I Am Pilgrim (21 page)

steps from overworked sprinklers and busted pipes. But the guy in the evacuation chair doesn’t call

out, doesn’t ask for help. He just waits. For a miracle, I guess.’

Bradley paused, thinking about miracles, I suppose. For a moment, as he started speaking again, there was a tremor in his voice, but he managed to control it. ‘A long way below, some middle-aged,

not very fit, guy hears about the man in the chair and starts yelling. He wants volunteers to go back up with him and help carry him down.

‘Three men step forward. Ordinary guys. They follow the middle-aged man up the stairs, pick up

an end of the chair each and choose the right way – they don’t go up, they carry him down. Through

the crush of people, the smoke, the water and those corners that were too fucking tight.’

He paused again. ‘They carried him down for sixty-seven floors! And you know what they found

when they got to the bottom? No way out.

‘It had taken them so long that the collapse of the South Tower next door had destabilized its neighbour. Ahead of them was just fallen concrete. Behind them was the fire.’

Bradley shrugged. I remained silent. What was there to say, even if I could trust my voice not to falter? Sorrow floats was all I could think of.

‘They turned back, reached a door on to a mezzanine and got in to the lobby. A short time later, everything went to hell when the building crashed down. The wheelchair guy and two of the rescuers

somehow made it to safety, but two of those who saved him didn’t.’ He paused for a moment. ‘You

know what took their lives, Mr Campbell?’

‘Compassion?’ I said.

‘That’s right, like I told you – it wasn’t the falling masonry or the fire that killed them. It was their goddamned attempt to help somebody else. That was where my anger came from. Where was the justice in that?’

He caught his breath for a moment before saying softly, ‘I wasn’t sure I wanted to live in a world like that.’

I knew then that Bradley had visited Ground Zero in more ways than one. I pictured him in the snow

at dusk, a tiny figure in the acres of emptiness where the Twin Towers had once stood, doing his best to find a reason for living.

Thankfully, Marcie was with him, and he said they held hands as he told her about his despair. ‘So

what are you going to do about it?’ she wanted to know, totally matter-of-fact.

He told me he looked at her in confusion, no idea what she meant. ‘Yes, I got it, Ben, you don’t want to live in a world like that,’ she said. ‘Okay. But as people say – are you gonna curse the darkness or light a candle? So let me ask you again: what are you going to do about it?’

That was Marcie – she had become so tough, she wasn’t surrendering an inch any more.

‘She was right, of course,’ Ben continued. ‘And we talked about what to do all the way home.

‘Because of my injuries, I didn’t know much about the 9/11 investigation, and as we walked uptown

I listened as she told me fifteen of the nineteen hijackers were Saudis, how bin Laden’s family were spirited out of the country in the aftermath, that most of the perpetrators were in America on expired visas and several of ’em had learned to fly planes but hadn’t shown any interest in landing them.

‘It became clear that, even though the hijackers had made scores of mistakes, they were still better than us – and if anyone doubted it, there were three thousand homicides on my turf that proved it. By the time we reached the Village I realized that an idea was taking shape.

‘I worked on it through the night, and the following day – a Monday – I went to New York University and lit my candle.’

He said that, in a large office facing Washington Square, he explained to the college executives that he wanted to start an event that would become as famous in its way as the World Economic Forum in

Davos – an annual series of lectures, seminars and master classes for the world’s leading investigators. A place where new ideas would be exposed and cutting-edge science displayed. He said

it would be moderated by the top experts in their field, crossing all disciplines and agency boundaries.

‘I pointed through the window,’ Bradley told me, ‘to where the Twin Towers had stood. ‘Men like

that’ll come again,’ I said, ‘and next time they’ll be better, smarter, stronger. We have to be too – all of us who are investigators have got one clear objective: we’ve got to beat them next time.’

‘There were eleven people in the room and I figured I’d won over three of ’em, so I told the story

of the guy in the wheelchair and I reminded them that they were the closest college to Ground Zero –

they had a special responsibility. If they weren’t going to stage it, who would?

‘By the end, half of ’em were ashamed, a few were in tears and the vote in support was unanimous.

Maybe next year I’ll run for mayor.’ He tried to laugh, but he couldn’t find it in his heart.

He said the arrangements for the World Investigative Forum were going better than he had expected, and he rattled off a list of names of those who had agreed to teach or attend.

I nodded, genuinely impressed. He said, ‘Yeah, it’s all the big ones,’ and then looked at me. ‘Except one.’

He didn’t give me a chance to reply. ‘Your book has had a huge effect,’ he continued. ‘Being over

here, you probably don’t realize, but there’s hardly an A-list profess—’

‘That’s why you came to Paris,’ I said, ‘to recruit me?’

‘Partly. Of course, I came to finally solve the mystery of Jude Garrett but, now that I have, here’s a chance for you to make a contribution. I know we can’t say who you really are, so I thought you could be Garrett’s long-time researcher. Dr Watson to his Holmes. Someone who helped—’

‘Shut up,’ I said – something he probably wasn’t used to hearing. I was staring at the table and, when I looked up, I spoke low enough to ensure it was for his ears only.

‘Right now,’ I said, ‘I’m gonna break all the rules of my former profession – I’m going to tell you

the truth about something. This is probably the only time you’ll ever hear it from someone in my line of work, so listen carefully.

‘You did a remarkable job in finding me. If I ever did another edition of the book, I would include

your work for sure. It was brilliant.’

He sort of shrugged – flattered, I think, really proud, but too modest to express it.

‘You found a lot of names, unravelled a lot of cover stories, but you didn’t find out anything about what I actually did for my country, did you?’

‘That’s true,’ Bradley replied. ‘I’m not sure I wanted to. I figured anything that secret was best left alone.’

‘You’re right about that. So let me tell you. I arrested people, and those I couldn’t arrest I killed. At least three times I arrested them first and then I killed them.’

‘Jesus,’ he whispered. ‘Our country does that?’

‘I think homicide detectives and judges have a name for it, don’t they? I can tell you, though, those sort of actions can weigh heavily on a man’s spirit – especially as he gets older. One thing I can promise you: nobody could ever accuse me of discrimination. I was ecumenical in my work – I took

down Catholics and Arabs, Protestants, atheists and at least a few Jews. The only ones who seemed to miss out were the Zoroastrians. Believe me, I would have included them too if I knew exactly who they were. Trouble is, a lot of the people I hurt – their friends and family, mostly – aren’t active practitioners of what you and I might call Christian principles, Mr Bradley. Specifically, they don’t care too much for the bit about turning the other cheek. You know the Serbs? They’re still angry about a battle they lost in 1389. Some people say the Croats and Albanians are worse. To people like that a few decades hunting me wouldn’t even count as a weekend. I’m telling you this so that you can understand – I came to Paris to live in anonymity. I’ve been trying to reach for normal. Tonight hasn’t exactly been good news, so I won’t be running any workshop, I’m running for my life.’

I got up and held out my hand. ‘Goodbye, Mr Bradley.’

He shook hands, and this time made no attempt to stop me. The courtyard had emptied and Bradley

cut a forlorn figure sitting alone among the candles as I made my way out.

‘Good luck,’ I called back. ‘The seminar ’s a great idea, the country needs it.’ I turned to continue on my way – and came face to face with a woman.

She smiled: ‘I take it from the look on my husband’s face the answer was no.’ It was Marcie.

Bradley must have told her where we were when he phoned her.

‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘I can’t take part – he knows why.’

‘Thank you for giving him the time, though,’ she responded quietly. ‘For spending so long listening to him.’

There was no resentment or anger – her only concern seemed to be her husband’s welfare. I liked

her instantly.

Bradley turned away from watching us and tried to attract the waiter ’s attention, calling for the bill.

‘You know, Ben admires you tremendously,’ Marcie said. ‘I don’t suppose he told you, but he read

the book three times just for pleasure. He always says he wishes he could have done half the things

you wrote about.’

For a moment I glimpsed a different Bradley – a top-flight investigator who believed he had never

played in a league big enough to match his talent. More than most people, I knew that professional

regret was a terrible thing to live with and, as often happened, I started thinking about two little girls and what I did in Moscow a long time ago.

Marcie had to touch my arm to break me out of the alley of my memories, and I saw she was handing me a business card. ‘It’s our number in New York. If you ever get a chance, call him – I don’t mean now, some time in the future.’ She saw my reluctance and smiled. ‘A few years would be fine.’

But still I didn’t take it. ‘He’s a good man,’ she said seriously. ‘The best I’ve known; better than most people could ever imagine. It would mean a lot to him.’

Of course I knew I would never call but it seemed so unnecessarily hurtful not to take it that I nodded. As I was putting it in my pocket, Bradley turned back, and he and Marcie’s eyes met for a moment across the silent courtyard.

In that unguarded second, neither of them aware that I was watching, I saw them stripped of their

social armour. They were no longer in Paris, nowhere near a five-star hotel; I saw in their faces they were exactly where they had been before and after the North Tower fell – in love. They weren’t kids, it certainly wasn’t infatuation, and it was good to know that in a world full of trickery and deceit something like that still existed. Maybe the evening hadn’t been a complete bust after all.

The moment passed, Marcie looked back at me and I said goodbye. I went through the tall doors

and paused at the lectern where the courtyard’s maître d’ stood in judgement. He knew me well enough and after I thanked him for his hospitality I asked him to send the trolley over one more time and gave him two hundred euro to cover the bill.

I have no idea why I paid. Just stupid, I guess.

Chapter Twelve

THE AMERICAN AIRLINES flight arrived in new york early in the morning – towers of dark clouds hiding the city, rain and wild winds buffeting us all the way down. Two hours outward bound from

Paris, the FASTEN SEATBELT sign had come on and, after that, conditions had deteriorated so rapidly that all in-flight service had been suspended. No food, no booze, no sleep. Things could only get better, I reasoned.

I was travelling on a perfect copy of a Canadian diplomatic book which not only explained my seat

in First Class but allowed me to avoid any questions from US Immigration. They processed me without delay, I retrieved my luggage and stepped out into the pouring rain. I was home, but I found less comfort in it than I had anticipated. I’d been away so long, it was a country I barely knew.

Eighteen hours had passed since I had left the Bradleys at the Plaza Athénée. Once I realized my cover had been blown I knew what I had to do: the training was unambiguous – run, take shelter wherever you can, try to regroup and then write your will. Maybe not the last part, but that was the tone in which a blown cover was always discussed.

I figured America was my best chance. Not only would it be harder for an enemy to find me among

millions of my own, but I knew if I was ever going to be safe I had to erase the fingerprints I had left behind, making it impossible for others to follow the path Ben and Marcie had pioneered.

I had covered the distance between the Plaza Athénée and my apartment in six minutes and, as soon

as I walked in, I started to call the airlines. By luck, there was one seat left in First Class on the earliest flight out.

It is strange how the unconscious mind works, though. In the ensuing chaos of grabbing clothes, settling bills and packing my bags, the two letters from Bill and Grace Murdoch’s lawyer suddenly floated into my thoughts for no apparent reason. I rummaged through a file of old correspondence,

threw them into my carry-on and turned to the only issue which remained: the contents of the safe.

It was impossible to take the three handguns, a hundred thousand dollars in different currencies and eight passports with me, not even in my checked luggage. If the metal detectors or X-rays picked it up

– even as an alleged diplomat – I would come under intense scrutiny. Once they discovered it was a

fake book, as they surely would, I would have weeks of explaining to do – first about my real identity and then about the other items. All guns, false passports and contact books were supposed to have been surrendered when I left The Division.