The Winner Stands Alone

He prints out the files sent by the police in Cannes. He normally tries to avoid using paper because he doesn't want to be accused of being a serial killer of forests, but sometimes it's necessary.

He starts studying the modus operandi, that is, the way the crimes were committed. Time of day (morning, afternoon, and night), weapons (hands, poison, stiletto knife), type of victim (men and women of different ages), closeness to victim (two involved direct physical contact, two involved no contact at all), the reaction of victims to their aggressor (none in all cases).

When he feels that he's faced by a dead end, the best thing is to let his thoughts wander for a while, while his unconscious mind goes to work. He opens a new screen on the computer, showing the New York Stock Exchange. Since he has no money invested in shares, it couldn't be more boring, but that'

s how it works: his years of experience analyze all the information he has received so far, and his intuition comes up with new, creative responses. Twenty minutes later, he goes back to the files, and his head is once again empty.

The process has worked. The murders do have things in common.

The murderer is an educated man. He must have spent days and weeks in a library, studying the best way to carry out his mission. He knows how to handle poisons and obviously hadn't touched the hydrogen cyanide himself. He knows enough about anatomy to be able to stick a knife in at exactly the right place without meeting a bone, and to kill someone with his bare hands. He knows about curare and its lethal power. He may have read about serial killings, and would be aware that some kind of "signature" always leads the police to the attacker, and so he had committed his murders in a completely random manner, with no fixed modus operandi at all.

But that's impossible. The unconscious mind of the murderer is bound to leave some signature, which Morris has not yet managed to decipher.

There's something more important still: he obviously has money, enough to follow a course in Sambo, in order to be absolutely sure which points on the body he needs to press in order to paralyze his victim. He also has contacts: he didn't buy those poisons from the corner pharmacist, not even from the local criminal underworld. They are highly sophisticated biological weapons, which require great care in their handling and application. He must have got other people to acquire them for him.

Finally, he works very quickly, which leads Morris to conclude that the murderer won't be staying long. Perhaps a week, possibly a few days more.

Where does all this take him?

The reason he can't reach a conclusion now is because he's got used to the rules of the game. He has lost the innocence he always demanded of his subordinates. That's what the world does to people; gradually, over the years, we become mediocre beings, concerned not to be seen as weird or overenthusiastic. Old age is considered a stigma, not a sign of wisdom. People assume that no one over fifty can keep up with the speed of change nowadays.

True, he can't run as fast as he could and needs reading glasses, but his mind is as sharp as ever, or so at least he wants to believe.

What about this crime though? If he's as intelligent as he thinks, why can't he solve something that seems so easy?

He can't get any further at the moment. He'll have to wait until the next victim appears.

9:11 P.M.

A couple pass by. They smile and congratulate him on his luck at having two such lovely ladies by his side!

Igor thanks them, for he's genuinely in need of distraction. Soon the long-awaited meeting will take place, and although he's accustomed to all kinds of pressure, he reminds himself of the patrols he had to go on near Kabul and how before any very dangerous mission, he and his colleagues would drink and talk about women and sport, chatting away as if they weren't in Afghanistan, but were back in their hometowns, sitting round a table with family and friends. It was a way of quelling their nerves and recovering their true identities, and thus feeling better prepared for the challenges they would face the next day.

Like any good soldier, he knows that battles have more do with aims and objectives than with the actual fighting. Like any good strategist--he did, after all, build up his company from nothing to become one of the most respected in Russia--he knows that one's objective should always remain the same, even if the motive behind it may change over time. That is what has happened today: he arrived in Cannes for one reason, but only when he began to act did he understand the true motives behind what he was doing. He has been blind all these years, but now he can see the light; the revelation has finally come.

And precisely because of this, he needs to keep going. The decisions he made required courage, a degree of detachment, and, at times, even a little madness, not the kind of madness that destroys, but the sort that carries a person beyond his own limits. He's always been the same and has won precisely because he knew how to use that controlled madness whenever he had to make a decision. His friends would move with astonishing speed from saying, "It's too risky" to "I always knew you were doing the right thing." He was capable of surprising people, of coming up with fresh ideas, and, above all, of taking any necessary risks.

Here in Cannes, though--perhaps because he's in an unfamiliar place and still befuddled by lack of sleep--he has taken quite unnecessary risks, risks that might have forced him to abort his plan earlier than expected. Had that happened, he would never have reached his present clear-eyed position, one that cast an entirely different light on the woman he thought of as his beloved and whom he believed merited both sacrifice and martyrdom. He remembers the moment when he went up to the policeman to confess. That was when the change began. It was then that the spirit of the girl with the dark eyebrows began to protect him and to explain that he was doing the right things but for the wrong reasons. Accumulating love brings luck, accumulating hatred brings disaster. Anyone who stands outside the Door of Problems and fails to recognize it may well end up leaving it open and allowing tragedies to enter.

He had accepted the young girl's love. He had been an instrument of God, sent to rescue her from a dark future; now she was helping him to carry on.

He is aware, too, that, regardless of the many precautions he may have taken, he could not possibly have thought of everything, and his mission might yet be interrupted before he reaches the end. There is no reason, however, for regret or fear; he has done what he could, behaved impeccably, and, if God does not wish him to complete his task, then he must accept his decisions.

Relax, he tells himself. Talk to the young women by your side. Let your muscles rest a little before the final strike, that way, they'll be more prepared. Gabriela--the young woman who was alone at the bar when he arrived--seems very excited, and whenever the waiter comes by with more drinks, she hands him her glass, even if it's still half full, and picks up a fresh one.

"I love it when it's really icy!" she says.

Her happiness infects him a little too. Apparently, she's just signed a contract to appear in a film, although she knows neither the title of the film nor what role she'll be playing, but she will, in her words, be "the leading lady." The director is known for his ability to choose good actors and good scripts, and the leading actor, whom Igor knows and admires, certainly merits respect. When she mentions the name of the producer, he merely nods knowledgably, as if to say, "Yes, of course, I know who he is," aware that she'll interpret the nod as meaning: "I've no idea who he is, but I don't want to appear ignorant." She babbles on about rooms full of gifts, the red carpet, her meeting on the yacht, the rigorous selection process she went through, future projects...

"At this very moment, there are thousands of young women in Cannes and millions around the world who would like to be here tonight, talking to you and being able to tell these stories. My prayers have been answered and all my efforts rewarded."

The other young woman seems more discreet, but sadder too, perhaps because of her age and lack of experience. Igor had been there when she walked down the corridor and had heard the photographers calling out her name and clamoring to ask her questions afterward. Apparently, though, the other people at the party had no idea who she was; she had been so in demand at the start, and then, just as suddenly, had been dropped.

It was probably the talkative young woman who had decided to come over to him and ask him what he was doing there. At first, he'd felt rather constrained, but he knew that if they hadn't approached him, other solitary people would have done so, to avoid the impression that they were lost and alone and with no friends at the party. That's why he welcomed their conversation or, rather, their company, even though his mind was elsewhere. He told them his name was Gunther and explained that he was a German industrialist specializing in heavy machinery (a subject guaranteed to interest no one) and had been invited there by friends. He would be leaving tomorrow (which he hoped would be true, but God moves in mysterious ways).

When the actress learned that he didn't work in the film industry and wouldn't be staying long at the Festival, she almost moved away; however, the other girl stopped her, saying that it's always good to meet new people. And so there they are: he waiting for the friend who showed no signs of arriving, the actress waiting for her vanished assistant, and the quiet girl waiting for absolutely nothing, just a little peace.

SUDDENLY, THE ACTRESS NOTICES SOME fluff on his dinner jacket, and before he can stop her, she reaches out to brush it away. She says: