‘You should find a better class of person for your associates,’ Fagin said. ‘And, really, you needn’t turn into a bully.’
‘Tell me, hacker man,’ I said. ‘Have you ever heard of a hacker in Las Vegas named Leonie?’
‘Leonie, growl, I like kitty-kat-style names,’ Fagin said.
‘Just answer.’
‘No. But you know, online, we don’t use our real names.’ He widened his eyes. ‘Shocking, I know.’
‘She’s a relocator for people who want to vanish. She deals with hackers around the world to get information or to help her create new identities.’
‘She’s not a hacker, then, she’s an information broker. Hires hackers to do a bit of a job for her, then uses someone else. That way you never know exactly what it is she’s working on or who it is she’s working for.’
‘You know anything about her?’ I showed him the picture of her I’d taken on my phone when she slept.
‘You bored her into a sense of complacency to get this picture, right?’
‘Have you seen her before?’
‘No. But isn’t she the pretty one?’
‘You ever hear of a woman named Anna Tremaine?’
He considered, and shook his head.
‘How about Novem Soles?’
‘Sounds like a Catholic retreat.’
‘It means Nine Suns in Latin. You ever hear of a group with that name?’
‘No.’
I got up. ‘Thanks for what you could give me, Fagin.’
‘I can give you one more thing. Good luck, Sam, on finding your kid.’
I must have let my surprise show.
‘What, I can’t wish you luck?’
‘Just keep your mouth shut, Fagin, about me being here.’
‘I don’t stand between kids and their parents, man. By the time the kids come to me the parents have already shoved them away.’
Fagin watched Sam leave. Then he reached for a phone. Sam Capra could make all the threats he wanted, but he did not pay the bills.
Fagin reported the discussion, and then he hung up to go see if the Oliver Twists were done laying their electronic mousetraps inside Moscow’s power grid.
25
Midtown Manhattan, New York City
An hour later Jack saw her.
His mother came along the sidewalk, walking in her stiff, formal way, wearing a light blue raincoat. Her hair was impeccably styled and more gray streaked it than he remembered. She held bags from a local artisan grocery, and the plastic bulged with her purchases. He crossed the street, cutting toward her.
Please don’t turn away, he thought. Please don’t.
He stood and he waited for her to come to him. ‘Hi, Mom.’
She stopped and glanced up from the sheltering curve of the umbrella and seemed to study him as though he were a picture she’d found in a drawer, and couldn’t place when and where it had been taken. Every moment of her silence was an agony. He wanted the concrete beneath his feet to open like a chasm and swallow him. Drops of rain curtained off her tilted umbrella. ‘Jack. Hello.’ She just didn’t seem… surprised.
He reached for the bag of groceries. ‘Those look heavy.’ He could see in the bag rice and chicken, but also Oreos, apples, jalapeno potato chips. Weird, she still bought his favorites.
She allowed him to take them. ‘Yes, they are. Thank you.’
‘Could we talk for a minute?’
‘For just a minute?’ she asked and now he heard the slight edge of pain in her voice.
‘Not for long. I know you’re busy, Mom.’ It had been the litany of his youth: not now, Jack, I’m busy. Yes, darling, I’ll look at your painting in a minute, Mama’s busy. I can help you with your math later, Jack, right now I’m busy. And finally: what do the police want to talk to you about, I’ve got a meeting with the Ambassador. He remembered announcing once, when he was nine, that he was Ambassador of Kidonia, the nation of kids, and she’d laughed and hugged him and not realized he was begging for her attention. He was proud of himself for keeping the bitterness out of his voice.
‘Actually, I’m not, and I’m very pleased to see you.’ She reached over and gave him an awkward hug. The last hug he’d gotten from her was when he graduated early from NYU, two years ago. Before the FBI showed up at the doorstep, looking for him. He resisted the urge to embrace her, to seize her hard in a hug from which she couldn’t easily escape.
She put a hand on the side of his face. He tried not to close his eyes in relief. ‘What happened to you? Your neck, that’s a surgical scar.’
‘I was in an accident.’ They shot me Mom, I got shot. Your son got shot. But he couldn’t say this, even the thought of the words rising in his throat made him sick.
‘What accident?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Of course it matters, Jack. Why didn’t you call me? Where have you been?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ The nakedness of the lie nearly made him gasp but instead he just held on tight to his mother. After a moment her hands touched his back, pressed into his flesh, cautiously.
‘Jack, are you all right? Perhaps we should go inside.’ A bit of panic edged her voice.
He pulled back from her and he felt, mixed with the wet air, tears on his face. He felt mortified. She said nothing as he wiped them away with the back of his hand. Her own face was dry, as it always was.
‘Have you come back to turn yourself in to the police?’
She was a diplomat, so he gave the diplomatic answer. ‘Yes. I’m tired of running, I’m tired of hiding. I wanted to see you first. Before I go to the police.’ No, Mom, I came to say goodbye, he wanted to say. Goodbye forever. I shouldn’t have come. It’s too hard.
‘Well come inside, we’ll have some coffee and we’ll call the lawyers.’
She was still briskly efficient, he thought. ‘I just want us to talk first. You and me. Before lawyers, okay?’
His mother hurried him past the doorman and they rode in silence in the elevator, up to the apartment. He wanted to look at her face but instead he watched the umbrella weep leftover rain onto the floor. Jack stepped inside and despite the muggy warmness of the spring day he felt chilled. The apartment was as he remembered: magazine-perfect, accented with her collection of Chinese art on the red walls, along with photos of his mother with presidents, business leaders, diplomats, and other notables. Art from her various postings in the State Department: Hong Kong, Vietnam, South Korea, Peru, Luxembourg. It was as though she’d played magpie around the world, plucking beauty wherever she stopped, decorating a nest where no other birds wished to live. There was a family picture of himself and his father, off in a corner. On the periphery of his mother’s life, the edge of the circle.
‘Would you like some decaf?’ she asked.
‘Do you have any regular coffee? I’m zonked.’
‘Um, no. I now find too much caffeine disruptive.’
Only a food could be disruptive to you, Mom, he thought. Jack felt torn by need and resentment, two ends of the same rope, tugging straight through him. ‘Decaf is great.’
‘Are you hungry?’
‘No.’ He followed her into the kitchen, watched her putter with the coffee maker. ‘How are you, Mom?’ I shouldn’t have come here. The sudden temptation to tell her everything, lay out an epic confession of the danger he faced, to ask her for help was overwhelming. Say your goodbyes, and go, and don’t look back, ever. No good
