her and she thrust that aside, not because it was unthinkable but because it was dangerous and the last thing she could risk was any more danger than she already knew she faced.
Alice carried her coffee from the kitchen to her office to get the telephone number of the FBI’s Manhattan field office on Broadway’s Federal Plaza from the telephone directory and used a street map to trace a zig-zag route back and forth across the city. She was unsure whether it would be quicker – better to keep her on schedule – to use the subway rather than risk buses on gridlocked streets, and decided she had an easy choice of alternatives if above ground proved more difficult than below. It might, actually, make sense to dodge up and down. They knew she’d hacked from Manhattan. Were looking for her here. They knew her name was Alice. So did the over-friendly manager of the cybercafe, who might have got her number from the call-back service even if he hadn’t used it yet. But who would volunteer it soon enough – scream it over and over again – under whatever torture he was subjected to. She couldn’t wait until the protection programme to disappear. She had to do it now. That realization prompted another, which she at once recognized was going to tighten up her schedule because she’d decided she had to be back in Princes Street by eleven thirty that morning, but it was a precaution she most definitely had to take. She was pleased it had occurred to her now, in time, and not as an afterthought when it might have been too late. She checked her balance and calculated that even leaving sufficient for her regular payments to be met she had slightly over $17,000 if she withdrew from her savings as well as her checking account. Her branch was downtown, which would increase the dangerous, unnecessary temptation. Once more she put it to one side.
Alice sat for a long time upon her remade bed, knowing she had to make herself invisible as, according to John, the quiet-talking Stanley Burcher made himself invisible. She chose scuffed gym shoes, jeans, a white T-shirt and a kagoul with an all-encompassing hood. She posed in front of the closet mirror – raising and lowering the hood several times – to satisfy herself that with it raised she became a wallpaper person. She finished the effect with dark glasses and was even more satisfied. She decided the necessary satchel completed the impression of an indeterminately aged student.
It was only when she was actually inside the elevator, reaching out for the button, that she corrected herself, switching from ground to basement level, to use the janitor’s stairs and the delivery entrance to emerge not directly on to Princes Street but into the side alley which connected with the service lane to Greene Street. She walked with the hood up, head bowed, dark glasses in place but unhurriedly because she’d read somewhere that in observation surveillance a hurrying person attracts more attention than one walking normally.
Alice had known she would do it, from the moment the idea first came to her. Like the proverbial moth to the proverbial flame she flitted through the downtown side streets until she reached that of the Space for Space cafe, only hesitating at the actual moment of emerging on to it. Then she did. Her immediate relief – absurd because she would have known from the publicity if it had been attacked – was that the cybercafe was still there and, from what she could see through the window, was as busy as ever. She couldn’t pick out the persistent Bill. Or anything – a parked vehicle, loitering people – to indicate the place was being watched. At once Alice, proud of believing that she totally knew herself and impatient with pretension, accepted that she was posturing. How could or would she know if the place was being watched! She had no special ability: no training. She moved past, forcing the normal pace instead of hurrying, which she was desperate to do, hunched inside the hooded concealment. It had been ridiculous, coming here! The very opposite of what she’d determined, not an hour earlier in Princes Street, that she had never to do. She turned at the first available intersection and took a circuitous route to get her back towards her bank.
She chose a desk assistant to make the withdrawal, relieved she’d anticipated the request for additional proof of identity and brought her passport. Which from now on, she decided, she needed permanently to carry.
‘That’s a lot of money, Ms Belling,’ said the man, as he counted it out.
‘Yes.’
‘Don’t you think a bearer cheque would be safer?’
‘It has to be cash.’
‘You be careful now.’
‘I intended to be,’ said Alice, a remark for her own benefit more than for the man.
The need occurred to her as she stacked the last of the money into her satchel. ‘And I need coin.’
‘Ma’am?’ frowned the desk assistant.
‘Nickels and quarters. Five dollars worth.’
‘Five dollars worth is a lot of coin.’
‘I’m on a tight schedule,’ urged Alice.
The man was back in minutes from the counter. ‘You sure about a cheque?’
‘Positive. And thank you.’
‘You be careful now.’
‘You already said.’
Alice crossed towards the river and then cut uptown, consciously passing three telephone pods, knowing she was delaying the moment of commitment from which she would not be able to withdraw. The satchel, which she wore strapped across her chest, was heavy and the coin made a pendulum in her purse, banging against her leg as she walked. The next telephone, she promised herself: she’d make the call from the very next telephone. Not put it off any longer. She saw the pod on the corner of 31st and Eighth, by the post office. And walked on by. She was being ridiculous, she told herself. And getting tired, with the city still to criss-cross. And it was already ten twenty. She was behind schedule: not a lot but behind. She’d definitely begin at the Port Authority bus terminal.
Alice found a closed booth and wedged herself in, relieved to squeeze out of the satchel, and counted some coin on to the ledge. She hesitated, breathing deeply to calm herself, but didn’t manage to, not in any way she could feel. She was hot and had the sensation of hearing her own heart beating: it sounded fast. Abruptly she pumped a quarter into the box, almost dropping it on her first attempt with sweat-greased fingers.
‘This is the Federal Bureau of Investigation.’
It was a woman, black, Alice guessed from the tone. ‘I want to speak to the agent-in-charge, please.’
‘Can I ask who’s calling?’
‘No. I want the agent-in-charge.’ Her voice was close to catching, at the end. Hearing the thump of her own heart was disorientating.
‘I’m not sure if he’s available right now. Can I ask what the subject matter is?’
Alice breathed in deeply again. ‘Organized crime. Murder. Money laundering.’
‘Can I ask you to hold on for a moment?’ said the woman, still flat-voiced. Before Alice could respond the line went dead.
A minute, Alice decided, able to see the station clock. That’s all she’d give them. She didn’t know how long it took to put a trace on a call but as computer canny as Alice was she guessed it wouldn’t be long – only minutes – with sophisticated electronics. And the FBI would surely have the latest sophisticated electronics. Thirty seconds had to have passed. Alice waited for the large hand to drop, easing down to pick up the satchel.
‘Ma’am?’ came a man’s voice.
‘Am I talking to the agent-in-charge?’
‘Can I ask who you are?’
‘I want the agent-in-charge. Someone in authority.’ Two minutes had to have gone by now.
‘My name’s Gene. Do you want to tell me yours?’
‘We’ll use Martha. Be ready for that name when I call back,’ demanded Alice and put the receiver down.
Alice boarded the first cross-town bus she came to, easing herself close to the door, not bothering to look for a seat. West Street seemed surprisingly empty, which was good. She eased the satchel between herself and the side of the bus, making it impossible to pick, checking her watch as she did so. Ten thirty. If she was going to keep to her eleven thirty downtown return to Princes Street, to be in more than good time for John’s call, she reckoned she had time for two more calls – three at the most – to Federal Plaza. She got off at the New York Public Library, stopped at the first street phone she came upon, with no hesitation this time.
‘Hello, Martha,’ greeted the voice of Gene. ‘What is it you’ve got to tell us?’
‘You aware of the funeral of George W. Northcote?’ Alice stood with her satchel protectively entwined between her feet, her wrist tilted to time herself, glad that unlike the station clock her sportsman’s watch had a calibrated sweeping second hand.
‘Hard not to be.’
‘Unknown by anyone else in the firm, he laundered huge amounts of money – billions for organized crime over
