Chapter Twelve

THE AMERICAN AIRLINES flight arrived in new york early in the morning – towers of dark clouds hiding the city, rain and wild winds buffeting us all the way down. Two hours outward bound from Paris, the FASTEN SEATBELT sign had come on and, after that, conditions had deteriorated so rapidly that all in-flight service had been suspended. No food, no booze, no sleep. Things could only get better, I reasoned.

I was travelling on a perfect copy of a Canadian diplomatic book which not only explained my seat in First Class but allowed me to avoid any questions from US Immigration. They processed me without delay, I retrieved my luggage and stepped out into the pouring rain. I was home, but I found less comfort in it than I had anticipated. I’d been away so long, it was a country I barely knew.

Eighteen hours had passed since I had left the Bradleys at the Plaza Athé né e. Once I realized my cover had been blown I knew what I had to do: the training was unambiguous – run, take shelter wherever you can, try to regroup and then write your will. Maybe not the last part, but that was the tone in which a blown cover was always discussed.

I figured America was my best chance. Not only would it be harder for an enemy to find me among millions of my own, but I knew if I was ever going to be safe I had to erase the fingerprints I had left behind, making it impossible for others to follow the path Ben and Marcie had pioneered.

I had covered the distance between the Plaza Athé né e and my apartment in six minutes and, as soon as I walked in, I started to call the airlines. By luck, there was one seat left in First Class on the earliest flight out.

It is strange how the unconscious mind works, though. In the ensuing chaos of grabbing clothes, settling bills and packing my bags, the two letters from Bill and Grace Murdoch’s lawyer suddenly floated into my thoughts for no apparent reason. I rummaged through a file of old correspondence, threw them into my carry-on and turned to the only issue which remained: the contents of the safe.

It was impossible to take the three handguns, a hundred thousand dollars in different currencies and eight passports with me, not even in my checked luggage. If the metal detectors or X-rays picked it up – even as an alleged diplomat – I would come under intense scrutiny. Once they discovered it was a fake book, as they surely would, I would have weeks of explaining to do – first about my real identity and then about the other items. All guns, false passports and contact books were supposed to have been surrendered when I left The Division.

Instead I slit open a seam of my mattress, removed some of the filling and taped the tools of my trade inside. Once I was in America, I would call Franç ois, the snivelling concierge, and have him arrange for a moving company to transport all my furniture back home. With everything secure, I glued the seam closed, refitted the mattress cover and called a cab to take me to Charles de Gaulle.

Ten hours later I was standing in the rain at Kennedy, telling another cab to head for midtown. On the way I called the Four Seasons, one of those hotels where sheer size guarantees anonymity, and booked a room.

After three days of traipsing between realtors I rented a small loft in NoHo. It wasn’t much but it caught the morning light and, on my first day living there, I found the letters from the lawyer and called to make an appointment.

We sat in his expansive office in the late afternoon, looking all the way up Central Park, and what he had described as a small matter concerning Bill’s estate managed to change my life for ever.

For several days afterwards I walked the city late into the night, turning the matter over and over in my head, trying – as a psychologist would say – to internalize it. I let my feet carry me wherever they chose, passing crowded bars and restaurants, skirting the long lines outside the hippest clubs and latest movies. Finally, footsore and painfully aware of how little experience I had of what people call a normal life, I began to accept what the lawyer had told me. Only then did I turn to the problem of fingerprints.

My first call was to an FBI supervisor – the woman to whom I had handed over The Division’s European files when the agency was closed down. She contacted one of her deputy directors, whispered that I had once been the Rider of the Blue, and I sat down with him a day later in a shabby conference room in a bland downtown tower.

After I had asked to speak to him alone and his two aides had closed the door behind them, I explained that Scott Murdoch’s social security number had been eliminated and the danger that presented to me. It took him a moment to master his incredulity but, once he had finished cursing whoever was responsible, he made a phone call and set about having the number restored.

‘I’ll flag it – I’ll make sure if anybody ever inquires about the number, you’ll be warned, ’ he said. ‘What else? ’

‘Someone to go in and alter computer databases. There’s a lot of information about me – or the aliases I have used – which has to be lost. ’

‘Government or private computers? ’ he asked.

‘Both, ’ I said. ‘Everything from the records of an alumni association at a school called Caulfield Academy through to scores of announcements in the Federal Register. ’

‘No hope, ’ the deputy director said. ‘Databases are stripper rules – the Supreme Court says we can look but we can’t touch. It’d be illegal for me even to point you towards somebody who could help. ’

I pressured him, telling him about the years I’d served my country, explaining why I needed him to break the rules.

He nodded thoughtfully, then something seemed to tip him over the edge and he started ranting. ‘Break the rules? You’re asking me to get involved in computer hacking – any idea how much that costs the community? This isn’t geeks, that was years ago – cyberspace is ram-raiders now. Smash into a site, ignore the damage, steal anything of value—’

I was stunned – I didn’t care about the Supreme Court or modern developments in cybercrime, I just wanted to clean up my past. I figured I must have touched a nerve, but that wasn’t going to help me get to safety.

He was on a roll, though, and he wasn’t stopping. ‘There’s a level even higher than the rammers, ’ he continued. ‘Call ’em cat burglars – they get in, copy everything and nobody knows they’ve been there. They’re the brilliant ones. Had one guy, stole fifteen million mortgage files. Fifteen million! Each one included someone’s creditcard details, social security number, bank account, home address. Know what he was gonna do with ’em? ’

‘Identity theft? ’ I said, no idea why we were still talking about this.

‘Of course. But he wasn’t going to use it himself – oh no, that was too much like hard work. He was going to sell ’em to the Russian mafia. A buck each for the first million, he told us, just to get ’em in. Then he was gonna ride the up-elevator until he got ten bucks a file. Figured he’d make a hundred million. For sitting in front of a screen.

‘You know how much the average bank robber gets? ’ he asked, leaning over the table. ‘Nine thousand bucks and maybe a bullet. Who do you think found the right business plan? ’

I shrugged. I really didn’t care.

‘The guy is twenty-three, probably the best in the world. ’

‘How long did he go down for? ’ I asked, trying to show some interest.

‘Not decided. Maybe zip; depends if he keeps cooperating and helps nail the samurai crackers that are doing equally bad stuff. Battleboi was his online handle, so that’s what we call him. ’

‘Battleboy? ’ I said, not certain I’d heard right.

‘Yeah, with an “i”. Hispanic fucker. Grew up in Miami but lives nearby now, just off Canal Street, above Walgreens. ’

He looked at me and our eyes met. The scales fell away and I realized why he had been telling the story.

‘Anyway, enough about my problems – I have to stop before I say something illegal, ’ he said. ‘Anything else I can do? ’

‘Nothing – you’ve done more than enough. Thank you, ’ I said warmly.

He got up and started to lead the way out. Pausing at the door, he turned to face me: ‘I’m glad I could help with the social security problem. I know your reputation – a lot of us do – and it’s been an honour, a real honour, to meet the Rider of the Blue. ’

He said it with such admiration, his handshake strong enough to turn coal to diamonds, it took me aback. He and his aides watched in silence, with respect I suppose you could call it, as I walked towards the elevator. Flattered as I was, I couldn’t help thinking of how a man gets burnt out long before his reputation.

Once outside, I got a cab and rode across town, looking out at the passing faces. With the shadows lengthening into night, I once again had a strange feeling of detachment, of being a stranger in my own land. I knew if a person kept travelling down that road they ended up dying to the world – you see them sitting on park benches, in reading rooms at public libraries, alone at railroad stations. Some future, I thought. But there was nothing I could do: the caravan rolls on, the dogs keep barking and it was imperative that I buried my past.

The cab stopped in front of Walgreens; I walked the length of the building and found a doorway tucked into the wall. There was only one intercom and the few words next to it were in Japanese. Great.

Wondering if somehow I had misunderstood the FBI guy, I pressed it anyway.