Think or Swim: Part V

It was evening when Mao Kelly woke. He'd slept for a solid 14 hours and was grateful to the Norwegian apartment owners for their king-size bed, crisp sheets and the twin comforters, around which he'd wandered during the night-into-day slumber. Now, he was awake, thirsty and hungry.

The fridge was Scandinavian. There were containers of juice concentrate — mango, kiwi, papaya — and two bottles of what looked liked spirits and labelled Løiten Linie. Jars of pickled herring stood side-by-side with sealed packages of smoked fish and something that might have been meat and which was branded "Pinnekjøtt". He opened a plastic box marked "Knäckebröd" and found what must have been some kind of rye bread before it had turned to cardboard.

Taking a bottle of the akevitt, Mao wandered from the kitchen to the dining room and stopped for a minute in front of a large painting of a blue cat with celadon eyes and inscribed "S Knight" in the lower right-hand corner. It dominated the room's curved space, which consisted of a white wall that merged with a glass one and created a cocoon from which he could watch the serene Mediterranean, light blue here, purple there. White boats dotted the seascape. He opened the bottle.

Had seven years really passed since Mao received that message? Apparently.

It was a June morning and he was working on an artificial intelligence project near the Sophia Antipolis technology park northwest of Antibes. It was a discreet operation. It had to be.

"EUSA Office of Professional Accountability" was the sender's address. Having good reason to be suspicious of bureaucracy, Mao opened the message and simultaneously called Kate Houlihan on the Paddyfields secure network.

"Hi Mao, how's she cuttin'?" asked Kate, before he'd had time to say anything.
"Fine, Kate. How're you?"
"Same as ever. Tryin' to keep warm. Iceland's fucking freezing today. Anyway, what can I do you for?"
"Just got this weird message from something called the 'EUSA Office of Professional Accountability', and they want me to confirm, within 24 hours, that my profession matches their records."
"Jaysus, Mao, are you serious?"
"Yes, Kate, I am. Why?"
"Listen. You've gotta drop what you're doin' and get out of that place at once. Do you hear me?
"Kate. You're joking, right?"
"Mao. I'm deadly serious. Someone's tipped them off. That 24 hours — you can forget it. The OPA is an anti-immigration operation run out of Strasbourg. One of their squads will be up the stairs inside an hour. I'm tellin' you. Get out of there now and run."
"But what will I tell Yvette?"
"Mao. Forget Yvette for a moment. Get out of the apartment and across the border. Then you can think about Yvette."
"But..."
"Mao, I have to go. And you better go, too. Call me when you get to San Sebastian. OK?"

He stared at the communicator as if it developed some contagion. A minute, or maybe five, passed before he shook off the inertia. Then, calling up banks in Ireland and Bahrain, he quickly transferred money to an account in the Republic of Euskal Herria and saved some maps of the Western Pyrenees.

After throwing a change of underwear, two t-shirts and a wash bag into his backpack, he looked around the apartment and walked towards the window.