Heinrich's Notes
It was easier than I thought to break into Heinrich's place. You would think a guy with his kind of clearance and his obvious underworld connections, he would have a bit more security. Instead of a high rise with cameras and guards and security gates, he lived in a little bungalow out south of the city, the kind of place a sort of unsuccessful bachelor who had inherited money might shack up to forget about responsibility. The door wasn't even locked. We just walked in and started rifling around.
We found nothing useful, no clues or codes or anything to hint at what he was up to with the machine. The only thing that seemed strange was a back room where he had the walls covered with notes like some kind of maniac. There were hundreds of them, but the more we read them, the more he just seemed like a worried but rather nice friend who was a bit obsessed with his own problems. The wall seemed like a wall of confession if anything. He was afraid, worried, wanted to fall in love, loved to dance. I had never met him, but this certainly did not fit the image anyone had given me. The monster Benveniste described, the corporate boss who had sent me after Sarp, or the man Sarra claimed him to be--none of it seemed to fit. Sarra nodded her head as if the notes revealed something else.
It's so obvious, she said.
He just seems like some self-obsessed poet to me, I said.
It's a code, she said.
Maybe we just have the wrong house, I said.
It's so obvious, she said.
He just seems like some self-obsessed poet to me, I said.
It's a code, she said.
Maybe we just have the wrong house, I said.