“What do you think, Carson?”
Anne-Marie, I could see, had been wrestling for hours with the realisation that Rachel – always in charge, always serene – was in some kind of crisis. Why else would she suddenly relinquish her responsibilities? But Rachel couldn’t be asked, and Anne-Marie feeling powerless was grasping at straws. In directing her questions at me she seemed to think I could be held accountable for the answers. In self defence I raised my shoulders and opened my hands. I was perplexed too. But Anne-Marie’s final question I couldn’t duck. How is it, she asked, that I had read an e-mail from Lafontaine? What more did I know?
It froze me. For seconds nothing moved, neither my limbs, nor my tongue. Anne-Marie, back to sipping coffee, glared at me unwaveringly. Was she doubting my trustworthiness? Mere hours before in Jaime’s presence, my conscience had eased; the truth about what I had done to Rachel had come out. It was accepted, no judgements rendered. Well, there’s alley-cat in all of us. Jaime’s few words amounted to a gigantic pardon and so the night unburdened me. But that bright interlude in the continuum of my fraudulent existence was now short-lived. What more did I know? The answer to Anne-Marie’s question would have to be part lie and part evasion. As always, yet another layer of deceit.
Flippantly I explained that because the plague came out of Transylvania all e-mail traffic in and out of the Bucharest embassy had been monitored for months. The practice was classified information in itself. No one was allowed to know it was happening. Not even some of the senior officers. Not even Heywood. For good measure, and with my heart pumping brine, I hit this nail a second time. “He mustn’t know that you know that we’ve read Lafontaine’s message. It would constitute a security breach. Part of another world, Anne-Marie. Sorry.”
“That,” she calmly replied, “explains why Rachel prefers postcards. I bet the spook world forgets about postcards. Anyway, you’re here because you care. That’s more important.”
With this simple expression of faith in goodness Anne-Marie stopped questioning and revealed her thoughts. “The postcard shows breakdown, don’t you think? What conceivably would cause that in Rachel? I wracked my brain all night and I’ve come to think it’s fear. Rachel left in fear. She tries to hide it, but she tries too hard. Read the postcard again. Only fear would make Rachel run off and write like that. She badly needs support. She needs someone she trusts to be near.”
By the time I left Anne-Marie, my coffee was cold. Once more I carried the paper cup through corridors, down elevators, and through the Service complex from one end to the other. First, some promises to Jaime; now more to Anne-Marie. It wasn’t mid-morning yet and already I had made more commitments that day than a tally of all the ones over the many years before. Yes, I promised Anne-Marie, I’ll go there. I’ll leave today.
But I wasn’t done with commitment-making.
Francis Merrick’s morning always began at 9:30 a.m. with tea. When I arrived at his office he was just starting the brewing. “Carson,” he muttered, lowering little bags into a decorative Chinese pot, “when did I see you last? Is it that time of year again?”
Avuncular Francis. His management of the watchers meant that twice a year he received a two-minute, pro-forma, verbal report from each of us that all was well. This done, his fingers would run through the few remaining snow-white filaments of his hair and he’d mumble, Good. That’s fine. You’re on top of things. Once he had added when I was with him: And you’re forthright, Carson, a quality few have.
Missing Merrick was what the unit called him. On the surface the judgment wasn’t undeserved. Yet Francis was appreciated. His philosophy was to stay out of the way unless there was a problem, although if one appeared, his door stood open. Sitting in a low chair, his feet up, staring into space, soon taking on the appearance of a grandfather dozing, he would listen. Eventually a hand would wave and the visitor would be asked to go away. Oddly, soon enough, so did the problem. The watchers never clearly saw solutions, but never faced real trouble either. As for me, I liked Francis because he wasn’t afraid to give his underlings a long rein.
Coming directly to the point, I said I hadn’t had a proper holiday in years.
A holiday? he whispered.
Yes.
What a good idea. Where?
Not sure yet. Maybe a cottage on a quiet lake.
Fishing is restful, especially if you don’t catch any.
I said I planned to be away a while.
It should be so. What’s that thing with the Americans you manage?
The pipeline.
Yes, you mentioned it last two years ago.
I replied the pipeline had been functioning well. In my absence Arthur Beausejour could manage it. Pushing information through it back and forth was administratively routine.
You’ll talk to Beausejour?
Francis’s whisper was nearly unintelligible. I confirmed that, yes, I would, of course.
And Hugh-S? You’ll let him know you’ll be away?
Francis seemed to be fading, disappearing into the ceremony with his tea. His voice was ghostly. Even so, I was surprised he knew about Hugh-S and asked how that was. The words could have come from the other side of the grave.
We talk sometimes.
I thought this over. Had we been underestimating Missing Merrick all these years? Was it we who had been doing the missing? Behind the screen of near-death, was he actually actively managing our business? Not Missing, but Minding Merrick? My holiday was settled and yet I lingered. How could I induce him to open up still more? Francis became busy pouring tea and as an afterthought pushed an empty cup my way. Then he saw the paper coffee container I had brought in and began to shake his head.
You can go now Carson…
The whisper sounded tired.
One last thing…promise me…
I leaned forward to hear.
If you go angling and something ends up in your boat…find a way to let me know.
The enigmatic fishing imagery bewildered me. Yes, I uttered. I’ll do that. I promise. Merrick had hunched forward in his chair, drawn himself together in a tight bundle, cradling a hot tea cup in both hands as if it was mid-winter. He sipped and stared, not at me, but at a scene somewhere distant which was unreachable, unfathomable for me. Then he added, And don’t worry about Irving Heywood.
My mind ground to a standstill. My robotic mumble was an auto-response. Ah…sure. Thank you, Francis.
Minutes later I was closeted with Beausejour to ask if he would administer the pipeline. His gleaming head immediately began a vigorous nodding. I took Arthur to the special place and there, hovering over him, solemnly revealed the codes. He did a practice round, skittish fingers bouncing from key to key. Whoa, Carson! he hollered when the mythical glory of the pipeline formed on the screen. Some further steps were necessary to go through it, to approach the treasures at the other end. He became ecstatic, grinning from ear to ear. Awesome! Carson, promise me you’ll be away a long time. My reply was a laconic, Sure, yeah, I promise. Oddly, after all the years of humbling Beausejour, I now suddenly determined he was a nice guy. Why, I wondered, had we never done some simple thing, like having a coffee together, to find out who we were.
Hugh-S was next The secure phone key was turned and a red light showed eavesdroppers had no chance. I told him something had come up and that Beausejour had been indoctrinated. Hugh-S wasn’t surprised. He already seemed to know I was going on vacation. Amiably he chatted about a catfish his son pulled in last year and, with the boy now bigger, that a white marlin holiday was next. Casually, as if talking about bait with the captain of a hired boat, he asked, D’yuh want puhdah, Cahsun?
Purdah?
Purdah…the veil…a cryptonym for pre-programmed incognito status. I couldn’t think fast enough. Were there dots to be connected? Had Merrick been in touch with Hugh-S while I was busy initiating Beausejour? Were they already on top of what Heywood was up to? And if so, who had informed them? Jamie? Had a flanking movement of some kind started up? Was my
vacation being treated as some kind of decoy, or probe, or ruse? If so, aimed at what…or who?
Well? Hugh-S repeated.
Originally, years before, I was the one who urged Hugh-S to develop purdah. Certain individuals, I pointed out, should be invisible when they act. He put the challenge back to me. And so I developed a program which created what I called indiscernibility. Purdah takes data heading into cyberspace and negates it as it’s generated. Travelling behind the veil of purdah is like travelling as a spirit that can’t be seen.
I replied that, yes, purdah could help.
Through the secure phone Hugh-S announced my purdah would be activated in minutes. And Cahsun, when you get to your holiday spot, send me a signal. You know how. I got thousands a analysts here, sure, but they just catch the minnows. I may need you fast if there’s a shark.
I promised, Yes. I will. Of course.
From Hugh-S it was to the bank. The teller was amiable, a grand-motherly type, fussing over customers as if she was nurturing her children’s children. She scanned my account. I’ve never been a spender; money goes in and mostly it stays. “Oh!” she said, studying the figures with approval in her eyes. Suddenly she frowned. “Oh,” she repeated, this time with worry. She punched an activation key with a determined jab. As quickly as she had soured, she brightened. “You disappeared. But I’ve got you back.” I smiled the smile of tolerance. Purdah was working. I made the trivial remark that information systems sometimes wear veils which make them mysterious. She looked up immodestly. “You mean as with a negligé?” and laughed at the imagery. This grandmother hadn’t abdicated life. Then she was all business again. “How much cash?” Unfazed by the amount, she began to count…and counted…and counted. One wad after another disappeared into my case. My trip wouldn’t be on credit. She gave me a final piece of wisdom: “Now don’t go gambling all that away. Promise?”
I promised.
Not until the bus gained speed out on the open road did I have peace to sort out that jumbled day. Partial thoughts, bits of dialogue, fragments of insight, cryptic remarks – too much had got piled up. And then there were the promises. So many were made I hadn’t kept count.
When Jaime walked away from me at dawn, she left with intent; she had a destination, her brother in Silicon Valley. As for me, I hadn’t the vaguest idea and told her I might rent a summer cottage. “Wherever you end up,” she had instructed, “when you get there, this is how to contact me.” She told me to find an Internet Café, any one would do, choose a computer and punch in an obscure web address. It would bring on a message that the web page didn’t exist. I was to wait one second, click the message closed, then try again. I was to do this four times. On the fourth time, Jaime said, a tracking system she would have running would be connected to that web page. It would allow her to determine exactly where I was. The next day I was then to go to that same café, to the identical computer, and access the same site again. The screen would then provide instructions for how we could send each other messages. “We’ll write them using numbers,” Jaime decreed. “We’ll use the classics, like in your scheme, but simplify it.” She went to my computer and printed out two copies of a few chapters from an on-line edition of Crime and Punishment. “You use the numbers of the letters as they appear beginning with chapter 2. When I write back I’ll use them beginning with chapter 3. It’s not perfect, but, hey, at least we’ll read the book. A deal? And don’t worry too much about Irv. I’ll bring him around.”
Why, I wanted to know, was she doing this for me? I had only ever treated her with contempt.
“It was you playing sourpuss all the time. Maybe you don’t know it, but you’ve got a perfect scowl. I figured, everyone else is all smiles all the time and they don’t mean it. So that says something about you.”
“And you?” I countered. “What does it say about you?” Jaime mock-scowled, a hilarious, crab-apple twisting of her face. Then she snapped a finger at me which seemed to say, You figure it out!
On the bus I thought of Jaime. Why had I promised her to go away and lie low? But beyond that, what caused me to promise her that from somewhere I would be in touch?
I also thought of Minding Merrick and Hugh-S. We talk sometimes. And why that ambiguous remark about something ending up in my boat? Texts in Chinese fortune cookies are like that. Then too there was the reference to Irving Heywood. And of all things, why the purdah offer by Hugh-S?
I let all these things drift back and forth and into and out of my thoughts. A promise to Jaime to be in touch. A promise to Merrick to report on my catch. A promise to Hugh-S to indicate where I’d be. Effectively the promises were all the same – that I wouldn’t permanently drop out of sight. Was there a common threat? Were Jaime, Merrick and Hugh-S somehow linked? Was Jaime part of something larger than I had imagined? There were no clues. Or was that the clue? Something to puzzle out. Of course, the way that day developed further, they lacked a few clues too. Not one of them knew I was on a bus, that I was speeding south, and that, like Jaime and Silicon Valley, I now had a destination too. Mind games. The more I delved into them, the more they tantalised me.
Mostly though, as the bus transported me away, I thought about Anne-Marie and through her of Rachel. She needs someone she trusts to be near. Anne-Marie had voiced this opinion while sipping from her mug. My reply was that surely, that ruled me out. Why would she trust me after I had failed her so badly in Berlin? Anne-Marie scoffed at this. “You’re a fast learner, Carson. Becoming Rachel’s confidant, you’ll pick it up.”
I tried to imagine going to Rachel and being with her. Yet I wavered. Anne-Marie waited. Intermittently she nodded encouragement, then finally she said: Do it, Carson. Just do it.
The thought of seeing Rachel stirred me. I mumbled, “I…uh…I thought…I might go on a vacation.”
It was all Anne-Marie needed. “Where?”
“Not sure.”
“Why?”
“I need a break.”
“When?”
“Soon…maybe today.”
For Anne-Marie this brought closure. “Why didn’t you say so earlier? Problem solved. Spend your vacation with Rachel.”
It was so quick and easy that it bewildered me. Right away I tried to worm out of it. In vain. Each protest I made was weaker than the one before, while Anne-Marie’s rejections became steadily more resolute. I tried one last objection, but it withered on my tongue. “Where is she?” I asked at last. “The postcard said you would know. Vienna, I suppose.”
“Oh no. Not Vienna. Turrialba. Ever heard of it?”
19 CHAPTER NINETEEN
Jaime insisting that I evade Heywood, pressure from Anne-Marie to search out Rachel – the force of the confluence overwhelmed me, carried me away, immersed me in a state I almost always shunned: I turned traveller. But not your standard type. Not some waxwork frozen in time in the glacial airport queues. Purdah or not, I didn’t want my progress registered. I intended to stay off the radar screens, to leave no trace, not of where I was going, nor where I had been. Something had caused Rachel’s life to rupture and I feared somewhere out there were certain twisted Heywood types who could use me to locate her.
Once on the run, I had time to dwell on Rachel’s postcard. If Anne-Marie was right, if Rachel was driven by fear, what could be the cause? Her work in Bucharest – the daily hand-holding of visitors, the too-thin-spreading-of-self over the bland social functions – had been routine. And the pattern of her visits to Alexandria had been steady. Nothing stood out there. Had Anne-Marie and I missed something? Beyond the words in the postcard, had Rachel sent a subtler signal?
I also thought about the way Rachel disappeared, how she was managing to stay off radar screens. Neither I nor Jaime could find a thing on her. Had she taken on deep cover? If so, how? With whose help? And what about the timing? Was it a coincidence that pressure to disappear hit us both nearly at the same time? Had my attention to her – and through her to the Junker and the Caliph – so easily detected by Jaime
– been picked up elsewhere too? Had the effect of my blundering rippled out and somehow caught up with her? Foreboding throttled my breath when I thought I was the one who put Rachel in danger.
I wondered too what real chance there was that we would rendezvous. In an unheard of place called Turrialba? But suppose we did. Would I have the courage to take her back through the years? Would she be prepared to listen to a story of duplicity, of a friendship betrayed? Would she condemn me, send me packing? Or, could there be a miraculous turning back of the clock? Could the innocence of the early years, the easy, impromptu chatting in the hallways, always so companionable, so filled with pleasantries, be regained? I also thought back to the long, laid-back night with Jaime when I had revealed all this. It had been like a dress rehearsal for opening up, for honesty, for building trust. How odd, I thought, as I set out to search for Rachel, that it was the night with Jaime which now gave me strength.
Of course, I was inept at it, I mean the travelling. I groped my way forward as if blindfolded. The route to Turrialba became complicated. I lost track of the back-road busses I took and stopped counting the leaky tubs with me on board chugging across West Indian waters.
The first stage of a zigzag route south took me across the St. Clair River into the US. The monotony of the days must have anaesthetised that border crossing long ago, for scarcely anyone took notice of my presence on the 9:00 p.m. bus. A flashlight briefly illuminated my ID. “Going where, dearie?” the uniformed woman asked.
“Major league baseball,” I mumbled. “I’m a fan. Travelling around to take in some games.”
The lightbeam fell on me. “Like my husband, huh? Ape mad about the Texas Rangers. Always driving down. Well, fellah, catch yourself a foul ball.” She moved on deeper into the bus.
In Flint, Michigan, I slept on a bench in the terminal. Mental numbness next morning caused me to get on a departure for Chicago instead of Detroit. I discovered this just before Michigan City and promptly jumped out. A string of short-haul, local busses delivered me to Indianapolis. From there, on day three, it was south and east through Kentucky into Tennessee.
Borderless Deceit Page 33
