Frank Schätzing - Limit

The pretty Chinese girl stared at him.

‘We’ve been through quite a lot,’ she said quietly.

‘Me too.’ Palstein pointed at his shoulder. ‘But fairness dictates that sequence of events.’

‘Fine.’ Jennifer smiled. ‘Of course we’ll respect your decision.’

‘One last question,’ said Jericho.

‘Fire away.’

‘The man the person thinks is the murderer – can you make him out clearly?’

‘Pretty clearly, yes.’

‘And is he Chinese?’

‘Asian.’ Palstein fell silent for a moment. ‘Possibly Chinese. Yes. He’s probably Chinese.’

Locatelli was amazed. He had reached a great insight, namely that his head was the Moon, his scalp the Moon’s surface, with the maria and the craters pulled over the concave bulge of the bone. From this he learned two things: one, why so much moon dust had trickled into his brain, and two, that the whole trip as he remembered it had never happened at all, but had sprung entirely from his imagination, particularly the regrettable last chapter. He would open his eyes, trusting to the comforting certainty that no one could reproach him for anything, and even the impression of constantly whirling grey would find a natural explanation. The only thing that still puzzled him was the part the universe played in the whole thing. That it was pressing against the right side of his face amazed and confused him, but since he only had to open his eyes—

It wasn’t the universe. It was the ground he was lying on.

Click, click.

He raised his head and gave a start. A circular saw was running through his head. Shapes, colours – all were a blur, all bathed in a diffuse light, at once dazzling and crepuscular, so that he had to shut his eyelids tight. A constant clicking sound reached him. He tried to raise a hand, without success. It was busy somewhere with the other one, they were both off behind his back and refused to be parted.

Click, click.

His vision cleared. A little way off he saw ungainly boots and something long that swung gently back and forth and bumped with the regularity of Chinese water torture against the edge of the pilot’s seat, on which the owner of the boots was crouching. Locatelli twisted his head and saw Carl Hanna, who was looking at him thoughtfully, his gun in his right hand, as if he had been sitting there for an eternity. He was rhythmically tapping the barrel against the seat.

Click, click.

Locatelli coughed.

‘Did we crash?’ he croaked.

Hanna went on looking at him and said nothing. Images merged to form memories. No, they had landed. A crash landing. They’d gone hurtling across the regolith and collided with something. From that point onwards he could remember only that they must have switched roles in the meantime, because he was now the one who was tied up. Seething shame welled up in him. He’d messed up.

Click, click.

‘Can you stop tapping that bloody thing against the chair?’ he groaned. ‘It’s really annoying.’

To his surprise Hanna actually did stop. He set the gun aside and rubbed the point of his chin.

‘And what will I do with you now?’ he asked.

It didn’t sound as if he really expected a constructive suggestion. Instead, there were undertones of resignation in his words, a hint of quiet regret that frightened Locatelli more than if Hanna had shouted at him.

‘Why don’t you just let me go?’ he suggested hoarsely.

The Canadian shook his head. ‘I can’t do that.’

‘Why not? What would be the alternative?’

‘Not to let you go.’

‘Shoot me down, then.’

‘I don’t know, Warren.’ Hanna shrugged. ‘Why do you have to act the hero on top of everything?’

‘I understand.’ Locatelli gulped. ‘So why didn’t you do that a long time ago? Or do you have some sort of quota? No more than three in a single day? You bastard!’ All of a sudden he saw the horses galloping away, with him running after them to catch them, because it probably wasn’t the best idea to annoy Hanna even more, but in the meltdown of his fury all his clear thoughts had vanished. He heaved himself up, managed to get into a seated position and glared with hatred at Hanna. ‘Do you actually enjoy this? Do you get off on killing people? What sort of a perverse piece of shit are you, Carl? You revolt me! What the hell are you doing here? What do you want from us?’

‘I’m doing my job.’

‘Your job? Was it your fucking job to push Peter into the gorge? To blow up Marc and Mimi? Is that your bloody job, you stupid idiot?’

Stop, Warren!

‘You fucker! You piece of shit!’

Stop it!

‘You fucking douche! Wait till I get my hands free.’

Oh, Warren. Stupid, too stupid! Why had he said that? Why hadn’t he just thought it? Hanna frowned, but it looked as if he hadn’t really been listening. His gaze wandered to the airlock, then suddenly he bent forward.

‘Now be careful, Warren. What I do has more to do with logging trees and drying marshes. You understand? Killing can be necessary, but my job consists not in destroying something, but in preserving or building something else. A house, an idea, a system: whatever you like.’

‘So what crappy system is legitimised through killing?’

‘All of them.’

‘You sick fuck. And for what system did you kill Mimi, Marc and Peter?’

‘Stop it, Warren. You’re not seriously trying to force a guilt complex on me?’

‘Are you working for some fucking government or other?’

‘In the end we’re all working for some fucking government or other.’ Hanna sat back with a sigh of forbearance. ‘Okay, I’ll tell you something. You remember the global economic crisis sixteen years ago? The whole world was gnashing its teeth. Including India. But there, the crisis also provoked a spike of activity! People invested in environmental protection, high tech, education and agriculture, relaxed the caste system, exported services and innovations, halved poverty. A billion and a half predominantly young, extremely motivated architects of globalisation pushed their way to third place in the global economy.’

Locatelli nodded, puzzled. He hadn’t the faintest notion why Hanna was telling him this, but it was better than being shot for want of conversational material.

‘Of course Washington wondered how to respond. For example they were troubled by the idea that a stronger India, if it got closer to Beijing, might forget about good old Uncle Sam. What bloc would crystallise out of that? India and the USA? Or India, China and Russia? Washington had always seen the Indians as important allies, and would have loved to use them against China, for example, but New Delhi was insisting on autonomy, and didn’t want to be talked round, let alone used, by anybody.’

‘What does all this have to do with us?’

‘In this phase, Warren, people like me were sent to the Subcontinent to make sure all the spin was going in the right direction. We were instructed to support the Indian miracle with all our might, but when the Chinese ambassador was blown up in 2014 by LeMGI, the League for a Muslim Greater India, Indo-Chinese relations darkened just at the right moment, favouring the finalisation of certain important Indo-American agreements.’

‘You are – hang on a second!’ Locatelli flashed his teeth. ‘You’re not trying to tell me—’

‘Yep. It’s thanks to some of these agreements, for example, that your solar collectors make such a huge profit on the Indian market.’

‘You’re a bloody CIA agent!’

Hanna gave a mildly complacent smile. ‘LeMGI was my idea. One of a huge number of tricks to offset the possibility of Chinese–Indian–Russian bloc formation. Some of those tricks worked, occasionally at the cost of human lives – our own, in fact. With all due respect for your genius, Warren, people like you get rich and influential under certain conditions that had to be put in place by other people, if necessary the bloody government. Can you rule out the possibility that your market leadership on the other side of the planet might have been bought with a few human lives?’