CARL BENEDETTI RARELY got drunk. He was the perfect tough guy in everything, and that also applied to his resistance to side effects. It was a matter of blood, genetics, he always said that he saw his mother and aunts finish a bottle of whiskey or vodka while they were still cooking family dinners, when he was a boy. He said that he saw no change in the faces of his relatives, who continued to drink even after eating.
This was the moment when he managed to contradict his entire history. Waiting for the boy to get better, in that solitary wine tasting, had given him effects he hadn't experienced since Sharon had abandoned him. His stomach, which had been empty for almost a day, combined with the entire bottle of wine that was now empty, had awakened thick veins in his red, unfocused eyes and made him see his surroundings as if he were on a boat in the middle of a sea of strong waves. But hiccups aside, he still remained strong like few others.
The clock showed the passing of a few hours, but his mind had traveled through years of thoughts about his life. From bucolic and subtle memories of his early childhood to the bitter moments of the war and the abandonment of his love, several episodes visited his mind, showing a dangerous insurgent emotion in that always hard heart.
— If this bastard doesn't wake up, I'm going to throw him out on the street! — he mumbled to himself, trying to regain focus.
He turned on the TV. Nothing but news and news reports were broadcast that morning. They reported everything from a terrorist attack on Fifth Avenue to a public service failure that was disrupting transportation and communications. The President was doing well, but he had not yet made a public statement on the matter. Carl noticed a sudden difference in the narratives of the day's events; many facts and proportions did not match what he had witnessed.
Bunch of liars! What are you hiding?
He began to wonder if the boy he had saved had anything to do with that whole story.
He stood up and walked across the spinning floor until he reached his room. The stairs to the upper floor were the hardest part . He spotted the sleeper on the bed and stood in front of him, resting his hands on his knees and staring at him with his red, full eyes.
Are you going to wake up or not, kid?
Balancing on his drunkenness, he mumbled meaningless complaints to the injured man. But although he spoke close to his ear, it was his alcoholic breath that bothered the young man.
Martin woke up.
— Huh?
The young man, with a sudden sigh, opened his eyes and widened them, trying to adapt to the light above him. He soon saw the drunk who was staring at him and was startled because he didn't recognize the place he was in either.
— Who are you? — Martin asked, frightened.
— Me? I'm the one asking you, of course... — Benedetti said, mumbling as only a drunkard can. — Who are you, Martin?
— Why am I here? How did I get here?
—Who are you to give me all this trouble? — said the old man with his syllabic stumble.
— What do you mean? What's all this talk? Ahrg! — he felt strong pains as he moved in bed, trying to get away from the old drunk who was stretching out his trembling hands towards him.
Benedetti stood up straight, though not very straight, and said:
— Those bastards wanted to kill you...
— Who?
— Those two! Over at the hospital!
Martin remembered how he had been when he fell asleep. He remembered the blow he had received from the agent and the car accident.
But who were "the two" from the hospital?
— What happened? What two in the hospital?
"They came to get you," the old man said through sobs, sitting down on the sofa next to him to regain his balance. "But I saved you just in time... You wouldn't believe how."
— Where am I? At your house?
— That's right! I took you from there, set everything on fire and brought you here!
Martin was startled by the stranger's story.
Had he set fire to the hospital?
It was then that he remembered his belongings:
— Where are they? Where? — he looked around for familiar objects.
— What? — asked the old man.
— My things! My things!
— Ahh... they're here. — and he picked up the half-open envelope he had brought from the hospital.
Martin almost snatched it from his hands. He opened it quickly and threw the things over himself in a hurry. He got rid of his wallet, keys, cell phone, papers... until he found what he wanted, a small doll, in the shape of a cartoon figure that represented Iron Man. When the paramedics found him in the car, he was holding onto the figure, as he remembered, so they decided to put it in the envelope.
— What is this? — asked Benedetti.
—This is what matters most to me right now. — he said, fearful, but extremely relieved to have found the object.
— Well, I don't understand, but if you say so...
— Do you have a computer?
— Computer? Me? — and he laughed. — I don't get along with those things, boy!
Benedetti opened a drawer in the dresser next to him and took out a revolver, promptly loaded:
— This is my thing!
Martin was terrified, for a moment he feared that he might be in danger at the hands of that stranger, but then he realized that the old drunk who claimed to have saved him from being killed would do nothing to him, and he said:
— I really need a computer, would you help me?
— I don't know where I could get one... It's at my boss's house, but that shit is completely protected against everything...
Martin really wanted to know if his spare flash drive was intact, everything was there, and the other one had certainly been destroyed with the laptop in the car. Since he didn't have any computer at hand, he decided to call the Bureau:
— Do you have a telephone here?
Benedetti was offended:
— Sir? Do me a favor and call me old man ...
Then he shook the bottle that was in his hand, pointing at the neck and said threateningly:
— This old man here can still beat you up if he wants!
— Forgive me... I didn't mean to...
— Yes, I do. It's downstairs, in the living room. My cell phone isn't working, not that I need it that much... — he grumbled.
Carl Benedetti helped Martin down the stairs. Even though he was old and still drunk, he was a strong man. Carefully because of his injuries, he went down and reached the telephone. He dialed his companion's number, but a woman's voice answered:
—Hello? — said the woman, her voice somewhat weak and plaintive.
— Hi, is this Carol? This is Martin, I...
— Marty? Where have you been? He, he... — in the background you could hear her crying.
— What happened, Carol?
— Most of them are gone...!
The news came with great sadness. Martin could hardly think of what to say.
— Carol, where are you? How did it happen? I'm going there...
"I thought you were dead! No, don't come!" she said in tears. "They killed him, Marty! They killed him!"
— I'm coming over!
—They also killed another agent, named Carmichael, Walton Carmichael! Someone is after you! I heard them say that here, when they came to see Carmichael. They killed him here in the office!
Martin's heart ached more than his body ached from the wounds. If what the old man had said was true, they had tried to kill him in the hospital. Now Walton was dead, and by all accounts, it was all his fault.
After talking to Carol, Martin gave up on calling Breanne and decided not to contact anyone other than Greg. He was the only one who would know what to do. If he was still alive, a simple conversation could put other people at risk! The situation was more serious than he thought. If he was on the right track in the investigation, it meant that the enemy had discovered his steps.
And I was cleaning up the mess...
— Damn! Damn! Damn! — Martin shouted, excited about the situation.
Benedetti watched the boy and realized that the news was not good at all.
— What happened, boy?
Martin was seething with rage at having handled things this way. At having involved his friend and using Walton's facilities.
He answered him:
— Did anyone see you bringing me here? Does anyone know about me?
— No, no... of course not...
— It's not safe for me to stay here.
— Are you saying this for me? — the old man replied. — I don't think you know me...
— They're looking for me, they want to kill me!
Benedetti smiled, with a look of satisfaction, and replied:
— Yes, and the two who tried ended up naked in the hospital!
Martin didn't quite understand what he meant by that, but seeing him drunk like that, he thought it was because of his state. He shouted to himself, in his mind:
Think, Danny, think! What would Greg do in a situation like that?
But nothing came to mind other than trying to unravel it all before he was killed without knowing by whom.
If they caught him, at least it would have been worth it...
Going to her house would be dangerous if someone was watching her. She needed a computer...
But where can you get one without taking any risks?
In fact, this reminded him of Clooney.
Was he okay?
The man was an eagle, but nothing could guarantee that he was...
He picked up his cell phone. It was badly damaged after the car accident, but it still worked.
Those Finns...!
He turned on the device while he thought about what to do. There really wasn't a good signal, it came and went, too unstable to be able to connect, practically no system worked properly. Even so, there they were, dozens of missed calls:
Breanne...
Greg...
Mommy...
Breanne...
And many more after that, Clooney!
Why would he have called?
Was he in trouble?
Contacting him wasn't the wisest solution, but he needed to check...
He picked up his host's telephone again and dialed a number that might work. Clooney answered:
— Hey, man! I thought they already took you out too!
— I would say the same about you. — Martin replied, relieved to speak to the man.
— They're cleaning up, my friend, no one is escaping... Everyone who interfered with the case you were investigating is turning up dead. But since I don't sleep in a hole, I managed to get ahead of the hunt.
— Two of mine are gone... but I haven't heard from Greg.
— It wasn't just them, a lot of good people got hurt, my friend, everyone at the Agency is crazy, people from here have also disappeared from the map... but if it comforts you, the last person to die in an apocalypse would be Greg.
— I couldn't imagine that everything would end up like this... — Martin said in a brief outburst.
— There's no way of knowing, man. — replied Clooney, trying to help him. — We can only measure the reality of the crisis by the tightness of the sphincter. And I'll tell you what, judging by the course of events, things are going to get worse... and you can be sure it's not because of you.
Martin was still trying to understand what he was saying. Clooney continued:
— Let's stop talking. Here's the thing, remember that game Greg sent me? I'll send you a tip, okay?
— Yes, send it... — he replied, not understanding the idea.
Clooney hung up. Martin and Benedetti looked at each other, confused about what to do, but before the minutes were up, the cell phone signaled the arrival of a message. The young agent checked it, already suspecting that Clooney had sent it. He saw the following text:
A2E5C5C3B3D5A5D2E51960 gg!
Benedetti exclaimed:
— What the hell is this?
— It's a code. — Martin replied, absorbed in deciphering it. — Give me a piece of paper, please.
On the paper he received from Carl Benedetti, he drew the diagram of letters and numbers he had learned. When he deciphered the code, he obtained the following:
Second Ave 1960 gg!
The gg! should mean "go go!", an order to move urgently.
— So it's an address! — he exclaimed.
—And you certainly want to go there without knowing if it's safe, don't you...? — Benedetti replied, gravely.
— Do I have another option?
— I can't say, — replied the old man thoughtfully.
— I need to get dressed.