A Murder of Crows (23 page)

“Neither do I,” Harrison snapped. Decker heard it loud and clear—the expert to the dilettante: “Keep your fucking mouth shut!”

“So how else did he communicate?”

Decker saw Yslan shuffle her feet, then she said in a remarkably small voice, “We traced a PROMPTOR protocol from the campus server to his URL.”

Harrison whirled on her and let her have it.

Decker knew some fine profanity that even the
Maledicta
didn't know, but his was kid's stuff compared to the swill that poured from Harrison's mouth. And the length of the obscene tirade put Christian Bales on-set blow-up to shame.

Anonymity and security have always been at odds.

But Decker found himself smiling—he knew that PROMPTOR fascinated Crazy Eddie. And for the first time since he was whisked away from Namibia he thought he might have access to a little leverage—and Decker knew he badly needed some leverage.

EDDIE'S CELL PHONE RANG. HE TURNED ON HIS GPS MAP AND
saw the dot he'd been following since Decker left the Junction, then flipped open his phone. “To what do I owe the honour of your phone call?” Eddie asked.

Decker walked quickly across the campus green toward his room as he recited the prologue to act 3 of
Henry V,
knowing it timed out to just under two minutes. Enough time for Eddie to light up a bomber, plug his phone into his computer and find out exactly who else was listening in on their conversation.

Decker passed by his marine stationed in the hallway, shouted, “One boss, one,” and entered his dorm room. As he did Eddie said, “We have visitors, young man.”

Decker was six months older than Eddie, but when it came to things digital Decker was definitely Eddie's junior. With the exception of a few genius hackers in Russia, India, the United States and Israel, almost everyone in the world was.

“Visitors!
Quelle surprise,
” Decker said. “Out of curiosity, how many?”

“Impossible to say.”

“Okay. It is what it is.”

“Exactamundo, Kemo Sabe. So what's shakin'?”

“How's your business with our New York lawyer friend going?”

There was a moment of silence, then Eddie said, “In the planning stages still.” His voice was hard.

“Any word from Seth?”

“Yeah.”

“What, Eddie?”

“He's been in touch.”

“That's all you're going to tell me?”

“Yeah.”

Another silence followed.

“You in Dundas, New York?”

“Yeah.”

“They come and get you from Namibia?”

“Yeah.”

“Then this attack is for real?” Eddie was no conspiracy nut, but he had a profound distrust of power and those who wielded it. He was always sceptical about what they chose to tell the populace and what they chose not to tell the populace.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah what? Try to be specific.”

“There are still body parts . . .” He didn't add “stuck in the mud,” although he wanted to.

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.”

“So outside of seeking an update on my efforts with our lawyer friend to what do I owe this missive?”

“How much have you found out about the PROMPTOR program?”

“You have computer access?” Eddie stood. His brace clacked.

“Yeah.”

“Go online. You know where.” Eddie hung up.

Decker opened his browser and called up the synaesthetes' website. The front page had a new video of the Human Camera. Decker admired people like Stephen Wiltshire and Daniel Tammet but he knew they only provided cover for him. So when people inevitably had to label him they called him a synaesthete, although he was in actuality only a distant—very distant—cousin of synaesthetes.

A pop-up of the young monk in the Duomo came up, but before Decker could watch it the second prompt appeared. He hit shift F7. It immediately gave him what Eddie called a side door to the Pro
Actors Lab website. He carefully moved his cursor back and forth over the Pro Actors Lab title page—an etching of two French commedia performers having a late-night drink. Back and forth—back and forth. Finally the cursor hopped and the carafe of wine on the table between the two actors changed colour for just an instant. If Decker hadn't been concentrating he would have missed it. But he
was
concentrating and moved the cursor to the carafe and typed in his access code: Sethcomehome.

The carafe tipped forward and the wine spilled across the table until it covered it like a large tarp. Then the table tilted forward filling his screen with darkness. Instantly Eddie's unique script bibbled across the top.

Why do you want to know about PROMPTOR?

Because I want to trade it for information about where Seth is,
he wanted to write but instead he typed,
They think one of the terrorists used it to contact his coconspirator.

And they can't break PROMPTOR?

If they could I wouldn't be—

Yeah. I get that.

So, Eddie, can you help them break PROMPTOR?

Maybe.
Eddie relit his bomber and inhaled deeply. He'd been making slow progress on breaking into the guts of PROMPTOR. But of late things were changing out there in cyberland. The Israeli STUXNET virus opened up all sorts of new possibilities for someone with Eddie's computer prowess. As well, as the Arab Spring took hold, tens of thousands of young Middle Easterners had downloaded PROMPTOR to keep their communications safe from the local secret police. So many that the system crashed several times. Eddie monitored every crash because each time the system started back up it gave him more and more access to its inner workings.

What does your maybe mean?
Decker wrote.

What if I could get them to the guy who wrote the program?

They already know who wrote the thing, but they can't touch him.

What if we tell them they have the wrong guy.

What?

Eddie took another long drag and let the sweet smoke bounce off his computer monitor.
Don't you think something like PROMPTOR has a lawyer's fingerprints on it? A New York lawyer's fingerprints? Perhaps someone who lives on Patchin Place—and likes to fuck with other people's lives?

Decker smiled, then wrote,
Get them the PROMPTOR e-mail contacts for one Professor Neil Frost and I'll try and trade it for them caging Charendoff.

Sounds like a plan to me.

Good. Now tell me about Seth.

Decker, you know I can't.

Yeah, yeah. My son swore you to secrecy.

He did.

Well, tell me this at least. Did he cash the $20,000 check I gave you to get to him?

For a moment the screen was blank, then Eddie replied,
Last Friday.

Not going to tell me where?

Come on, Decker, you know that I promised Seth not to pass on information about his whereabouts to you. You know that. And you know why he insisted on that.

For an instant he was back at his wife's graveside. Seth's tiny hand in his. Then the boy's eyes turned to him—shock on his face. “You're happy Mommy's dead.”

“No, Seth. No.”

“You're lying to me. Lying to me.” The boy had taken his hand back—and he never held Decker's hand again, or let him into his life.

Decker didn't know what to say so he asked,
Any news from the ol' neighbourhood?

El Junctioni?

Yeah, the Junction.

Trish Spence and Theo keep leaving messages for you.

Forward them to me.

Something about CBC not liking the hung man in that documentary you're working on. CBC have an objection to male size, do they?

Who knows what CBC objects to. Just forward their messages to me. Others?

Leena left a message.

What did it say?

Are you okay.

That's it?

That's it.

Okay.

Then there's that guy.

What guy?

Preppy looking—hanging out on our street. Finally knocked on the door.

And?

Said his name was Emerson Remi and that you knew him. Do you?

Decker remembered his feeling of nausea every time he'd met Emerson Remi. Was Mr. Remi in the woods looking for the path to the clearing like Viola Tripping had suggested? If so, was that why he was knocking at their door?

You still there?

Yeah. No, I don't know any Emerson Remi. Any other news?

Nothing except yet another church on Annette is being converted to condos.

Decker lifted his fingers from his keyboard, careful not to write what was in his mind:
That's not good. The churches keep the evil in check.

You still there?
Eddie bibbled.

Yeah. What's featured in Theo's shop?

The used-book shop?

Yeah.

Why?

Just tell me what's on display in his window.

Calling it a display is generous, Decker.

Okay—what's there?

It's Camus this week—dozens of different editions of
L'Étranger.

Decker nodded, thinking, L'Étranger,
the stranger . . . no, the outsider. Like the girl who just wanted to watch,
but what he wrote was,
How long on the PROMPTOR thing?

Two days at least—but I'll have to get lucky to manage it in two days. Anything else, my friend?

No.

Then adios, comrade.

Then Eddie's distinctive icon—a cross-legged yogi with a large erect phallus smoking a huge bomber—popped up, waved and disappeared into the nothingness of land digital, Eddie's kingdom.

DECKER OPENED HIS DORM ROOM DOOR AND SHOUTED TO HIS
marine in the corridor, “Hey, boss. One going out, boss!” He was rather pleased with the way the line sounded coming from his mouth, not Paul Newman, but not bad.

Decker left the dorm and noticed that the large library building across the way had its lights on despite the late hour. He watched students coming and going. It amazed him. It was the middle of the night and the place was clearly in full use. Decker couldn't remember if he'd even bothered to get his library card validated when he was an undergraduate at University of Toronto.

He crossed the quad and entered the building. As he did he recalled sitting in on a student-actor evaluation at a university theatre program where he was appalled to hear a senior teacher turn to a young actor and say, “Just go to a library and wander the aisles—something will catch your eye. Read that.”

Stupid advice to a student who, like so many of them, had so little knowledge of literature. But for someone like Decker who knew books, it was a good idea.

He called Yslan. “Can you get me a library card?”

“If you've got too much time on your hands—”

“Can you get me a library card?”

The phone went silent for a moment then Yslan came back on the line. “It's waiting for you at the front desk. Present your ID and they'll give you a two-week card. And Mr. Roberts . . .”

“What?”

“Your real ID, not the fake one you used at Gatwick.”

He hung up and got his two-week library card from the indifferent student who was manning the night desk.

He quickly found a copy of Camus'
L'Étranger,
then, allowing himself to meander, he found himself slowly walking the aisles of the fiction section. He'd done this many times in the past.

When he told Crazy Eddie about this kind of thing his friend had asked, “You're looking for truths. Right?”

“I wouldn't use those exact words, but yeah, truths.”

“So why look at fiction?”

“Because fiction is just fact filtered through a specific mind. If the mind is good, the truths are distilled, refined.”

Decker stopped halfway down one of the many rows of books and turned to his right. At eye level was a copy of a John Fowles' collection,
The Ebony Tower
.

He checked out the two books and left the library. As he did he stepped into a puddle and swore. Then, in the bright light from the library windows, he saw the dull red mud on his shoe. He reached down and scraped some off with his finger. He looked at it—red mud. He put it to his nose and was instantly surrounded by the earthy smell of Inshakha. Here in upper New York State the red mud of Mowani brought back his final image of her—on the edge of the bathtub, stripped to the waist, applying the very same red mud he had on his fingers to the beauty of her face.

He looked around him, but all was as it should be. A campus on a hill in upper New York State. The cold of the night solidifying its grip before the sunrise drove it back to the other world.

* * *

Three hours later, back in his dorm room, he finished making notes in the margin of both the John Fowles book and the John le Carré novel he'd picked up in the Johannesburg airport and was pretty sure he had something valuable at his fingertips. Then he started on
L'Étranger.

The door opened and Harrison and Yslan entered his room.

“You could knock . . .”

“We don't need to knock, Mr. Roberts,” Harrison said as he tossed a stack of papers onto Decker's desk. Decker glanced at them—they were his reports on the first interrogations.