es。”
“I was worried about you；” she said。 “All day I’ve been walking up and down this fucking beach thinking about what we discussed last night—” I interrupted。 “I wouldn’t say anything about that on the phone。”
“Don’t worry； I won’t。 I’m not a total fool。 It’s just that the more I go over things； the more
worried I get。”
“Where’s Adam？”
“Still in Washington； as far as I know。 He keeps trying to call and I keep not answering。 When will
you be back？”
“I’m not sure。”
“Tonight？”
“I’ll try。”
“Do； if you can。” She lowered her voice； I imagined the bodyguard standing nearby。 “It’s Dep’s
night off。 I’ll cook。”
“Is that supposed to be an incentive？”
“You rude man；” she said and laughed。 She rang off as abruptly as she had called； without saying
good…bye。
I tapped my phone against my teeth。 The prospect of a confiding fireside talk with Ruth； perhaps to be followed by a second round in her vigorous embrace； was not without its attractions。 I could call Rycart and tell him I’d changed my mind。 Undecided； I took my case out of the car and wheeled it through the puddles toward the waiting bus。 Once I was aboard； I cradled it next to me and studied the airport map。 At that point yet another choice presented itself。 Terminal B—the shuttle to New York and Rycart—or terminal E—international departures and an evening flight back to London？ I hadn’t considered that before。 I had my passport； everything。 I could simply walk away。
B or E？ I seriously weighed them。 I was like an unusually dim lab rat in a maze； endlessly
confronted with alternatives； endlessly picking the wrong one。
The bus doors opened with a heavy sigh。
I got off at B； bought my ticket； sent a text message to Rycart； and caught the US Airways Shuttle
to LaGuardia。
FOR SOME REASON OURplane was delayed on the tarmac。 We taxied out on schedule but then stopped just short of the runway； pulling aside in a gentlemanly fashion to let the queue of jets behind us go ahead。 It began to rain。 I looked out of the porthole at the flattened grass and the welded sheets of sea and sky。 Clear veins of water pulsed across the glass。 Every time a plane took off； the thin skin of the cabin shook and the veins broke and reformed。 The pilot came over the intercom and apologized： there was some problem with our security clearance； he said。 The Department of Homeland Security had just raised its threat assessment from yellow （elevated） to orange （high） and our patience was appreciated。 Among the businesspeople around me； agitation grew。 The man sitting next to me caught my eye above the edge of his pink paper and shook his head。
“It just gets worse；” he said。
He folded hisFinancial Times ； placed it on his lap； and closed his eyes。 The headline was “Lang wins US support；” and there was that grin again。 Ruth had been right。 He shouldn’t have smiled。 It had gone round the world。
My small suitcase was in the luggage compartment above my head； my feet were resting on the shoulder bag beneath the seat in front of me。 All was in order。 But I couldn’t relax。 I felt guilty； even though I had done nothing wrong。 I half expected the FBI to storm the plane and drag me away。 After about forty…five minutes； the engines suddenly started to roar again and the pilot broke radio silence to announce that we had finally been given permission to take off； and thank you again for your understanding。
We labored along the runway and up into the clouds； and such was my exhaustion that； despite my anxiety—or perhaps because of it—I actually drifted into sleep。 I came awake with a jerk when I felt someone leaning across me； but it was only the cabin attendant； checking that my seat belt was fastened。 It seemed to me that I had been unconscious no more than a few seconds； but the pressure in my ears told me that already we were coming in to land at LaGuardia。 We touched down at six minutes past six—I remember the time exactly： I checked my watch—and by twenty past I was avoiding the impatient crowds around the baggage carousel and heading out of the gate into the arrivals hall。
It was busy； early evening； and people were in a hurry to get downtown or home for dinner。 I scanned the bewildering array of faces； wondering if Rycart himself had turned out to greet me； but there was no one I recognized。 The usual lugubrious drivers were waiting； holding the names of their passengers against their chests。 They stared straight ahead； avoiding eye contact； like suspects in a police lineup； while I； in the manner of a nervous witness； walked along in front of them； checking each carefully； not wanting to make a mistake。 Rycart had implied I’d recognize the right person when I saw him； and I did； and my heart almost stopped。 He was standing apart from the others； in his own patch of space—wan faced； dark haired； tall； heavyset； early fifties； in a badly fitting chain…store suit—and he was holding a small blackboard on which was chalked “Mike McAra。” Even his eyes were as I had imagined McAra’s to be： crafty and colorless。
He was chewing gum。 He nodded to my suitcase。 “You okay with that。” It was a statement； not a question； but I didn’t care。 I’d never been more pleased to hear a New York accent in my life。 He turned on his heel and I followed him across the hall and out into the pandemonium of the night： shrieks； whistles； slamming doors； the fight to grab a cab； sirens in the distance。
He brought round his car； wound down his window； and beckoned to me to get in quickly。 As I struggled to get my case into the backseat； he stared straight ahead； his hands on the wheel； discouraging conversation。 Not that there was much time to talk。 Barely had we left the perimeter of the airport than we were pulling up in front of a big； glass…fronted hotel and conference center overlooking Grand Central Parkway。 He grunted as he shifted his heavy body round in his seat to address me。 The car stank of his sweat and I had a moment of pure existential horror； staring beyond him； through the drizzle； to that bleak and anonymous building： what； in the name of God； was I doing？
“If you need to make contact； use this；” he said； giving me a brand…new cell phone； still in its plastic wrapper。 “There’s a chip inside with twenty dollars’ worth of calls on it。 Don’t use your old phone。 The safest thing is to turn it off。 You pay for your room in advance； with cash。 Have you got enough？ It’ll be about three hundred bucks。”
I nodded。
“You’re staying one night。 You have a reservation。” He wriggled his fat wallet out from his back pocket。 “This is the card you use to guarantee the extras。 The name on the card is the name you register under。 Use an address in the United Kingdom that isn’t your own。 If thereare any extras； make sure you pay for them in cash。 This is the telephone number you use to make contact in future。”
“You used to be a cop；” I said。 I took the credit card and a torn…out strip of paper with a number written on it in a childish hand。 The paper and plastic were warm from the heat of his body。
“Don’t use the internet。 Don’t speak to strangers。 And especially avoid any women who might try to come on to you。”
“You sound like my mother。”
His face didn’t flicker。 We sat there for a few seconds。 “Well；” he said impatiently。 He waved a meaty hand at me。 “That’s it。”
Once I was through the revolving glass door and inside the lobby； I checked the name on the card。 Clive Dixon。 A big conference had just ended。 Scores of delegates wearing black suits with bright yellow lapel badges were pouring across the wide expanse of white marble； chattering to one another like a flight of crows。 They looked eager； purposeful； motivated； newly fired up to meet their corporate targets and personal goals。 I saw from their badges they belonged to a church。 Above our heads； great glass globes of light hung from a ceiling a hundred feet high and shimmered on walls of chrome。 I wasn’t just out of my depth anymore； I was out of sight of land。
“I have a reservation； I believe；” I said to the clerk at the desk； “in the name of Dixon。”
It’s not an alias I’d have chosen。 I don’t think of myself as a Dixon； whatever a Dixon is。 But the receptionist was untroubled by my embarrassment。 I was on his computer； that was all that mattered to him； and my card was good。 The room rate was two hundred and seventy…five dollars。 I filled out the reservation form and gave as my false address the number of Kate’s small terraced house in Shepherd’s Bush and the street of Rick’s London club。 When I said I wanted to pay in cash； he took the notes between his finger and thumb as if they were the strangest things he had ever seen。Cash？ If I’d tied a mule to his desk and offered to pay him in animal skins and sticks that I’d spent the winter carving； he couldn’t have looked more nonplussed。
I declined to be assisted with my bags； took the elevator to the sixth floor； and stuck the electronic key card into the door。 My room was beige and softly li