What? Why me?
Because you let it happen. You didn’t report it when the laptop was stolen.
You told me not to!
I know. I’m sorry. I was wrong. But it’s too late to worry about that now. I’m going to take you to Towse.
She sneaked to the back of the room, picked up his empty laptop bag, went over to the bookcase.
But Towse is the government. He knows I’m innocent. He’ll sort this out.
She swept the remaining books into the bag, stuffed his jacket in after them, talking over her shoulder.
Towse is in the same boat, Michael. He gave you that computer so we could hunt the mole, but now the mole has turned the tables and they’re hunting us. This isn’t just a massive data breach, it’s also a black op. Someone is taking Towse out.
You mean, the mole at Inscape?
For Christ’s sake, Michael! Of course I mean the mole at Inscape! In five minutes you’re going to have people – not the FBI, not the NSA, but people you’ve never heard of, and who aren’t ever going to tell you who they are – coming in through your windows and doors. You want to wait for them, or you want to come with me? . . . Wait! Listen!
She looked stricken.
They heard a car drive slowly past the house, reach the end of the street, stop.
That’s another one, Michael. One parked across the road, now another one taking up position down the street. If we wait any longer, they’ll have staked out the alley behind the house. That’s our only way out now. We have to go.
This is crazy!
You can stay, if you want, but I wouldn’t advise it. You’re a foreigner here. You don’t have any rights.
I’m Canadian!
So what? You look Middle Eastern, Michael. For people like them, that’s not a good look.
Crouching, she made her way to the screen door, opened it a crack and looked into the yard.
I don’t see anyone out back. Last chance, Michael. Come with me and meet Towse. He’ll figure a way out of this. It’s what he does.
Michael turned, cracked the window blind. The white Suburban sat on the corner, the sun gleaming in the black visor of its windshield. You can see all kinds of horrors in a blank gaze like that. It was this that decided him.
Hold on. I’ll pack my stuff.
You don’t have any stuff, Michael. And we don’t have time.
She grabbed his hand, opened the back door and yanked him outside.
The day was warm, the sun shining. Here and there, along the street and across the back alley, people were mowing better-off people’s lawns. The houses here were too new to have trees in their backyards. There was no birdsong, and the high timber fence looked blank and forbidding. The yard felt like a cell with no roof.
She had Michael by the hand, but he was a drag on her, in shock. She let go of his hand and punched his shoulder.
Snap out of it, Michael.
Where can we go? I don’t even have a passport. It was stolen with my wallet.
Passports won’t help us now, Michael.
They reached the back gate, bolted and locked.
Listen, Michael. I don’t have time to pick this lock, so I’m going to give you a boost, and then follow you over the fence. That means you go first. OK? If there’s anyone waiting out there, put your hands up and tell them not to shoot.
What?
Come on. Let’s do this.
When he still didn’t move she thumped him in the back.
Come on, Michael!
She cupped her ear.
Oh Jesus! Did you hear that? Someone’s banging at the front door!
He came to life, jumped, and grabbed the top of the fence, feet scrambling uselessly on the anti-climb paint. She put her shoulder under his backside and shoved up with all her strength. The fence shook, and he was down the other side, landing with a grunt.
She hung his bag around her shoulders, leaped up, grabbed the top of the fence and pulled herself astride it. Pausing to glance up and down the empty alley, she dropped lightly to the ground, landing where Michael was sprawled in the dirt.
These are yours, she said, dropping the books by his head. You carry them.
You brought them.
We’re going to need them, just to pass the time. We’ve got a lot of travelling to do. And there’s no more phones for us. Pick up the books and let’s go.
She heard him panting after her.
Where are we going? There’re only two roads in and out of this subdivision. Won’t they have them both watched?
There are older ways than roads.
The alley, paved with cinders and weeds, led to a gap of blue sky. Reaching the end, Aoife flattened herself against the fence, peeked around the corner.
It’s good. Let’s go.
The alley had brought them to an unexpected wilderness, a shallow creek, its banks shaded by alders and willows and sycamore. It trickled through stones in long, gentle curves. Butterflies flirted with wildflowers. Midges danced over the stream.
I didn’t know this was here, said Michael, impressed. How did you know about it?
The street map. The creek isn’t marked, but I knew it was here from the contours. Drainage never lies.
She stepped into the creek bed and splashed downstream, ankle deep in the water. Michael followed her. The banks rose steeply and the trees drew in on either side, screening the creek from the sun. Up ahead, she was almost invisible, the dappled pattern of her uniform blending with the leaves. Michael lost sight of her in the gloom, and bumped into her when she stopped.
Traffic roared past, somewhere close overhead. A concrete culvert, closed by a steel grill, fed the living creek into a storm drain. A gash of bare earth climbed through the bushes, up to a roadside, fifteen feet above. Ann grabbed two handfuls of dry grass, using it to pull herself up from the creek bed.
There should be a bus stop just here, she said.
She reached into her pocket, threw something to him.
Catch.
He didn’t. The little cylinder bounced off his palm and into the creek. He fished it out. It was a roll of quarters wrapped in cardboard, already coming apart from the wet.
When the bus comes, she said, you act like you don’t know me. Follow me on to it, and follow me off. Nine of those quarters will pay your first bus fare. Keep the rest of them handy. We’ll be taking a lot of buses today.
The last of many buses that day dropped them at a Walmart on the edge of Fairfield, California. It was dusk, and they’d been travelling for hours, taking the long way round San Francisco Bay. At the door of the store, Aoife turned and waited for Michael. It seemed that they knew each other again.
Go buy us some snacks, she said. I’m going to call Towse on his burner. He said there should be payphones by those washrooms over there.
When he rejoined her she was done with the phone call.
Towse is sending a car for us. No more buses tonight.
They sat at the far edge of the parking lot, the overflow, where nobody parked, eating potato chips and chocolate, drinking bottled water. The Walmart was built on the edge of the city, nothing east of it but grasslands and the gathering night. The sun, setting behind the Walmart, shone on white crosses in the gloom: a wind farm, becalmed. To the south, there was a line of low hills, wetlands, swamp grass – the northernmost marshes of San Francisco Bay.
The last rays, horizontal, found the Sierra Nevada, a hundred miles to the east, peaks pink with snow.
There was something else too, low in the sky – a bright light, like a star, off to the north. Michael pointed.
What’s that?
She watched it grow brighter. There was noise in the sky, echoing off the hills west of Fairfield: the deep moan of jet engines, set for descent. The star became larger, lower, and a shape appeared behind it, an ele
phantine grey tube with beady black eyes and fat, drooping wings. It sank behind a swell in the ground.
That must be an airport over there, said Michael, watching. Look, there’s another one coming in to land behind it.
Aoife took her beret from a thigh pocket and pulled at the hatband, front and back, to get it in shape. She put it on her head, adjusted the angle, stood.
Michael, can you pass me that bag?
He handed it up to her, still watching the sky.
Thanks . . . Can you give me your hand?
What?
I said, can you give me your hand, Michael?
Why do you want my hand?
Because of that.
She was looking at something behind him. He turned to look
too. An SUV drove slowly towards them, its headlights on high
beam.
Michael raised a hand to shield his eyes. It was another white Chevrolet Suburban, but this one had lights on the roof. The lights were flashing.
Oh God, Michael said.
Aoife took his free hand and squeezed it. He squeezed back. A bracelet locked round his wrist.
She yanked on her end of the handcuffs, experimenting, and nearly pulled him off his feet.
You’re under arrest, she told him. I’m escorting you to a military prison. Keep your mouth shut, and do as I say.
The military-police truck pulled up outside a long, low building with a sign that said Travis Passenger Terminal. An Air Force officer waited by the glass doors. Aoife saluted him.
Good evening, Major. Thanks for sending your people to give us a ride.
Anything to help, Lieutenant. Colonel Towse said your own transport broke down.
He looked at Michael.
Have you got his documents?
She handed over a sheaf of papers. The major read them, looked at Michael again.
Bring him inside.
Beyond the sliding doors was a small but modern passenger terminal – a waiting area and luggage carousel, with doors leading off it to various boarding gates. A monitor showed flight numbers and the names of Air Force bases. There was also a cafe, the Pacific Gateway Grill, closed for the night.
The major took Michael’s papers to a Formica counter marked Passenger Check-In, Space Available.
Priority one, he told the two airmen behind it. Get this creep off our base as soon as you can.
They looked at the papers, then at Michael.
A dozen bored passengers, dressed in civilian clothes, were slumped in plastic chairs near the counter. They watched as Aoife led her prisoner to the corner of the room. He was coming out of his stupor.
I need to go to the bathroom, he said.
It was the first time he’d spoken since the betrayal in the parking lot.
Shut up and sit down.
She took out a book. She was reading Le Guin now, The Dispossessed.
Michael looked around the waiting room. The other passengers had already forgotten him. They were staring at smartphones and magazines, or numbly at the floor between their feet. He looked at the departures board. The names and the numbers meant nothing to him.
I really need the bathroom.
Keep your voice down . . . You can go on the plane.
Can’t I at least have a book to read?
No.
Why not?
Because we’re handcuffed together, and it would annoy me whenever you turned the page.
If you don’t let me go to the bathroom, or give me something to read, I’ll start screaming.
She put her book down, closed her eyes, opened them again.
OK, she said. I’ll cuff your hands in front of you, and those airmen over there – she nodded towards the counter – will escort you to the little boys’ room. OK?
Sounds good to me.
The only problem is, those men have seen your warrant.
What do you mean?
I’m not sure I’d want them taking me alone into a bathroom. Particularly with my hands cuffed.
What does it say on the warrant, Ann?
It says you’re an Air Force deserter. And also, a nonce.
A what?
Christ. Doesn’t anyone over here speak English? . . . A paedophile. You molested some Air Force brats on your base, and when their parents found out, you deserted. You’re wanted back east for your sex crimes.
No I’m not!
That’s what it says on your warrant.
He looked at the men behind the counter. They stared back at him, dead-eyed.
I think I’ll hold it until we’re on the plane.
That would be best.
He sat quietly for a while, thinking it over. She tried to get back to her reading, but couldn’t focus on the words. She was waiting for the penny to drop.
This arrest, he said finally. It’s not because of the hacking at Inscape, is it?
She put her book down.
Of course not. It’s about getting us on a plane out of California, in a hurry, without going through biometrics or TSA checks, or showing ID, or having to use bank cards. It was Towse’s idea.
Where are we going?
New Jersey.
Why?
Towse will tell us when we get there.
Where is he now?
When I phoned him earlier he was in the officer’s club. It sounded pretty raucous. He seems to have made friends here.
Is he really a colonel?
They seem to think so.
Right . . . What is this place, anyway?
Travis Air Force Base. This is the Space Availability terminal.
She picked her book up again.
Space Availability?
She put the book down.
Space A: serving and retired US military can hitch free rides on Air Force transport, provided there is space available on the flight. They can only go standby, but it doesn’t cost money, and it flies all over the world. The important thing, for us, is Air Force terminals don’t have facial-recognition technology or TSA guards or homeland security. Airports do. That’s why we’re here.
A speaker announced the much-delayed departure of the flight to Pearl Harbor–Hickam. Eighteen seats were available. All passengers would fly, whatever their priority. The other passengers cheered, got up, dragged their baggage with them. Only Aoife and Michael were left in the waiting room. Five minutes later, one of the airmen came for them. They followed him through the terminal, past the carousel, out through a door and on to the apron. The other passengers had formed a line out there, at the steps of a massive grey jet – the same one Michael and Aoife had seen from the Walmart. Michael started towards it. The cuffs brought him up short.
Not that one, said the airman.
He pointed further along the apron, to where a smaller aircraft sat by itself.
Sorry, Lieutenant. But all we’ve got going east is this Charlie One Thirty. It’s not configured for passengers. It’ll be a long night.
The cargo ramp yawned for them like the jaw of a whale. The plane’s loadmaster, a technical sergeant in flight suit and headphones, watched from the top. From the way she looked at Michael, she had heard about his crimes.
The cargo bay was a cave of green quilted nylon, the deck studded with rollers to ease loading of freight. Someone lay wrapped in a blanket at the front of the cabin, on one of the webbed plastic benches that ran down each side. Whoever they were, they were stinking of whiskey.
The loadmaster closed the ramp, led Aoife and Michael to the bench opposite the sleeper.
Sit here, please.
She picked up a baton, pointed it at Michael.
He has to stay cuffed for the duration, sir, in case he goes nuts, or tries to molest someone.
I really need the washroom, he pleaded. Badly.
Yeah? I’d let you pee yourself, but it would soil my nice clean aircraft . . . There’s a urinal back there, by the ramp. But if you try any of your sick crap on my plane, pal, you’ll fly the rest of the way hog-tied, face down on the cold steel deck. You understand me?
He nodded, unable to speak. The loadmaster stood back, glaring, while Ann unlocked the handcuffs from her wrist. The loadmaster pointed to a rudimentary urinal, behind a green canvas screen at the rear of the plane. She stood a few feet away, slapping her palm with the baton, while he tried to relieve himself. It took him a while.
Done, he washed his hands with alcohol gel. She followed him back to the bench, reattached the free bracelet of the handcuffs to the steel tube, then went up the ladder that led to the flight deck.
Towse sat up and winked at them.
Hello, people, he said.
Michael tested his handcuff.
Why are you doing this to me, Towse?
This is the only way to fly out of California without leaving a trail. We don’t have time to drive.
I meant, why did you have to make me a sex offender? These people really want to hurt me.
Because no one wants to talk to a sex offender. And if there is any talking, I want Ann to be doing it.
She had settled on the bench a few feet from Michael.
Here. You’re going to need these.
She tossed him a small plastic box. One handed, he failed to catch it. She unclipped her seat belt, picked up the box and handed it to him.
Earplugs, she said. These planes are very loud.
She watched as he screwed a foam plug into one ear, then tried to insert the other. But his cuffed hand couldn’t reach his ear on that side, and he fumbled the plug on to the deck. It rolled out of reach.
Here, she said, let me.
She inserted the ear plug with a surprisingly light touch.
There, she said. Can you hear me?
Not very well.
Good. Now leave me alone.
Part Two:
Vineland
Aoife grew up on a small stud farm near Kildare Town in the midlands of Ireland. Her parents, who came from the South Dublin merchant class, loved the country and its wildlife, but its people, not so much. They would have sent Aoife to boarding school in Dublin, but their horses never made money, so they couldn’t pay school fees for both of their children. Her older brother was sent to the Jesuits at Clongowes, but Aoife had to go to the convent in the town. Her parents never really forgave her for the loss of caste she had suffered because of her free education, and tried to compensate by preventing her from having close friends; they were worried she might pick up the Kildare accent.
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