Myriades de calamités

Chapitre 9

“You could say I was a little angry,” Jill said, “in the morning.” “And now?” “Now… I think you could call it irritation, Lindsay.” There was no humor in her expression. If you want someone to take a serious toss and hit a ball—to use a less-than-ideal analogy—this is the way, and Jill is a perfect example.

“Your words hurt me,” I said, settling into my chair. “I know I went a bit too far.” Jill laughed, a mocking tone in her voice. “I would say sending a thug to beat up my husband was completely outrageous—even you are no exception, Lindsay.” “Not a thug,” I corrected her. “Just saying he was going to break his legs. Just words. What can I say? You married a beast.” I moved my chair closer to her desk. “Listen, Jill, I know it was wrong. I wasn’t threatening him. I was doing it for your own good. But that guy is a stubborn idiot.” “What he might not appreciate is that our private matters were plastered on his forehead like a laundry list. I told you to keep everything a secret, Lindsay.” “You’re right,” I agreed. “I’m sorry.” Slowly, the anger in her eyes began to subside. She moved her chair back from her desk, turning to face me, our knees almost touching.

“Listen to me, Lindsay. I’m an adult. Let me take care of my own business. In this, you’re my friend, not a cop.” “That’s what everyone tells me.” “Then listen to me, darling, because I need you as my friend. Not an airborne early warning system.” She gripped my hand and squeezed it firmly. “Usually, friends listen to each other, go out to lunch together, or are even close business partners… but barging into a friend’s husband’s office, yelling and threatening to break his legs… that kind of thing… we could say that’s between enemies, Lindsay.” I laughed. I saw a faint smile appear on Jill’s face for the first time. Just a faint smile.

"Okay, so from a friend's point of view, how have you been doing with that beast since he hit you?" I forced a smile.

Jill laughed. She shrugged and said, “I think we’re doing alright…we talked about seeking advice.” “The only advice Steve needs is to get a lawyer when he’s subpoenaed.” “Lindsay, be my friend and remember…well, there’s more important stuff to talk about. Any updates on what’s been going on lately?” I told her about the email Cindy received that morning, and how it had complicated the case. “Have you heard of someone in the counterterrorism unit named Joe Molinari?” Jill thought for a moment. “I remember someone named Joe Molinari, who was a prosecutor in New York. A high-ranking prosecutor. He was involved in the World Trade Center bombing. And he was good-looking. I think he later went to Washington and worked in some government department.” “This ‘government department’ you’re talking about is the Department of Homeland Security, and our new superior in this case.” “It might be worse for you,” Jill said. “Did I just say he was good-looking?” “Shut up.” My face flushed.

Jill shook her head. “Generally speaking, those federal government officials wouldn’t be a good fit for you.” “That’s because most of them are just power-hungry opportunists trying to climb the corporate ladder using our hard work. But this Molinari seems like someone who wants to get things done. Perhaps you could help me keep an eye out and find out…” “You mean find out what kind of judicial officer he is?” Jill said with a smile, her eyes narrowing. “Or whether he’s married? I think Lindsay has a bit of a crush on this intelligence officer.” “He’s the deputy minister,” I said, wrinkling my nose.

“Ah…this guy’s really something,” Jill said approvingly. “I told you he’s handsome, didn’t I?” she grinned. We both burst out laughing.

A moment later, I took Jill's hand and said, "I'm really sorry for what I did this morning, Jill. I'd be very upset if I caused you trouble again. I can't promise not to care about you, at least not completely. You're our friend, Jill. We're all worried sick about you. But I promise you... I won't go to him like that again. I won't go to him like that without talking to you." "It's a promise," Jill nodded. She squeezed my hand. "I know you're worried about me, Lindsay. To be honest, I'm very grateful for your concern. Just let me get through this myself. Next time, you'll have to leave your handcuffs at home." "It's a promise," I replied with a smile.

The second part of "The Third Soul" is about an economist from the development organization.

Despite being Swiss, Gerd Propp has adopted many of the hobbies and habits of Americans, one of which is salmon fishing. In his room at the Regent Hotel in Portland, Gerd excitedly spread his newly purchased fishing suit on the spacious double bed, along with some high-tech bait and a fishing hook.

He is an economist at the United Nations Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development, but he doesn't work in Geneva year-round. Some might find his work tedious, but it also gives him several opportunities each year to visit the United States and meet people who share his love for salmon and Chinook winds. ①Chinook winds: refers to the warm, moist southwest winds blowing from the sea towards the northwestern coast of the United States and the southwestern coast of Canada during winter and spring, as well as the dry, warm westerly or northerly winds blowing down from the eastern slopes of the Rocky Mountains.

Gerd is going there tomorrow, with the official reason being to finalize his speech for the G8 finance ministers' meeting in San Francisco next week.

He put on his brand-new fishing vest and examined himself in the mirror. "I really do look like a master angler!" He pulled his hat up, straightened his chest, and felt like a dashing, charismatic protagonist from a Hollywood movie.

There was a knock at the door. "It must be the waiter," he thought to himself. He had instructed the front desk to bring a newspaper to his room.

He opened the door and was surprised to see a young man outside who wasn't wearing a hotel uniform. The young man was wearing a black wool jacket and a hat that covered part of his face.

"Are you Mr. Gerd Propp?" the young man asked.

“Yes, and you are?” Gerd adjusted his glasses. “What do you want…?” Before he could finish speaking, the young man grabbed his throat with his hand, making it almost impossible for him to breathe. Then, he was violently pushed backward and fell heavily to the ground.

Gerd desperately tried to understand what was happening. His glasses had fallen off, and blood was slowly dripping from his nose. "My God, what's going on?"

The young man stepped into the room and casually closed the door behind him. Suddenly, he revealed a dark, metallic object in his hand.

Gerd was stunned. His eyesight wasn't good, but he couldn't be mistaken. The intruder was carrying a gun.

“You’re Gerd Propp?” the young man asked. “The chief economist of the OECD in Geneva? Don’t deny it.” “Yes,” Gerd stammered. “What right do you have to barge in—” “By the right of the more than 100,000 children who die in Ethiopia every year,” the man interrupted Gerd, “these children die from perfectly preventable common diseases because the country has no national health insurance, and the annual debt is six times higher than the national health insurance expenditure.” “What?” Gerd stammered.

“By the rights granted to them by Tanzanian AIDS patients,” the man continued, “those patients are abandoned by their governments, left to fend for themselves, because their governments are busy paying off the debts you and your fat, filthy bastards have imposed on them.” “I’m just an economist,” Gerd said. What did the man think he’d done? “You’re Gerd Propp. The chief economist of the OECD, and your job is to be an accomplice to developed countries, letting them plunder the resources of underdeveloped countries and fill the insatiable appetites of the rich.” He picked up a pillow from the bed. “You’re the architect of this MAI.” “You’re completely wrong,” Gerd said, almost in horror. “Those agreements brought these underdeveloped countries into the modern world, creating jobs and export markets they couldn’t compete with before.” “No, you’re talking nonsense!” the young man shouted. He went over and turned on the television. “The consequences are nothing but greed, poverty, and exploitation. And all this nonsense on TV.” The television was showing CNN’s international economic briefing—perfectly timed. Gerd watched as the intruder slowly crouched down beside him, his eyes bulging with terror. Just then, a television announcer spoke of the immense pressure Brazil's real estate market was under.

"What are you going to do?" Gerd gasped for breath, his eyes practically popping out of their sockets.

“I’m going to do what thousands of pregnant AIDS patients want to do to you, Doctor.” “Please,” Gerd pleaded. “Please…you’ve got it all wrong.” The intruder smiled slightly. He glanced at the fishing gear on the bed. “Ah, so you enjoy fishing. I’ll use those things to send you on your way.”

The second part of "3rd Time Stealing Souls" contains several words: 9 millimeters and journey.

When I arrived at the office at 7:30 the next morning, I was surprised to see Deputy Minister Molinari sitting behind my desk making a phone call. Something must have happened.

He gestured for me to close the door. From his fragmented speech, I roughly guessed he was on the phone with his department on the East Coast, checking on the progress of a case. A large stack of case files was piled on his lap, and he was scribbling words in his notebook every now and then. The words I recognized were "9 millimeters" and "journey."

"What happened?" I asked impatiently as soon as he hung up the phone.

He gestured for me to sit down and said, “There’s been a murder in Portland. A Swiss man was shot dead in his hotel room. He was an economist, and he was preparing to leave this morning for Vancouver to join a fishing tour.” Don’t sound nonchalant; we already have two murders on our hands that could affect national security, and the minds of the free world are watching our every move. “I’m sorry,” I said, “but does this concern us?” Molinari opened a file containing a set of faxed photographs of the murder scene. The body in the photos was wearing a fishing vest with two bullet holes. The victim’s clothes were torn open, and the letters MAI were painted on his bare chest.

“Officer, the deceased was an economist,” Molinari said, “working for the OECD.” He glanced at me, forcing a smile. “You get it now.” I sat down, my stomach heavy. Completely understood. The third murder. I examined the crime scene photos. The bullet had hit his chest, and the killer had mercifully fired a final shot to his forehead. An evidence bag contained a large fishing hook. The letters MAI were painted on the deceased's chest. “You know what those letters mean?” “Yes,” Molinari nodded. He stood up too. “I’ll tell you on the plane.”

The second part of "The Third Time" involves intelligence data retrieved from Seattle.

The "plane" Molinari arranged for us to ride in was a small Gulfstream G-3, with the words "US Government" painted in red, white, and blue on the top of the fuselage. The Deputy Secretary was definitely already in the dining car.

This was my first time boarding a private jet in an internal area of San Francisco International Airport. The cabin door had barely closed behind me, and before we were even settled, the engines were already running. I couldn't help but feel a surge of excitement. "Traveling like this is really something," I said to Molinari. He didn't disagree.

The flight to Portland was a little over an hour. Molinari was on his cell phone a few minutes after takeoff. After he finished, I wanted to talk to him about the case at hand.

I spread out the crime scene photos. “You need to tell me what this MAI means.” “This MAI is a secret trade agreement,” he explained, “a few years ago negotiated by some developed countries in the World Trade Organization. This agreement granted some large companies even more power than some national governments. Some people thought it was an open attack on economically weaker countries. Amidst widespread opposition around the world, the agreement was repealed in 1998, but I was told that the OECD, where Mr. Propp works, is revising the agreement, hoping to test its passage. Guess where it will be passed?” “At next week’s G8 finance ministers meeting?” “Yes…by the way,” he opened his briefcase, “I wanted you to see these materials; they might be useful to you.”

He handed me several intelligence bags containing the intelligence documents I had requested from Seattle. Each bag was marked "Confidential, FBI Use Only".

“Keep it safe,” the deputy minister said, winking. “If it gets out, it’ll be a real problem for me.” I quickly flipped through the Seattle files. Some had prior convictions—from participating in riots to resisting arrest and illegal possession of weapons. Others seemed to be students involved in the movement. Robert Allen Ritchie was on Interpol’s watch list for inciting violence at the World Economic Forum in Gstaad, Switzerland. Terry Anne Gates was arrested for arson.

A man named Stephen Hardaway, with a thin face and long hair tied back, was a dropout from Reed College who had robbed a bank in Spokane.

“Remote-controlled bombs, and ricin,” I said, a wave of emotion washing over me. “Technology has become so advanced.”

"These things together should be enough to detonate a bomb, right?" Molinari shrugged. "Some people might just be born with the DNA for terrorism. Technology can be bought and sold. Maybe our adversary is a white rabbit." "A white rabbit? Like the Jefferson attack?" "That's what we call those long-hidden adversaries, like the 'weathermans' of the 1960s."

Many of them have reintegrated into society. They have families and are doing decent work. But a few still linger on the fringes of society, unwilling to give up their beliefs. A cabin door opened, and the co-pilot turned to tell us that the plane was about to descend. I put the documents into my briefcase, feeling quite grateful to Molinari for getting me the information so quickly.

“Any other questions?” he asked, tightening his seatbelt. “After we land, I’ll usually be surrounded by FBI agents.” “One more question,” I said with a smile. “How do you prefer to be addressed? ‘Deputy Minister’ sounds like calling the director of a hydroelectric plant in Ukraine.” He laughed. “At work, ‘Sir’ is fine. Outside of work, just call me ‘Joe’.” He smiled slightly at me. “Does that make you feel more relaxed, officer?” “Look ahead, sir.”

Part Two of "Triple Kill": The Most Serious Murder in History

From the private airport outside Portland to the Regent's Hotel in the city center, we sped along in police cars. The Regent's Hotel is an old, renovated Western building, and this incident was the deadliest homicide in the area's history.

While Molinari was talking to the FBI regional chief, I was exchanging updates on the case with Hannah Wood, the local homicide detective, and her partner Rob Stone.

The murder scene was horrific. Molinari instructed me to examine every detail of the scene carefully. Clearly, Propp had opened the door and let the killer in. The economist had been shot three times—two in the chest and one in the head, the bullet passing through his skull and falling to the floor. Propp also had several cuts, likely inflicted with the serrated knife that had been lying on the floor.

“The survey team found this.” Hannah handed me a bag containing a 9mm bullet. The other bag contained a large fishing hook.

"Were fingerprints found?" "We found some fingerprints on the inside of the doorknob, which are very likely Propp's. The Swiss consulate is already in contact with Propp's family," Hannah said. "He had dinner with friends last night and then took a 7 a.m. flight to Vancouver this morning. Other than that, there were no calls or visitors."

I put on gloves. I opened the briefcase on Propp's bed and looked through his notebook. Several books were scattered inside, mostly academic ones.

I went into the bathroom. Propp's toiletries were laid out on the sink counter. There was nothing else to see; nothing looked like it had been disturbed.

“If you could tell us what to focus on looking for, officer, it might be much more effective,” Stone said to me.

But I couldn't; the name August Spieth hadn't been officially released yet. I focused on the fingerprint in the crime scene photo pasted on the mirror. The murder scene was gruesome, horrific. Blood everywhere. And that warning: MAI.

The killers were working methodically, I thought to myself. They wanted a podium. Now they had one, so what did they want to talk about? “Listen to me, officer,” Hannah said, a little annoyed, “it’s not hard to guess why you and the deputy minister are here. Because of those terrible things that happened in San Francisco? Related to this murder, right?” Before I could say anything, Molinari and Special Envoy Thompson walked into the room. “You’ve seen it all?” he asked me.

“If you don’t object, sir,” the FBI agent said, pulling his cell phone from his pocket, “I’ll notify Quantico immediately.” (Quantico is located in Virginia, USA, and is also the location of the FBI National Academy.)

"The counter-terrorism unit said the killer is on the move again." "What do you think, officer?" Molinari asked, looking at me.

I shook my head. "No. I don't think so." The FBI agent looked at me intently again. "Officer, you still disagree with me?" "I think you should wait a little longer," I said, carefully enunciating each word. "I think this murder is unrelated to other cases. I'm almost certain of that now."

Listen to my expression as I explain my reasons in Part Two of "Three Times the Soul".

The FBI agent looked utterly astonished, as if the roof of our building might collapse from being trampled down by those above. Molinari, on the other hand, remained calm and composed, offering no indication of his opinion but instead displaying an expression of readiness to hear my reasoning.

"Do you know how Gerd Propp makes a living? And what was his first purpose in coming to the United States?" Special Envoy Thompson asked.

“I know,” I replied.

“Where is he planning to give a speech next week?” “I heard that too,” I said. “Just like you were told.” Thompson smiled toward Molinari. “So, the culprit here is someone else, who also happens to be eyeing the G8 summit?” “Yes,” I said. “That’s exactly what I think.” Thompson laughed, then opened his phone and started pressing buttons on the keypad.

Molinari raised his hand. “I’d like to hear what the officer has to say.” “Well… First of all, the circumstances of this murder scene are completely different from the other two. First, the killer is very likely male, which can be inferred from the arm strength he had to knock Propp to the ground. But that’s not the basis for my conclusion. My basis is the actual condition of the body.”

“The first two murders were cold and impersonal,” I said, pointing to the crime scene photos pasted on the mirror. “This murder, however, is full of emotion and has a strong personal touch. Look at those knife wounds. The killer stabbed him several times. He used a pistol and a knife.”

"You mean blowing someone up in a house and pouring poison into their mouth is different from this murder?" Thompson asked.

“Since you started this job, Mr. Special Envoy, have you ever pulled a trigger?” He shrugged, but his face turned red. “No… but what does it matter?” I took the photo of Propp’s body off the mirror. “Could you really do something like that?” The FBI agent hesitated, unsure how to answer.

“Different killers have different habits,” Molinari interjected. “This killer might be a sadist.” “Well, there’s also the issue of timing. Yesterday’s letter said he’d kill someone every three days. That should be Sunday; yesterday seemed too early.” “It’s also possible this guy just happened to be in their mouth,” the FBI agent said. “You can’t say you believe what terrorist killers say, can you?” “That’s exactly what I was going to say,” I said. “I’ve studied all sorts of killers and know their habits. There seems to be a tacit understanding between us. If we don’t believe them, why do we even bother listening to their messages? How can we confirm that certain operations are carried out by the same group? They have to keep their word.” Thompson looked at Molinari as if pleading for his help. Molinari, however, looked at me. “You’re right, officer.”

“Most importantly,” I said, “this murder wasn’t signed. Both murders in San Francisco were signed. He wanted us to know it was him. And you have to admire his cleverness. A backpack, suspected to be a second bomb, was left in the open area outside the bombed house. Bengosyan’s mouth was stuffed with letterhead from his own company.” I shrugged at Molinari. “You can call all the doctors or forensic experts in the FBI or the Department of Homeland Security, I don’t care… but you brought me here. I have to tell you, this time it wasn’t him.”

The second part of "Triple Threat" suggests a spreading trend of terrorist activities.

“I’m about to make the call,” the FBI agent said to Molinari, completely ignoring my earlier reasons, which made me secretly angry.

“I need to be clear, officer,” Molinari said, staring at me. “You think this was done by another killer, an imitator.” “It could be an imitator, or it could be some other small faction. Believe me, I’d like to say this is the third murder, otherwise we’re facing a much more complicated situation.” “I don’t understand,” the deputy minister said, blinking.

“If it’s not the same killer,” I said, “then this kind of terrorist activity is starting to spread. I think that’s probably the case now.” Molinari nodded slowly. “I’ll inform the department, Commissioner Thompson, to handle these cases separately, at least for now.” Commissioner Thompson sighed.

“At the same time, we need to solve this murder case; after all, someone has been killed here,” the deputy minister said decisively. He looked around, his gaze finally settling on Thompson. “Anyone else have questions?” “No, sir,” Thompson said, snapping his phone shut and putting it back in his pocket.

I was speechless with surprise. Molinari had actually supported my opinion. Even Hannah stared at Molinari in astonishment.

The following time was spent in the FBI's Portland regional headquarters office. We met with people Propp had originally planned to meet in Vancouver, as well as his economist friends in Portland. Molinari also had me join him in his office for a phone conversation with two senior officials at FBI headquarters in Washington, D.C., who supported my view that the case was a copycat murder and that terrorism was on the rise.

Around 5 PM, I felt I couldn't stay any longer. I had several important cases back home waiting for me to handle. Brenda had told me that Southwest Airlines had a flight back to San Francisco at 6:30 PM.

I knocked on the door of the carpeted, gray hut that Molinari was using as his temporary office. “If you no longer need me here, I’d like to head back now. It’s been quite an experience being a federal government official for a day,” Molinari smiled slightly. “Listen, I hope you can stay a few more hours. Have dinner with me.” I stood in his room, trying to appear nonchalant about his words. Although I usually looked down on high-ranking federal officials, there was always a touch of curiosity. Who is completely immune to such curiosity? But at the same time, some reasons why I couldn’t stay any longer popped into my head. For example, the murder cases I had to handle. And Molinari was the second most powerful person in the country’s law enforcement. Despite a surge of excitement within me, reason still told me that breaking with convention at this crucial moment in solving such a high-profile murder case was clearly inappropriate.