Chemistry is a weird thing, you know. Some things work together, some things don’t, and some things work together, but only if the circumstances are right. The last one was the case for ammonia and iodine. Nitrogen triiodide is the substance they form if mixed, which is a contact explosive. Chavez was right! The thing was a magic trick to pull at a Boy Scout camp for young chemists. Once the mixture is dry, it explodes in a purple cloud of iodine vapor at the lightest touch. The stuff is so unstable that it has virtually no use in practice.

That is, if we talk about Boy Scouts’ laboratories, though. They use concentrated aqueous ammonia and iodine crystals in them, mix them, spread them on wet paper, and so on and so forth—apparently, everybody knew about the trick except me. The terrorist case of my Greenland friends was a little bit different, however. The main problem was that the boiling point of ammonia was minus thirty-three degrees Celsius while the melting point of iodine was one hundred and fourteen—hence, they couldn’t exist in liquid form side by side. You obviously cannot sprinkle the installation of Greenspace with crystals and expect it to explode!

To avoid this obstacle, Marty and Sharon used special containers. They were designed to sustain high temperatures and pressure, but they also had asbestos jackets, so nobody suspected something was wrong, and the stuff inside wasn’t ammonia. The goal was to keep iodine liquid until it came into contact with the contents of the installation tanks. In the Boy Scouts’ laboratory, they usually dry the mixture to pull the trick, but it works even when it’s wet. In any case, my friends’ calculations proved correct, and the much larger quantities of their stuff ensured that the result was far more spectacular than in the laboratory tests. The only difficulty remaining was the guys with testing probes at the hub’s entry point, but Marty had taken care of them with his late-night show two days ago.

Along with the nitrogen triiodide course that I took in the evening after my kidnapping, I also enlightened myself on the ways of producing ammonia—something I should’ve done much earlier, in fact. The traditional way is the Haber-Bosch process, where, in the presence of iron, ammonia is synthesized from hydrogen and nitrogen at high temperatures and pressure. Hydrogen comes from burning natural gas; the nitrogen source is usually atmospheric air. Most probably, all the ships circulating in the Pacific between Chinasia and Ofu carried such a substance. However, this technology disagreed with what I saw in the abandoned village on the island of Olosega.

The alternative method—there are actually a few alternative methods, but the others are economically unsustainable—is the Licht way. In this process, air and water are directly mixed under the influence of electricity. The method involves a few catalysts—iron oxide and sodium and potassium hydroxide—but its main drawback is its huge energy consumption. Since Bobby told me Menelaus had needed a lot of electricity, I assumed he had picked the Licht way to obtain the stuff, and that’s where the volcano on Olosega came in handy. Everything seemed promising at first, but DuPont miscalculated one thing—his technical consultant and lover wasn’t entirely sure about her role in his plan, and her weakness would bring about his death quite soon.

Early the following day, after having dreamed about chemical compounds and formulas the whole night, I woke up to another bombastic news headline. The Couloong commercial firm, which acquired the Chinese conglomerate that bought Britain, was going to acquire Britain, too. It was officially part of the deal now. The more disturbing thing, however, was that the future plans of the aliens for their acquisition turned out to be too adventuristic for our earthly taste. It became known they wanted to send Couloong tourists to our planet, and as a first step, they intended to turn Britain into a giant shopping mall to supply them with provisions and other stuff. Naturally, the European Confederation was shocked at this prospect, but weirdly enough, the British had differences about it. Some worried they would become alien subjects, but others thought it was worth it. They hoped that Britain would once again rule the world through alien technologies. The society was so heavily divided that they had fights in their Parliament over this almost every day—physical fights, I mean!

The former Prime Minister, Rouhani, put the entire blame for the current crisis on the President, attacking him for selling out Mother Britain, and after a severe exchange of accusations, Ranganathan appointed a provisional government and then resigned. Of course, the deal was already sealed, and nothing could be changed, but the provisional government, led by Murmjur Oleyka, was supposed to broker a better deal for the British companies participating in the shopping mall project. Obviously, the time for damage control had come now.

For about half an hour, I watched the idiotic debate on the TV while drinking my disgusting-looking, smelling, and tasting “coffee” and wondering what went so terribly wrong with the damn Brits. For the past ten years, they had been making only bad decisions, and clearly, nothing would change soon. Then, I tiredly turned off the device and returned to my business. The persistent thought of Sharon’s camera was still eating at me, and I was very mad at myself because I knew it was a trap. Yet, I was unable to stop thinking about it. The problem was that I really wanted to screw Cork, but more than everything, I wanted to screw Sharon. And if the camera existed after all, it would be direct evidence of her involvement in Menelaus’ murder. It would turn all her plans into a horrible mess, and I desperately wanted to see her face when it happened.

At ten-thirty, still pissed off, I rejected this foolish idea entirely and prepared to leave the motel. I couldn’t stay there anymore because Sengupta’s thugs would surely find me very soon and kill me. I went outside to the car and quickly checked the tank, the water in the radiator, and the tires. Despite its age, the vehicle was actually pretty decent, and although it couldn’t compare to the new hydrogen and electric models on the market, it moved, and most importantly, it hadn’t abandoned me on the road so far. It reminded me of my old beauty, which I left back in Greenland.

I looked at the Ford and nervously thought about my adventures the previous evening. The funniest thing was that after Chavez’s thugs dragged me out of it, it remained there on the street, and after they let me go, I found it there again. The boss of Greenspace and I talked for about half an hour, but in the meantime, nobody cared to touch the vehicle. In Greenland, the police would have towed it in less than thirty seconds, but here, obviously, it was acceptable to stop wherever you wanted—even in the middle of a crossroad between the traffic lights!

A few minutes later, I returned to my room to grab my jacket and cell phone, dropped by the office to settle the bill, and hopped back into the car while anxiously turning around to see if anyone was waiting for me. The engine started right away, and I slowly drove down the road to Pago Pago. My idea was to go there and buy a new gun from the marketplace behind the yacht port because I felt vulnerable. The last events had proved that much, and Peularia was totally right when she said it was a death sentence for me. Afterward, I was going to decide where to go next.

At first, everything with my plan was alright. I felt safe in the vehicle and even tried the radio, but it didn’t work. Shortly after leaving Fagatele, however, I sensed I had been followed again. This time, they were Chavez’s people, I gathered, because Marty would have jumped on me as soon as I left the motel room, and Sengupta’s thugs would have done just the same. Instead of giving me a hard time, my tail peacefully dragged behind in two black Comatsus, and they didn’t even try to get closer. I hesitated about what to do. On the one hand, it was good that I had bodyguards now, but on the other, I didn’t actually mean it when I told Chavez I was going to take him to Marty. I simply wanted him to let me go.

I kept driving slowly to Pago Pago, still unsure how to handle the situation, but after entering the city, I started making aimless rounds around the streets. I definitely needed a gun and didn’t want any advice on choosing it, so I had to lose my tail. Soon, I mingled with the traffic near the airport and quickly turned into a couple of intersections, one after another, and I was good to go at last. I drove straight to the yacht port, stopped under a palm tree, and stepped out to look around the area.

The marketplace was busy and colorful, as usual. I wondered what to pick this time because I didn’t want some Chinese shit again, but I also didn’t have much money. Lately, my finances had been vanishing like spring snow in the sun, and I had to be careful. On the other hand, I didn’t have many options because everything here, without exception, was manufactured in Chinasia. After making a few brief rounds and going through a dozen offers, I decided on a classic: I got a nine-millimeter Beretta semi-automatic. It was a pretty old piece but lethal enough and quite reliable.

“Besides, it’s always better to shoot at thugs with old-fashioned bullets instead of sprinkling them with high-tech water!” I tried to convince myself that I had made the right decision.

After half an hour, happy with my brand-new acquisition and the ammunition for it, I went back to my car. It was a beautiful morning in hell again—nearly forty-seven degrees Celsius. Nothing of the cool, refreshing air I enjoyed the previous evening had left, and the atmosphere was as hot and sticky as newly-cooked potato soup. Everything around me was melting!

I glanced at my cell phone. It was still eleven-thirty in the morning, but I was already sweating. Since Failolo was only half an hour from there, I was tempted again to check out the motel room. It was a horrible idea—that was for sure—plus it was probably a trap, but in my work, people tend to follow a pretty simple rule: you seek trouble to see what will come out. It may sound stupid, but it’s true because nothing in life just hops into your hands. You usually have to raise your ass and often risk it in order to get what you want.

I hesitantly reached out to start the engine and soon hit Route 001 to Leone Bay, moving onto 009 to Failolo afterward. I decided only to look around the place from the outside without taking risks because it was still possible to find clues, and I would know if Cork’s car was there.

“I’ll only sniff around for half an hour to ensure the room is empty and then return!” I promised myself. Overall, it was a very reasonable idea, which made sense, but only if you stuck to it. Unfortunately, ideas starting with “only” are pretty evasive and often turn into a chain of events containing the same empty word. I knew it was a slippery slope, but I genuinely hoped to avoid it this time.

Some forty minutes later, my old Laser brought me to Failolo—it puffed heavily but held on—and I turned right to go to the resort area. After a few more minutes, I saw the motel with the wooden trellis with a climbing plant on the east side and a thorny shrub beneath. I stopped the car thirty meters from the building and looked at it.

It was a lazy day at noon. There were no people on the streets, and it was quiet. I hoped to glimpse a dark blue Omisumi or an old Ford like mine—the vehicles I knew Marty used—but I didn’t notice any of them. Besides, there probably wasn’t much point in looking because the bastard obviously switched cars, and he could be driving something completely different now. I hung in the Laser for about twenty minutes, sweating, but nothing changed during that time. Nobody came out of the motel or entered. The entire place seemed lifeless. At some point, I opened the door and stepped outside because my legs stiffened and my back hurt. My shirt was soaking wet, and it felt disgusting. Ironically, it had a tropical waterfall stamped on the front.

I wearily took a few steps, looking for a shadow, but there was no chance to find any because the sun was right above the town, and the palm trees on both sides of the street were too tall. Since I had to stretch my legs anyway, I slowly strolled toward the motel, and I suspected that I looked like an idiot who was trying to have a “refreshing” walk in the deadly heat. In reality, I felt very depressed. The stupid game I played convincing myself I wasn’t doing what I was actually doing reminded me too much of my previous visit here, and even worse—it reminded me of my visit to Menelaus’ house back in Greenland. The feeling was devastating. My damn life clearly followed a vicious cycle, and I was doomed to make the same mistakes over and over again.

“On the other hand, I can’t stay in the car forever!” I argued with myself. “If anybody in the motel was waiting for me, he would’ve grown impatient already, not to mention he couldn’t know the exact time of my arrival. There’s probably no one there—I’m just nervous!”

A few minutes later, cherishing this warming thought, I cautiously approached the building, listening tensely for any suspicious noise coming from the inside. I couldn’t hear anything that posed a threat—only a distant TV set was working somewhere, and some birds were singing, but that was natural.

Then, an unexpected and brilliant idea occurred to me: “I could look for the Indian guy at the reception,” I thought, excited. “I don’t have to go up to the fucking room. He would remember me and tell me if anything unusual has happened, and this way, I won’t take unnecessary risks.”

Feeling hopeful, I quickened my pace and soon turned the corner behind the wooden trellis and the plant. Still, nothing happened except the sound from the TV became louder. I could even distinguish the program—it was a commercial. I hesitated for a moment before going further because it was where Bobby’s car almost ran over me, but the alley was empty now, and no engine roared in the parking space on the other side, which meant nothing, actually. The last time, the situation had been the same, and yet, I was almost killed twice just a few seconds later!

Like a soldier in a military game, advancing behind the enemy’s line level by level, I quickly glanced behind me and rushed ahead to prevent surprises. This time, I was fast enough and gave no one a chance to make it there before me. I also pulled out my gun, just in case. When I reached the next corner, I stopped, panting, and pressed my back against the wall, my heart beating wildly. I was still alive, and the TV set was even louder here.

“So far, so good!” I thought, relieved. “It’s a nice change to have luck for once in my life!” My next move was peeking into the backyard, where Marty and I scuffled, and I did it. It was empty there, too, which encouraged me to go ahead. The TV set was still working, but the sound was probably coming from the reception hall, where the Indian guy was watching something. The thought of him calmed me down further, and I tucked the Beretta into the back of my pants, crossing the yard. I paused at the door to gather my breath for a few seconds and then cautiously pushed it open.

The small lobby was the next empty place I stepped into. I remembered it from my last visit, with the reception counter to my left and the staircase right after. The motel was old with no elevator, and in the service room behind the reception, an Indian commercial praised some products way too loudly.

I quietly sneaked around the desk and peeked into the room with rigid legs and a bad feeling in my gut. I didn’t know why, but I expected to see the receptionist dead, his body sprawled on the ground, and his head smashed with a black wrench. I saw nothing of the sort, however. Fortunately, it was just the TV set booming inside for no reason. It was a little weird that nobody was watching it, but not too much because the man could’ve just gone to take a shit or something.

I turned around and stepped back, hesitating again in the middle of the reception hall. I decided not to wait for the guy, and while holding my gun tight, I climbed the stairs, cautiously looking up. They were solid and made no creaks under my weight. After a couple of minutes, I was already on the third floor, but all the while, my heart kept coming out of my mouth, trying to save itself individually, and I kept pushing it back and trying to swallow it. I was extremely nervous.

The former Bobby’s room was the next game level. I tiptoed to it and pressed my ear to the door, listening. It seemed to be empty inside, but I wasn’t sure because the damn TV was too loud. That’s why I invested a little more time. Nearly five minutes passed like this, and in the end, I cautiously grabbed the handle, still holding my gun ready. Then I pushed the door open.

The hinges screeched hideously. Because of my nervousness, I jumped up, startled, and nearly shot myself because I didn’t remember such a detail from my previous visit here. And since my presence was already revealed and I was losing the moment of surprise, I rushed inside, wildly pointing my gun in every possible direction. I kept doing it for almost ten seconds before finally lowering the weapon, feeling stupid. There was obviously no one in the room—it was empty of people.

Unfortunately, my mission wasn’t over yet, as it soon turned out. Down on the street, when I thought my life followed a vicious cycle, I actually didn’t believe it was entirely true, and I only expressed my discontent about it. However, in the room, I quickly realized it was nothing but a simple statement of fact. I understood that right between registering that the room was empty and stopping to swivel like crazy. I suddenly sensed something moving behind my back, and before I could even turn around and look, I already knew what was going on.

For an instant, I saw Marty Cork appear at the corner of my vision, and then, long before I could do anything about it, he violently swooped in on me, hitting me in the back with his shoulder. The blow was powerful and made me plunge deeper into the room, spreading my arms and legs and dropping the gun. The piece fell on the floor, rolling under the cushioned sofa to my right and instantly reducing my survival chances to zero. I had no time to react but only to indicate the fact of losing it because, just a second later, I smashed my nose into the floorboards and lost my orientation completely.

And that was actually the moment when my mission was finally over!

©2016 S.T. Fargo
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