I returned to my apartment the same way I'd left it. The El Salvadoran kid was slumped by the Dumpster, asleep or dead. I held a finger under his nostril until I felt him breathe. God knows what he'd been given to desert his post across the street, but he seemed to have swallowed it or smoked it or snorted it all at once. Next door, inside the Dumpster, the rats were jammin'.
The basement was quiet. So were my three rooms. I looked for signs that someone had tossed the place while I was away but found none.
"Per normal," I said to no one in particular. "I've got no idea what I'm doing."
I sorted through the yellow pages, found a number for Air France, and called to book passage to Paris: Flight 19 out of Newark at 7:45 the next evening. I'd take Amtrak up. I was about to book all the way to Zurich but changed my mind. Why make it easy on them? I'd make the last leg from °aris to Zurich by train.
Did I want to travel light or take part of my previous life with me? It took all of a minute to decide. I grabbed a steak knife, slit the couch across the back, reached in and removed two stolen passports along with twenty thousand dollars American and another three thousand in mixed pounds, francs, and marks. I'd bought the passports-Irish and German-in Macau from pickpockets. A tech friend had substituted my picture for the owners' and put in U.S. entry stamps. I was sure I'd be just fine with my own passport in my own name, but hauling along the stolen passports couldn't hurt. It was sort of like taking two credit cards on a date so you're not embarrassed if one's rejected. In omnia paratus-prepared in all things, a motto for Boy Scouts and ex-CIA officers on the lam.
Out in the hallway, the utility room door was still ajar. I slipped inside, retrieved the alligator clips from the top of the interface terminal, and again availed myself of the menage a trois's line to dial a number on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. I didn't care who knew I was heading for Europe, but I wasn't about to burn an asset. I had this feeling I'd be needing every one of them.
"O'Neill." The voice was full of sandpaper. He'd been pulled from a deep sleep.
"John, it's me. Max. Waller."
"What the-"
"Meet me at Newark Airport tomorrow at five p.m. The Air France counter."
"Why?"
"Just do."
I undipped the wires, relocked the door this time, and went back to my apartment. I had enough bottles and cans in my recycle bin to build a three-foot tower just inside the door. All the windows were barred against the practical reality of living on the ground floor in the inner city. My pants were dry enough to sleep in. I slid the passports and money in my jacket pocket and curled up under the blankets. For good measure, I kept the steak knife with me under the pillow. I would have slept better with a mini Uzi at my side, but it was field expediency all the way.
As I lay there listening to the night noises-each muffler pop sounding
like a small explosive, each noise on the street like bangers closing in- the one thing that kept rolling through my mind was this: Do I take the Peshawar photo with me, or do I destroy it and give up the score-keeping like Frank told me to do? The answer seemed obvious. Destroying it would lift a rock off me. It would give me part of my life back. I also knew that if I did destroy it, the part of my life that kept me going would be missing.
I got up in the dark in case anyone was keeping watch, made it to the kitchen in a low crouch, and felt behind the refrigerator until I found the envelope I'd taped there. Inside was the photo. I folded it carefully into fourths and put it in my pocket next to the passports. Now I could sleep.