuries, but extremely meticulous. He had preserved in perfect condition the sparse furnishings with which the room was decorated in 1963. Entering it was like taking a trip back in time, a clean and tidy past. Functional but elegant at the same time. And Kelt appreciated it that way, because after all, he was the only one enjoying it.

Spencer looked no particular age. If anyone walked by him on the street and noticed him, something unlikely, they might at most comment that he was middle-aged, as they said at the time. But Spencer Kelt hadn't changed much in the last ten or fifteen years either. “What for?” he would have asked himself had he had to think about it.

Time had little meaning for Spencer. Life and work at that point were repetitive, filled with patterns that gave him a certain satisfaction, precisely because they allowed him to forget about the days he left behind and focus on the future, on the day when he could finally leave and rest.

His job consisted of collecting data, writing reports, sending them, receiving very occasional brief written communications about technical aspects to be taken into account and, above all, silently and vigilantly observing that the whole plan was running its course without interference.

That morning, one of many, Spencer entered his office. He sat down, pressed a button and, as every other day, the leather top covering the center of his hardwood desk slid off to reveal a sophisticated work console, built especially for him by Harperin Corporation engineers following his precise instructions. He pressed another button inside and the screen filled with data, which he immediately started to analyze.

And the red phone rang.

He looked at it quizzically. That phone never rang. It was the first time.

Spencer raised an eyebrow and, without changing his expression, picked up the heavy receiver of the archaic device.

Static noise could be heard on the other end. Kelt made an effort to make some sense of the electronic chaos screeching through the receiver but found it impossible.

He hung up.

It rang again. Kelt gave it an annoyed look, but picked up. A metallic clanking sound was heard on the other end.

—Hello? — a muffled female voice broke in between interferences.

—Spencer Kelt, —introduced Spencer, perplexed, — speak.

—Mr. Kelt, an unforeseen situation has arisen that has forced us to contact you.

—Report, —Spencer replied mechanically.

—Two technicians escaped from the facility a few hours ago. We can do nothing from here, as you know, and it is imperative that they be contained. They took two babies from the farm with them, twins who turned out to be their natural children. Their records are being sent to your system as we speak. I repeat, it is crucial that they be detained.

—Should they be returned to Olympos?

—No, but the babies are. You have permission to obliterate the two escapees.

—Understood.

Spencer hung up the phone and looked down at his screen. Two small faces had appeared on one side. He slid his finger over them and their photos zoomed in along with their IDs until they covered the screen. They were two young people, male and female.

He knew what he had to do, he recalled the procedure even though he had never performed it before. The first thing he did was isolate the two DNA markers from the fugitives’ files and enter them into his search engine. Chances were that despite their successful escape, they were unaware that their DNA was marked in a very peculiar way with a subtle radioactive isotope that made them easily traceable with the right technology.

Now the problem was the babies. They had not been fully marked; the report emphasized that they were still in the early stages of conditioning.

As he carefully entered all the data, Spencer mentally practiced something akin to crossing his fingers. Then he waited patiently before the screen.

Data. Coordinates.

43.6920512, 7.332988

43.6920405, 7.333603

He issued a statement. Resignedly, he would wait until a response came back for him. He could not leave his post until the task was completed, so he took the opportunity to review the day's trading data.