Boy Nobody (23 page)

“Finish the assignment and everything goes back to the way it was.”

I don’t move, don’t so much as blink. I give him nothing at all.

“If you don’t do it for The Program,” he says, “then do it for your father.”

What does he mean? My father is dead.

This is a lie. A trick.

I follow Mike with my eyes. I watch him for signs of the tell, but I don’t see any.

He steps out of my peripheral vision, just a voice now.

“You remind me a lot of him. Certain aspects.”

His footsteps recede into the darkness.

“He’s alive, Zach. Your father. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

I hear a door open somewhere out of view.

“Finish,” he says.

And then he’s gone.

I pinch my fingers to feel what he put down there. It’s a piece of metal the size of a postage stamp. It is nearly dull, but there is the tiniest bit of edge on it.

Just enough edge to cut through tape.

A warehouse district, someplace I don’t recognize. Empty loading docks and bricks covered with graffiti.
MESEROLE STREET
, the sign says.

My father.

He’s all I can think about.

I follow the sound of beeping horns until I hit a main thoroughfare. Bushwick Avenue. I’m in Brooklyn. I follow the road north to Grand Street, and I get on an L train headed into the city.

I find an empty seat and let my thoughts drift as the train car rocks.

My father.

I see him taped to a chair in the living room, his head bowed, chin nearly on his chest. His shirt was covered in blood. I feel Mike’s arm around me like it was that day. I was drugged, barely able to stand on my own. He led me into the room and showed me to my father.

My father was still alive then.

And after?

I never saw him again.

My father has been dead for years. That is what I’ve believed.

But I did not see him die.

I saw him in that chair, I saw him taped and hurting and covered in blood, but I did not see what happened after.

I was told that he was dead. That’s different from having evidence.

But he must be dead.

Time is proof. How long has it been? Nearly five years now. If my father were alive, he would have come for me.

Unless he doesn’t know I’m alive.

Mike has given me a second chance. A final chance.

If I’m going to find out what happened to my father, I have to complete this assignment.

The train crosses into Manhattan and pulls into the station.

Eight
PM
. My final night. I have to get to Gracie Mansion.

But first I have to check with Howard. I race to the surface so I can get a signal.

The screen of the throwaway lights up with texts from Howard. Eight of them, all the same.

Call me 911
, they say.

“I ran into some trouble,” I say.

“I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know if something had happened—”

Mike was right. I’m down the rabbit hole. I broke protocol out of desperation, and now I’ve got someone working for me with no emergency procedures in place and no contingencies. I am exposed. So is Howard.

It’s time to end it.

“Forget about all of this, Howard. Shut it down.”

“But you were right about the mayor’s blog,” he says.

“How was I right?”

“The photos on the blog were tampered with. It’s so subtle that I missed it at first. The photos look strange because someone has changed the color value of each red pixel in the JPEG to match a byte of an rtf document.”

“You’re saying there are documents hidden inside the pictures on the blog?”

“Not just any documents. High-level stuff. Homeland Security memos sent to the mayor’s office. Surveillance reports of suspected terror cells in the New York area.”

I set out to get proof of the mayor’s guilt. Now I have it.

But if the mayor is guilty, why did Mother change my target to Sam?

“Why does the mayor have secret documents on his blog?” Howard says.

“Because he’s transmitting them to someone. Can you tell who is receiving them?”

“That’s the genius of it,” Howard says. “There’s no way to know. The data is public, but it’s broken down into a million pixels. You can’t read it unless you’re on the other end with a filter program that pieces it back together.”

I run the facts through my head again.

The mayor is revealing Homeland Security secrets to someone. Maybe it doesn’t matter why. I’m trying to save Sam, and now I have proof that her father is guilty.

“I have to get to Gracie Mansion,” I say to Howard.

“Wait, Ben. There’s something else you need to know. The last post. It contains the plans for the meeting tonight. All the security protocols. Everything.”

“That means someone knows the mayor is meeting with the Israeli prime minister.”

“But who?” Howard says.

I get out of the station, and I run.

I turn onto East End Avenue, and I’m immediately stopped by flashing lights. There’s a two-block NYPD security cordon around Gracie, a sea of blue uniforms liberally sprinkled with dark suits.

Concentric circles. That’s what I’m imagining in my mind.

NYPD doing the grunt work around the edges. Israeli security and agents from the Diplomatic Service in the center.

Guests are already entering, ferried down a single access path. This is no high school party. There’s no walking up to the door and talking your way in, and I don’t have Erica to use as an excuse.

In almost every circumstance, I could slip into an event undetected. But not here, not where professionals are on duty, actively looking for anything unusual in the environment.

They are looking for the unusual, so I must be something familiar.

I’m wearing a button-down shirt over a T-shirt. I untuck the button-down, let it hang loosely around me. I take my wallet out and slip it into my waistband under the shirt. Now I have the telltale bulge of a weapon worn by an undercover cop.

I head south a few blocks and enter Carl Schurz Park at a corner, appearing among the police officers there. I match my energy to theirs. I am an undercover working the south side of the park, one of several scattered through the area.

I pass through a group of officers. A sergeant nods to me.

The nod.

I nod back and keep going.

The park has been cordoned off, but I only need to puncture the outer layer of the cordon and get to the inside. It’s the inherent weakness of the cordon strategy. If you are outside, you are presumed dangerous. But once you’re inside, it’s assumed that you’ve been granted access by those on the outer edges.

So I aim toward the center, and I keep going.

By the time I make it through the second cordon, my shirt is neatly tucked in, my wallet is in my pocket where it belongs, and I am moving like a teenager who’s out of his league. I look in awe at the dignitaries entering Gracie. I lick my fingers and use them to try to make my hair look neat.

I’m close enough now to hear the clink of glasses and people’s voices inside the mansion.

I am almost inside.

Almost.

“Stop,” the voice says.

Behind me. The Pro from the mayor’s apartment.

He’s outside the mansion doing a recon lap when he stumbles on me.

Bad luck on my part. Good training on his.

“Phew. Somebody I recognize.” I say it like I’m happy to see him.

“Your invitation,” he says. “I need it.”

“They took it at the front gate.”

“No, they didn’t. You have to show it at every entry point.”

I glance toward the front door of Gracie. Sure enough, they’re checking invitations one final time.

“You caught me,” I say.

I notice his earpiece and attached microphone. A tap at his collar, and security will swarm us. But he doesn’t tap. Not yet.

“I caught you what?” he says.

“Maybe I should have said you caught Sam. Sneaking me in.”

He nods, listening.

“How often do you get to shake hands with a prime minister, right?” I say. “She told me to meet her outside and she’d bring me in.”

I’m quite sure the PM’s visit is secret. That’s why I mention him. How would I know he was here unless I’d been invited by Sam?

I see him considering.

“If she’s meeting you, where is she?” he says.

“That’s what I’m wondering right now.”

“Me, too,” he says.

He reaches toward his collar—

“When Sam comes, I hope she brings toilet paper with her,” I say.

“Toilet paper?” he says.

“Because I’m shitting my pants right now.”

He laughs. He puts his hand down without calling for backup.

“You’re a funny guy,” he says. “Come on. I’ll take you inside.”

I follow him into Gracie Mansion.

Some I recognize from the news, some I do not. Politicians, businessmen, diplomats.

Members of the Jewish community and representatives from the Arab League. Some foreign accents, Israeli and Arabic both. Some may disagree with this prime minister’s approach, but it’s hard to fault his passion on the issue of peace.

The Pro leads me into the blue-walled Wagner Wing ballroom. It’s not a huge crowd—maybe fifty people standing in clumps, waiting.

“Do you see Sam?” I say.

He stands next to me scanning the room. She’s not here.

Something comes over his earpiece. He holds his hand to his ear, listening.

He scowls.

“Behave yourself,” he says to me. “I’ve got work.”

And he leaves me alone.

The energy in the room changes, excitement rippling through the crowd. Suddenly the prime minister enters through a side door with the mayor at his side. The room bursts into applause.

The prime minister grins, greeting people and shaking hands as he works the crowd.

The mayor is a more familiar face and not nearly as exciting to the room. People pass by him with firm handshakes and smiles on their way to the prime minister.

I scan the space, looking for Sam, but I don’t see her.

I move toward the mayor.

I’m running variables in my head.

First is the idea that Mother is wrong. The mayor is the guilty party. His blog is more or less proof of this.

Maybe if I complete my original assignment, I can prove it to her.

Security is reduced around the mayor. He is not a visiting dignitary, so he’s not watched as closely. I can do it here, in front of the entire crowd. Do it silently. Do it in a handshake, then fade away as the circles constrict around him.

Ten steps from the mayor.

Sam comes into the room. I notice her from the corner of my eye, passing through a side hallway into the ballroom.

We see each other at the same time.

Her eyes widen in surprise—

And then she turns and rushes out of the room.

“I didn’t know Sam invited you,” the mayor says.

He’s seen me from across the room and come over.

“She got me on the list,” I say. “I was just coming over to say congratulations.”

He hesitates. How would I know what’s going on unless Sam had really invited me?

“It’s not congratulations yet,” he says. “I’m still mayor until the end of the year.”

“And then special envoy?”

“We’re talking about it, Ben. Still talk at this point.”

“Forgive me, but that seems very different from the work you’ve been doing.”

“Ah, but it’s a thrilling time in Israel. The prime minister is determined to find a lasting peace with his neighbors. He feels it’s time, and our government couldn’t agree more. The world has changed; the Arab Spring has created new possibilities for everyone. We have a rare opportunity to make a difference together. That’s a mission I’d like to be a part of.”

But if that’s the case, why would the mayor leak security plans for this event? Leak them to whom?

“Sir, the things we discussed at dinner the other night. I was hoping to talk to you further—”

“About Sam.”

“I’m worried about her. I understand if now is not a good time.”

“Nonsense. This is important. Let’s step away for a moment, Ben.”

I scan the corners for security cameras. I see two of them. No way of knowing what kind of lens is in the cameras. A fish-eye that scans the entire room but distorts it, or wide angles that photograph a slice.

If it’s the latter, I can move the mayor into a blind zone along the wall. There will be evidence that I was with him in the room, but no evidence of what happened here.

Not if I do this right. I take the pen from my pocket and slide it up the sleeve by my wrist.

“Can I offer you something?” the mayor says.

He’s moving to the blind zone himself, a liquor cabinet along the side wall.

“A bourbon. Neat,” I say.

He laughs.

“How about a Diet Coke instead?”

“That works, too.”

I walk over and join him at the cabinet.

“Tell me about Sam,” he says.

“I talked to her this morning,” I say. “She’s a mess.”

He sighs. He pulls the cigarette case from his breast pocket, glances around to make sure we’re alone. Then he cracks the window and lights up.

“She doesn’t want to go back to Israel, does she?” he says.

“Your wife’s accident. It’s got a lot of bad memories for her.”

“The accident. Yes.”

I read the tension in his forehead.

“It wasn’t an accident, was it?”

“Sam told you,” he says.

Sam didn’t tell me anything, but I nod.

“She told me as much as she was comfortable with,” I say.

“I fear we made a mistake keeping it a secret, but you understand, it was a decision at the highest level. Post–9/11. Two wars in progress at the time. The Middle East was a powder keg. Add the wife of a popular American politician being killed in a bombing attack. Who knows what might have happened.”