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Authors: Leonard Rosen
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the whispered conversations among academics that he was Nobel material. The problem, detractors claimed, was that he allowed a stunningly original mind to be corrupted by politics. Quito's supporters celebrated that same influence. At the height of his powers, he abruptly quit his academic post, returned to Pisac, the village of his birth, and launched what he called the Indigenous Liberation Front, or ILF. Using the Internet, a tool appropriated from the Enemy, Quito reached 300 million indigenous peoples worldwide and became the voice of a surging political and human rights movement. Poincaré had read the profiles in Le Monde , the G uardian and the N ew York Times ; he had studied Quito's now classic papers on the systematic economic destruction of native peoples; and he fully doubted anyone could be so prolific or instantly charismatic—until, that is, the man stepped into the room. Without removing his pack, Quito walked directly to his host as if arriving for a long-sought audience.
"Your reputation precedes you, Inspector."
Bright, probing eyes met Poincaré's, followed by a firm handshake and a kind of preemptive friendliness that put one simultaneously on alert and at ease. The man had an undeniable force.
"M y r eputation?" Poincaré responded.
"No one who knows Interpol can afford not to know you."
The spell broke the instant Quito closed two hands over Poincaré's outstretched hand, a touch that recalled bricks thrown in Seattle and cars burned in Rotterdam. At the WTO riots in Paris, a policeman lost sight in one eye—all protests directed by the man who greeted Poincaré so warmly now. Yet Quito had never once been named in a complaint. He was that clever.
"Yours is the reputation," said Poincaré.
"I'll take that as a compliment," he said laughing. He dropped his pack and followed his host to the conference table. "Nearly every major security service in the world has found a reason to interview me, save Interpol. This meeting was inevitable, Inspector, so I prepared—just as you have. When this young man"—Quito pointed to Ludovici— "asked me to stop by to talk, I agreed. I also made additional inquiries and came across the name Poincaré time and again."
"The Internet?" asked Poincaré.
"Obviously. And other sources. Three decades at Interpol. Twelve different commendations for heroism. Invitations to London, Washington, and Moscow to speak on transborder crime. Success where others failed. And more than once, I understand, you rejected promotions so that you might remain in the field. Bravo!"
"I don't read my press clippings, Professor."
"And modest! The quality that fascinates me most is that you're said to be like these English dogs that bite and never let go. I once read of a dog that needed to be hit in the head with an iron bar to release its grip. The animal died not letting go."
Poincaré watched his guest slap at the table, enjoying himself as if among friends at one of Amsterdam's brown cafes. "We must have a common ancestor because my wife calls me the most stubborn donkey alive. In our village this is known as tenaz. " He laughed again but stopped short upon noticing the photographs Laurent had cleared to one end of the table. "Lovely. What are these?"
"Just some pictures, Professor."
"No, I don't think just some pictures. Fractals, yes?"
At that instant Poincaré had been studying Quito's hands— which, in fact, confirmed that he earned his living, at least part of the year, working outdoors. "We've been puzzling over these," he said. "Could you shed some light?"
"I'm no expert, Inspector." But it was a false show of modesty because Quito was soon positioning the images for a closer inspection. After a few minutes, his interest clearly piqued, he looked up: "With fractals, you can't determine scale—that is, the size of an object. Take this one."
"Your reputation precedes you, Inspector."
Bright, probing eyes met Poincaré's, followed by a firm handshake and a kind of preemptive friendliness that put one simultaneously on alert and at ease. The man had an undeniable force.
"M y r eputation?" Poincaré responded.
"No one who knows Interpol can afford not to know you."
The spell broke the instant Quito closed two hands over Poincaré's outstretched hand, a touch that recalled bricks thrown in Seattle and cars burned in Rotterdam. At the WTO riots in Paris, a policeman lost sight in one eye—all protests directed by the man who greeted Poincaré so warmly now. Yet Quito had never once been named in a complaint. He was that clever.
"Yours is the reputation," said Poincaré.
"I'll take that as a compliment," he said laughing. He dropped his pack and followed his host to the conference table. "Nearly every major security service in the world has found a reason to interview me, save Interpol. This meeting was inevitable, Inspector, so I prepared—just as you have. When this young man"—Quito pointed to Ludovici— "asked me to stop by to talk, I agreed. I also made additional inquiries and came across the name Poincaré time and again."
"The Internet?" asked Poincaré.
"Obviously. And other sources. Three decades at Interpol. Twelve different commendations for heroism. Invitations to London, Washington, and Moscow to speak on transborder crime. Success where others failed. And more than once, I understand, you rejected promotions so that you might remain in the field. Bravo!"
"I don't read my press clippings, Professor."
"And modest! The quality that fascinates me most is that you're said to be like these English dogs that bite and never let go. I once read of a dog that needed to be hit in the head with an iron bar to release its grip. The animal died not letting go."
Poincaré watched his guest slap at the table, enjoying himself as if among friends at one of Amsterdam's brown cafes. "We must have a common ancestor because my wife calls me the most stubborn donkey alive. In our village this is known as tenaz. " He laughed again but stopped short upon noticing the photographs Laurent had cleared to one end of the table. "Lovely. What are these?"
"Just some pictures, Professor."
"No, I don't think just some pictures. Fractals, yes?"
At that instant Poincaré had been studying Quito's hands— which, in fact, confirmed that he earned his living, at least part of the year, working outdoors. "We've been puzzling over these," he said. "Could you shed some light?"
"I'm no expert, Inspector." But it was a false show of modesty because Quito was soon positioning the images for a closer inspection. After a few minutes, his interest clearly piqued, he looked up: "With fractals, you can't determine scale—that is, the size of an object. Take this one."
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