Chapter Fifty-one

THE CROWD HAD started to arrive early, streaming into the largest auditorium on the campus of New York University. Frankly, I didn’t think the room would be big enough to hold them all. It was the first day of Ben Bradley’s long-planned symposium – the Davos Forum for investigators and the technicians who worked in the pit-lane on their behalf.

They came from twenty different countries – even a two-man delegation from the Bosnian police department who didn’t speak English but had convinced someone in authority that they should attend. By all accounts, they were having a whale of a time in New York and, over early-morning coffee, they communicated to Bradley their support for making it an annual event. They suggested holding the next one in Vegas.

After Bradley’s welcoming address, in which he recounted some of his own experiences on 9/11, including the plight of the guy in the wheelchair – conveniently omitting the part about how he had saved him – he was given a large round of applause. That was the cue for him to introduce a hitherto unknown colleague who had assisted Jude Garrett on so many of his investigations. In other words, I was on.

Thanks to Battleboi and the databases he had manipulated, I was now Peter Campbell again. When I had visited him in Old Japan to ask for help with the new identity, I asked if he could make the new identity convincing, given that we only had limited time.

He nodded. ‘We’ve got one huge advantage – people believe what they see in databases. They’ve never learned the most important rule of cyberspace – computers don’t lie, but liars can compute. ’

I laughed. ‘Is that why you’re so good – you’re a gold-plated liar? ’

‘In a way. I guess I believe in alternative realities. Look around, I live in one. I suppose they’re one big lie.

‘I’ve never said this to anyone, ’ he continued, ‘but in a fair fight I’m better than your buddies at the FBI or any of those secret-agency guys.

‘You see, to them, alternative realities or cyberspace is just a job. Because I’m big and unattractive, it’s different – I don’t like the real world much. ’ He indicated the racks of hard drives. ‘This is my life. ’

‘Funny, ’ I replied. ‘I’ve never thought of you as big or unattractive. I’ve always thought of you as Japanese. ’

I saw from his face how much it meant to him. ‘You’re probably right, though, ’ I continued, ‘about being the best. I’ll tell you this – if I ever got into a tight corner and needed computer help, you’d be the guy I’d call. ’

He laughed and finished his cup of tea. ‘You wanna start? ’

By the time I left, Peter Campbell was a graduate of the University of Chicago who went on to study medicine at Harvard and then spent years helping Garrett with his research. As I had planned earlier, Campbell was the one who had found the manuscript of Garrett’s remarkable book and, because I had access to his meticulously kept files, the publisher had asked me to edit it. As a result, I had an encyclopaedic knowledge of all his cases – I mean, it was almost as if I had investigated them myself.

So when, as Peter Campbell, I stood up in front of the congregation of my peers, I started nervously but quickly found my groove. I talked about Garrett’s reclusive nature, how I was one of the few friends he had had and the fact that, essentially, he lived a double life: while everyone knew he was an agent with the FBI, most of his work was for agencies in what I coyly termed the ‘intelligence sphere’.

I expanded on a number of those investigations – the ones featured prominently in the book – and when I thought I had caught their interest I opened the cases up to discussion and questions. The place exploded. I have to say I sort of began to enjoy it – it’s a weird thing to stand on a stage and hear your peers attack, analyse and praise you. A bit like reading your own obituary.

There was a woman in a turquoise shirt sitting at the front who led the charge – dissecting evidence, analysing motive and asking pointed questions. She had a good mind and an even more attractive face – hair with a natural kick, high cheekbones and eyes that always seemed close to laughter. At one point she said: ‘I noticed a few things he wrote in the text – I don’t think he liked women very much, did he? ’

Where did she get that idea? I was under the impression that I liked women very much. ‘To the contrary, ’ I told her. ‘Furthermore, when he did venture out, women seemed to find him extremely charming and – I don’t think I’m being indiscreet – very sexually attractive. ’

She barely blinked. ‘Charming, smart – and sexy? God, I would have liked to have met him! ’ she said, to a huge round of applause and cheering.

As I grinned at her I realized that all the months of reaching for normal might be achieving something, and I was attracted enough to hope that later in the day I might find the chance to talk to her and ask for her number.

In the meantime, I changed gear. I told them about a case which – were Jude alive – he probably would have found the most interesting of all. I told them about the day the Towers fell and the murder at the Eastside Inn.

‘Ben Bradley spoke earlier about the man in a wheelchair, ’ I said. ‘What he didn’t tell you was this – he was the one who led the group that carried the guy down. ’

There was a moment of shocked silence in the auditorium, then a rolling wave of applause for him. Ben and Marcie – she was sitting next to him – stared at me in surprise. Until then, they had no idea that I knew about Ben’s bravery, but I think they understood then why I had agreed to speak.

‘He didn’t find Jesus at all, ’ Marcie said to her husband, feigning surprise.

‘No, we should have realized he’d learn the truth – he’s a damn investigator, ’ Bradley said, berating himself, getting to his feet to acknowledge the crowd.

When the clapping stopped, I continued. ‘But that was a day full of remarkable events. Ben’s was just one of them. Earlier in the morning, a young woman was running late for work. As she approached the Towers she saw the first plane hit and realized that – as far as the world was concerned – she was already at her desk, as good as dead. ’

For the second time in less than a minute Bradley was taken aback. I had never shared my theory with him, and he raised his hands, as if to say, Where the hell is this going?

So I told him – and the crowd. ‘You see, the woman whose tardiness had just saved her life wants to kill somebody, and now she’s got the perfect alibi: she’s dead.

‘So she walks through the chaos and fear until she finds a place where she can live off the grid and nobody will find her. It’s called the Eastside Inn.

‘Whenever she goes out, she disguises herself and, on one of those trips, she borrows a textbook – probably the definitive work on how to kill somebody and how to get away with it. We all know the book – it was Jude Garrett’s. ’

That caused a stir, a sharp intake of breath among the delegates. Bradley caught my eye and clapped silently – yeah, he was saying, it was pretty damn good.

‘She invites a woman – young, probably attractive – to the Eastside Inn, ’ I said.

‘A little drugs, a little sex. Then she kills her date – exactly by the book, so to speak, and disappears.

‘When the NYPD arrive they find a victim with no face, no fingerprints and no teeth. So that is what they’ve got – a victim nobody can identify and a killer nobody suspects because she’s dead. Why the murder? Who are these people? Where’s the motive? What does it mean? ’

I paused and looked around. People were shaking their heads in quiet admiration for the crime. ‘Yes, ’ I said. ‘You’re right – impressive. Jude had a name for ones like this. He called ’em the mind-fuckers. ’

People laughed, and the comments and ideas started slowly but quickly avalanched. By then, however, I was barely listening – I had seen three men enter at the back of the hall and sit silently in the last row.

For that reason, when the attractive woman in the turquoise shirt came up with a brilliant idea, I barely registered it. Although I recalled what she had said weeks later, I still cursed myself for not paying attention to it at the time.

The only thing I could plead in my defence was that I knew the secret world and I knew what the men at the back were doing there. They had come for me.

Part Three