TOO LATE. SOREN SEES ALEX WAITING FOR HIM IN front of the doors, recognizes him in the shadows, tries to back away towards the work site, casting quick lateral glances to find somewhere he can fold himself away into the dark, but it’s too late – Alex has seen him and comes forward, thrusts the bag into his arms whispering don’t tell me you forgot about our little deal, it’s on for tomorrow, the instructions are inside. Soren staggers under the weight of the bag and lets out a cry, makes a half-turn towards the locker rooms but in the same moment a hand grabs him by the neck: a word of advice – no funny business. Soren shrugs him off with a movement of his shoulder and hurries towards the workers’ facilities, those he passes headed in the opposite direction barely nod, no one questions him. Once he’s inside, he rushes to his locker, unlocks it, puts the bag in, at the last moment unzips it, plunges a hand in, feels a piece of paper folded into quarters, stuffs it in his pocket, closes everything up again, and rushes to the bus that’s waiting outside. Later, sitting alone at the back, head against the window, he catches his breath – how could he have believed they had decided against the sabotage – he uses the small overhead light to read the paper, typed, and turns pale – the bag contains four dynamite cartridges equipped with suction cups – no seepage of nitroglycerine, the explosives are stabilized, reliable – the cartridges are to be stuck to the four sides of the upstream pier of the Edgefront tower, at the point where the base narrows, so that the whole tower, suddenly one legged, will topple; and their explosion will be set off by activating a programmed detonator from the opposite shore – not a sequential ignition system, and not a delay system – through a remote, which will allow him to act at the last minute.

Of course, he thinks of running – nothing could be more simple, he could go back to his digs, pack his bag, pick up his cheque, and disappear on a night bus headed south, any old bus and no one would be the wiser – but he abandons this idea, sure they would find him, these guys always find their man and when they find him they kill him, he’s been warned. This is why, tonight – a beautiful night too, odours of mud and detritic ground are a reminder that Coca was built on an alluvial plain, a breeding tank teeming with worms and coypu – he doesn’t stray from his routine, stops in for a game of pool at a bar in Edgefront, and then goes home.

HARD TO describe the day that follows when each movement, each word, each intention is obliterated by the sabotage to come, by the conviction of such precariousness that nothing else really matters, as though the future was only a hazy aureole, the cigarette hole in the film, disintegrating time. Soren floats, cottony. He gets to the Pontoverde platform half an hour before the first siren sounds so he can be alone in the locker room. When he opens his locker, the bag jumps in his face like a fierce animal: it’s a small black knapsack that weighs as much as an eight-year-old child. He stuffs in a sandwich and a sweater, and goes to the river-shuttle dock, forcing his form not to fold under the weight, making sure that this bumpy mass on his back doesn’t alter his walk, and keeps his expression steady.

IT’S NEARLY midnight on the Edgefront site and Soren is waiting for the lights of the last shuttle headed back to the esplanade to disappear. He didn’t have to pretend he had forgotten something inside a crate, didn’t have to tell the others not to wait for him, he’d go back and then take the next boat, no, he didn’t have to say a word, because no one here asks him anything – and you could even bet that Diderot himself, who professes to know every person on the bridge, wouldn’t be able to hail him by name or even recognize him if he passed him off-site – similarly, no one noticed the bag from which he ostensibly pulled a sandwich and a bottle of water at break, exposing a pile of dark clothing inside. At the moment, Soren is cold. He shivers under the pier, a few steps back from the water’s edge, and nature rumbles, the torrent is large, each sound amplified by the presence of the steel column standing behind him. Once he’s alone, while the site foremen go back to their portables (Algecos with kettles) giving themselves a break before the next batch of workers, Soren, dressed all in black now, quickly places the dynamite cartridges all around the upstream pier that’s sheathed in concrete at this height, making sure to stay hugging the sides, in the shadow of the tower – the rest of the site is lit up like a fairground, a village dance, garlands of tiny lights, he has never performed these movements but he’s studied the diagrams on the folded paper, and as it turns out, it’s dead simple. In less than three minutes the cartridges are suctioned onto the pier, Soren breathes hard under his hood, picks up the bag, throws it over his shoulder and, camouflaged silhouette already fleeing, he veers towards the brownish, lumpy-looking bank: he has a hundred and fifty feet to cross in the river. A break in the levelling of the pier, a gash three feet wide, Soren squats and slips into the water silently, terrified at the thought that the noise of his specific splashes – the body of a man penetrating a liquid – multiplied here, could alert the site foremen who, in a few minutes, will put their hard hats with headlamps back on and go out to meet the new contingent of workers, while on the other side of the river, on the twenty-seventh floor of a waterfront building, the Frenchman and his posse are opening bottles of champagne, filling crystal glasses, and moving to the picture window, ready for the fireworks.

SOREN IS in the river up to his waist, water so cold that a painful cramp crushes his shins, penetrates his bones, he’s sure it reaches all the way to the marrow, corroding his strength, he’s suffocating, can’t move anymore – stands for a long minute without being able to let go, without being able to launch himself. It’s the sputtering of voices behind him that pushes him forward into the fuliginous waves, he falls in, stifling a yell with a tremendous effort, keeps his head above water without really having any coordination, like a panicked dog fallen overboard, then manages to calm down, getting used to the temperature, regaining control, and, synchronizing his breathing with the movements of his body, he begins to swim silently towards the bank, immersing himself completely at regular intervals in the current that carries him downstream. This is when excitement and fear, the fact of being swallowed but conscious, make him believe that a bulky animal is swimming along beside him – he can make out its mass and its phenomenal strength, there are new underwater currents that accompany him, he lifts his head out of the water without seeing anything but the licorice river that grips him and far off the lights of the river shuttle coming back with the night teams – inside they’re probably joking around, having a last smoke, daydreaming – he dives under once more but again the animal is there, escorting him, brushing against him with its thick, dense fur, a colossal beast that could well be a bear, the bear from Anchorage, it’s wild, it’s hungry, hunting whatever it can to feed itself, he’s delirious, he speeds up without being able to turn around or cast a glance to his side – terror has so paralyzed him – he hears a growl at his neck and nearly sinks like a stone – there’s no fear more terrible than an open jaw behind your back – the bank comes nearer now and the lights of Edgefront press large gold squares of light onto the water while the reflection of the vegetal gangue on the bank lengthens: tall tough plants, bristling black and sharpened lances, they form a barricade, holding Soren back inexorably from all human life. He speeds up till he touches ground, grabs a root, pulls himself out of the river and collapses in a crevice of mud. The bear has disappeared. He breathes, spits, half-dead, and now he still has to take the remote out of its watertight case and press the button that will make everything blow up, he’s out of breath, rummages in his bag, drooling bile, can’t see anything, droplets form stalactites from the arch of his brow, obstruct his nostrils, block his ears, he hurries, body shaken by opposing pieces of information – he’s alive, he’s dead – numb fingers suddenly touching the little hard-plastic case, shivering violently – shakes that tear him apart – he adjusts his gaze to the pier where there is no movement yet. The boatload of workers has passed the river bend, it’s heading for shore now, begins to slow. On the Edgefront tower site, still very brightly lit, almost festive, three men stroll out nonchalantly, walk to the edge of the quay, cross their arms over their chests, and stand there, posed, waiting, like actors caught up in the pursuit of theatre. Soren has never heard the sound of their voices but he can see the pink of their cheeks, the steam that clouds as it leaves their mouths, three little fellas just doing their job who stand at the edge of the river, the boat is still two hundred feet away, he has to press the button, he has to press it now.