Simeon passed through six more pictures. On the miraculous computer, they began as tiny images and instantly came forward with absolute clarity as they filled the screen.
Simeon said, “And he seems to keep company only with gorgeous women.”
Another picture blossomed on the screen. In it, Christina Rosario was leaning forward toward Hurd at a table in a restaurant. Her face had that vital animation that had attracted Byron since that moment at the Central Park Zoo when she had first approached him.
Byron barely flinched. Simeon may have sensed some slight tensing up. Simeon asked, “Who is she?”
“Let’s take a look at the next one.”
There were no other pictures of her.
In Simeon Black’s bathroom were the usual objects of old New York City bathrooms. None of that chrome and marble of modern bathrooms. The toilet, the sink, the bathtub were all made of bloated ceramic with spidery and faint veins and cracks on the surface. There were separate faucets for hot and cold water. The floor had chipped small tiles in a black and white pattern. There was grime between the tiles.
Even in that cold room, Byron was sweating. He bent over the sink and splashed cold water on his face.
And then he let himself slip down to the cool tile on the bathroom floor. “What,” he said out loud, “what have I done to my life?”
30
SIMEON HAD LONG AGO learned to ignore the twice-daily rumble of sound in the stairwell. Harry and Jack, two sweet gay men who had recently celebrated their fiftieth anniversary together, went up and down the narrow squeaking stairwell at least four times each day, usually to walk their two Shih-Tzus, Wobbie and Oliver. The men-both big blonds from the Midwest-were always together. When they navigated the stairs to their apartment just above Simeon’s, they jostled against the walls. Harry, once a stage dancer in Broadway musicals, who wore a cravat around his neck every day of the year, had developed diabetes. Because of the disease, he recently had two toes removed, and he often stumbled. Jack held him up, talking to him at times in an encouraging tone as if he were a parent urging on a child just learning to walk: “Good for you, you can do it.”
Simeon looked up from his writing. He had been editing his article with a pencil he had just sharpened. He held the pencil aloft as he waited for the rumble to pass from the landing in front of his apartment. But this time the sound was suspended. Simeon thought that something might have happened to them.
Then the door, always unlocked, burst inward. Two black men in winter street clothes-sagging corduroy pants, puffy winter jackets that made them look like the figure in the Michelin tire commercials, basketball-player sneakers, and those big baseball-style caps too large for their heads-rushed into the apartment and raced toward Simeon from different directions. Simeon instinctively pushed backward in his wooden chair. As the chair toppled over, he shouted, “Please don’t hurt me. Please.”
31
HAL RANA WAS ONE of the few Assistant U.S. Attorneys with a window in his office in the drab 1970s-era building at St. Andrew’s Plaza. Most of the other lawyers had interior offices with no windows, no natural light, and no view. He could see the glorious span of the Brooklyn Bridge. In clear sunlight, as on this cold day, the multitude of intricate steel cords that held the bridge in space glinted like millions of bright filaments.
He was surprised when one of the U.S. Marshals at the security barricades in the lobby told him over the house intercom that Byron Carlos Johnson wanted to see him. There was a rule in the office that unscheduled visits weren’t allowed. It was called the Wizard of Oz rule: look what happened to the Wizard when he let Dorothy, Toto, the Tin Man, the Scarecrow, and the Cowardly Lion enter his domain without an invitation. The curtain was opened by the dog, and the Wizard was revealed as a fraud.
But Hal Rana was senior enough, and given his size and bearing, potent enough, that these house rules didn’t apply to him. When he heard the slow South Carolina drawl of U.S. Marshal Vernon Claridge, a retired Army sergeant, on the security phone saying, “There’s a fella here calling himself Mr. Byron Johnson says he wants to see you, sir.” Hal responded, “Does he look dangerous to you, Sarge?”
He heard Claridge, a deep-voiced and genial man, say, “Mr. Johnson, are you dangerous?” In the muffled pause, Hal heard Claridge and Johnson laugh. Claridge then said, chuckling, “Says he’s Peter Pan.”
“Let him through, Sarge.”
Another rule of the house was that lawyers never met alone with visitors, even the invited ones. And this was known as the Rule of the Two. None of the meetings inside the U.S. Attorney’s Office was ever recorded. Recordings were a mine field. A recording of a conversation could reveal words and intonations of the government lawyers and agents that they didn’t want anybody to hear later. Recordings could also capture a suspect’s confessions, but if the government wanted to use that confession, it would have to produce the full tape or video, including what the agent and government lawyers themselves said. But with two or more lawyers and agents in the room with the visitor and no recording device operating, it was possible later to correct memories or harmonize and coordinate them. The Rule of the Two was that two memories, particularly those of two or more government agents, trumped one.
But the rule didn’t necessarily apply to Hal Rana, any more than the rule against uninvited visitors. He put on his suit jacket, a deep and lustrous blue, as elegant in its own way as his carefully wrapped turban. He took the elevator down the four floors from his office to the lobby, gave a hand signal to indicate that he recognized the visitor (two quick fingers snapped downward, like the signal from a baseball catcher), and said as he shook Byron’s hand, “What can I do for you?”
“Let’s talk, Mr. Rana.”
After silently riding the elevator, he took Byron Johnson through the last security barrier-an ugly steel reinforced door on the fourth floor that led into the warren of offices. The walls were lined with bankers’ boxes containing documents. It was obvious that the file rooms were overloaded, so the hallways had been overtaken with case files.
There was one small visitor’s chair in the office. Byron sat on it. “You wanted to see me,” Byron said. The calm tone of his voice surprised him, for in the two hours since he saw Christina Rosario’s picture, his mouth had become parched. He had a thirst that all the bottled water he drank couldn’t quench.
“We got your attention, I see, Byron.”
“Don’t Byron me, Mr. Rana. You could have picked up the phone and called me. I don’t appreciate having goons walk up to my girlfriend on the Columbia campus and me on a downtown street to pass along messages.”
As always, Hal Rana sounded polite, calm, and deliberate. “You know the problem. Telephone calls can leave an unexpected residue, so to speak, and email and letters can live longer than the half-life of nuclear waste. Face-to-face contact is still the best way to operate.”
Byron paused. He reached back into his experience to rely on the wisdom of creating silence to let the other person speak. You learned more that way, and, as he reminded himself, he was here to learn more.
Rana said, “We-you and I-have the privilege of working on the most important case in the country. Unless O. J. Simpson goes on trial again.”
Even in a folding chair-and even when his feelings were consumed by anxiety, jealousy, fear, and hurt-Byron Johnson looked comfortable. And he continued to wait.
“Let me tell you what’s on our mind. We’re concerned because we don’t know whether you’re in deeply over your head, or profoundly naïve and trusting, or whether you know what you’re doing is criminal. We don’t know whether you recognize that the messages from the Koran you have been carrying from and to Hussein are coded to correlate to account numbers of banks in which he controlled funds for al-Qaeda. The money was collected from mosques all over the United States. The funds-and we think there are many, many millions because he was doing this since the first World Trade Center bombing in 1993 and until the time he was taken down in Bonn-have been dormant for the years he’s been in detention. Only he knows the secret. He doesn’t want to die with it. He wants to get the word out to the people who need to know. But for years he’s had a problem: there’s no way for him to do that. He’s isolated. He’s frustrated. The Imam isn’t isolated, but he’s frustrated. And then you come into Ali’s world, the first person he’s spoken to in years except for one solo agent, who learned nothing. Your client is a very smart man with an uncanny memory. And dedicated. We think he knows the account numbers. The verses in the Koran hold the key.”