Unknown 9, Layton Green [good books to read for 12 year olds txt] 📗

“Is that all you have to say?”

She batted her eyes. “What else would you like to hear?”

His fingers pushed hard as he buttoned the cuffs of his camel-brown dress shirt. “Not interested in dignity, I see.”

“I don’t believe in the concept. If enough suffering is endured, all human beings reach a point where dignity dissolves into the instinct for survival. Self-interest is our true nature, and where is the dignity in that?”

“And you came to this conclusion how? Through application of torture across a wide variety of subjects?”

“Through observation of world affairs.”

“What do you propose then? A world where only the strong survive? A dictatorship of unfettered capital gains and rule by nuclear arsenal?”

“Isn’t that what we have already?”

“We can do better.”

“I agree,” she said. “But I’d replace dignity with honesty. An acknowledgment that we are all human and have our limits. Abandoning the pretense of pride and self-importance.”

“That doesn’t sound like it came from the Ascendants’ handbook.”

Her mouth opened and then closed, as if realizing she might have veered off script.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to get dressed,” he said. “I can’t leave you in here alone.”

Her lips fell into a pout. “Don’t I have time for a shower? You could join me if you like.”

“I’ve dallied long enough. Which I’m sure Hans greatly appreciates.”

With a sigh, she removed the covers and sat naked on the edge of the bed. “Could you close the blinds?”

After they finished dressing, he saw her out, and she started down the hallway in the direction opposite the stairs. “Where are you going?” he asked.

“To my room next door. Quite convenient, isn’t it?”

He smirked. “Quite.”

As he watched her insert a key into the door of the next room over, he felt a pang of remorse they hadn’t had the chance to meet in another way, taking in the town as tourists rather than adversaries in a deadly game. Perhaps they would have caught each other’s eye in Plaza Bolivar amid the weeping trees and fountains, strolled atop the city walls and gazed upon the domes of cathedrals rising like jeweled crowns above the terra-cotta rooftops, or dined al fresco by the sea before stumbling into a sweaty nightclub in Getsemaní, quaffing mojitos and dancing hip to hip until their bodies were electric with desire.

“Your theory on human nature is admirable in some ways,” he said. “But it’s also incomplete.”

She paused in the open doorway. “Oh?”

“I might concede your point on dignity and honesty, but there is something even higher than those principles, which even torture cannot reach.”

“Which is?”

“Love. Not for ourselves, because I agree that’s unreliable, but the love of a mother for her son, a father for his daughter, a betrothed for their beloved. Our capacity to love one another deeply and truly is the hope of the human race.”

Ana didn’t reply, but before she entered her room, she met his gaze with a solemn, unreadable expression.

When Dr. Corwin entered the hotel lounge, he noticed Hans on the street outside, prepared to step into a black town car. A sling supported the German’s left arm, dark bruises covered his face, and one eye was closed shut. Dr. Corwin felt no sympathy for a man who had tried to kill him, and when Hans glanced through a window and saw him watching, Dr. Corwin tipped his trilby. With a look of pure hatred, the German stepped into the waiting vehicle.

After indulging in a moment of satisfaction, Dr. Corwin hurried into the dining room for a quick breakfast, knowing Hans had a head start on the day.

Of course he does. You’ve allowed your libido to override your common sense once again.

Yes, but I beat him to Alvaro, and I didn’t figure out the anagram until late last night. And there is nothing common or sensible about a woman like that . . .

He took his coffee black and dug into a stack of strawberries-and-cream arepas. As he shoved down the delicious food, Dr. Corwin pondered his course of action for the day. Now he had to reevaluate his entire line of thinking.

His gut told him the physicist called X who had visited Cartagena and met with the wily old curandero was none other than Ettore himself. Briefly, he wondered whether Waylan Taylor had lied to him or had also been deceived by Alvaro, and how much Alvaro himself knew.

Could the old curandero be persuaded to divulge more information? Perhaps. Alvaro certainly knew more than he was letting on—yet why bother with the anagram if he was prepared to be more forthcoming?

It really didn’t matter. The trail to Ettore was here, in Cartagena.

It occurred to him that the Ascendants might try to force information out of the retired curandero-psychiatrist. In fact, it was almost a certainty. Deciding to warn Alvaro as well as ask a few questions, Dr. Corwin took a cab to his house, relieved not to find Hans’s black town car waiting outside.

Somewhat to his surprise, Alvaro opened the door. Dr. Corwin had half expected to find an empty house. “Back so soon?”

“Nataja Tromereo,” Dr. Corwin said without preamble. “Ettore Majorana. It’s the same letters, a simple anagram.”

Alvaro’s brow furrowed. “I do believe you’re right.”

“Cut it. Anyone could have figured this out—so why leave it for someone to find? What else do you know? How long did Ettore stay? Why did he come here, and when did he leave? Or is he still here?” He took a step closer. “Is he alive or dead?”

Though the curandero’s eyes continued to glimmer, he stuck to his original story and claimed not to know anything about Ettore beyond what he had already said. No amount of pleading or hardened tone seemed to matter, and after shaking his head in disgust, Dr. Corwin gave him a stern warning about Hans.

“Yes, he was quite worked up this morning,” Alvaro said.

“You met with him? What did you tell him?”

“Why, the exact same thing I told you, of course.” After thanking Dr. Corwin for his concern, Alvaro patted him on the