Revelation

Findhorn puffs out his cheeks. The Korean is frowning angrily. 'Why all talk talk? Just finish the job. Two seconds.'

'Think about it, Matsumo.'

'I think, Mister Findhorn, that you are a principled man. Your principles have forced you to kill the innocent in order to hide the secret. These same principles will not allow you to make this devastating thing public even to save your life. Therefore your Internet files do not exist. Therefore you can safely be executed. Purely, you understand, as a precaution, in case on some future date poverty or greed should overcome those strong principles of yours.'

Drindle is watching Findhorn with quiet interest: a lion studying an antelope.

The telephone is now slippery with sweat. 'You've misread the situation. I killed these people for two million US dollars, one for me, one for my assistant.' Now he senses Romella staring at him. 'Don't you see, with these guys gone, I'm the only person on the planet who knows the process. You're my market, Yoshi. Silence me. Stuff my mouth with gold.'

Unexpectedly, the silence at the end of the line is broken by a peal of laughter. Findhorn holds the receiver away; startled faces around the table stare at the phone. When he has stopped laughing, Yoshi Matsumo says, 'What a magnificent liar you are, Mister Findhorn! I congratulate you on your ingenuity.' There is another long silence. Findhorn begins to wonder if the line has gone dead. Then: 'However, you do present me with an interesting quandary. Suppose that I kill you. Then if, as I believe, there is no message waiting to be broadcast, your death solves my problem. But now suppose that, implausible though it is, you are telling the truth. Then I fear that your death would quickly be followed by my disgrace, perhaps even my demise.'

'So make your pre-emptive sale and let us go.'

'Unfortunately, having sold the secret to me, you might then sell it all over again to someone else. Someone who might use the process and ruin my company. Therein lies my dilemma: alive or dead, you are a risk.'

Findhorn wipes an irritating drop of sweat from an eyebrow. The Korean, sensing an atmosphere, is now grinning and nodding, taunting Findhorn by pretending to shoot him with the gun. Matsumo continues: 'An idealist, or a clever buccaneer? That is the question. Return the phone to my assistant.'

Findhorn is beginning to feel a terrible tightness in his chest and jaw. He slides the telephone across the polished table back to Drindle. There is a brief conversation in Japanese and then, again, silence.

Drindle touches the barrel of the carbine. 'Still warm. It comes with telescopic sights but I removed them. They are just a nuisance at this range. He's consulting colleagues.'

Children's voices.

Stille Nacht, Heilige Nacht… The carol drifts faintly up from another world, a world of innocence and love and goodness, of solid values and moral certainties. Findhorn looks into Drindle's eyes, tries to see through them into the man's soul, gives up.

Alles schlaft…

Big snow flakes are falling thickly past the window: soon they will all be snowed in, trapped together in the chalet. The logs are crackling quietly.

Einsam wacht…

They could be in a scene on a Christmas card, were it not for the three corpses, eyes half shut, mouths open, their blood staining the polished wooden floor.

And in the warm dining room, the living are as still as the corpses, sleeping in Heavenly peace. Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh, Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh…

A voice on the telephone. Drindle listens, his eyes expressionless, for some minutes. Then, again, he slides the telephone across to Findhorn, his face grim. Matsumo speaks like a judge pronouncing sentence: 'Mister Findhorn, I am convinced that you have put nothing on the Internet.'

Dive for the kitchen. Romella might get to the Korean.

'But then, why should I take even a slight chance with that? There is another way forward. Two million dollars is miniscule in relation to what is at stake. On some future occasion, when the money runs low, you might be tempted to talk. I must therefore make you a very rich man, in order to substantially reduce that temptation. I have opened an account for you in the Hofbahnstrasse in Zurich and arranged for twenty million dollars to be paid into it. You will be able to draw on this tomorrow morning when the bank opens.'

Findhorn has trouble taking it in: his mind is being hit simultaneously from several directions. He forces himself to speak calmly. 'Money like that would look like a drug transaction. What about the Swiss Banking Commission? Or even Interpol?'

'Do not concern yourself with such matters; we have mechanisms. Telephone my secretary at noon, Japanese time, that is in eight hours. Understand that, should you ever reveal the secret, or discuss our transaction, I will arrange to have you hunted down and exterminated even from beyond my grave. But that risk is one which, as a rich man, you will find no need to run. Does the solution strike you as satisfactory?'

'I think we have an understanding.'

There is a brief pause, longer than the travel time of radio between them. 'So, I have enjoyed our little game of kendo, Findhorn-san. We are both winners. You are now rich, and I have suppressed the energy secret. The game has been played with our wits rather than shinai — forgive me, I do not know the English word —'

'Bamboo sticks?'

'— and if you were Japanese rather than a gaijin, I would salute you as an equal.'

Stuff you, Findhorn thinks. He puts the telephone down and turns to Romella. 'We're out of here.'

The assassin's urbanity is becoming frayed. 'If I had my way things would go differently.'

'It's a matter of making the right call. Which is why Matsumo pulls the strings up above while you jerk about down below.'

Drindle picks up Petrosian's document. 'Your witty little barbs don't penetrate my skin, but my partner is a different matter. I can best describe his temperament as volcanic. And, since he is a stupid man, the issues are beyond his grasp.' He opens the front of the wood fire, throws the document onto the logs. The Korean says something in an angry voice. The pages curl, catch fire at the edges. Irrigated deserts, cheap superbombs, fertilizers from the air, social and financial chaos, roads to the back of beyond, all go up in flames. 'Get out. Take the Saab and leave it at the railway station.'

'What about you?' asks Findhorn, standing up. His legs, he finds, are hardly able to support him.

'We have a lot to do here. There are enough DNA samples in this house to gladden the hearts of policemen from the North Cape to Hong Kong. Now go, quickly.'

'May you die horribly some day soon,' Findhorn says.

The man in the white suit stands up, fearfully, edges towards the door, and then runs out; it would be comical in less deadly circumstances. Pitman follows, walking steadily. He seems about to say something to Findhorn, but then leaves without a word. The woman at the Christmas tree has opened her eyes but is sitting, motionless. She seems not to know what is happening. Romella walks over to her, takes her by the elbow, tries out a smile.

At the door, Findhorn glances back. Drindle has opened the cocktail cabinet and is pouring himself a red Martini. The Korean's eyes are flitting between Findhorn and Drindle. His fist is tightly clenched around the pistol. He is jerking it up and down as if it is a hammer. His face is almost comically angry.

The volcano is about to erupt.

36 Brass Bands

Keys on hall table, marked by Saab logo; front door, heavy pine, already open. Pitman and the other man have run ahead of them, vanishing into the dark. Freezing air and snow, billowing into the hall.