Anyone opening the bag — a cop, a bum, a garbage man — would find nothing useful or incriminating. On the street, trash was being collected with extra zeal during the emergency, to keep water from backing up.
Tom went back upstairs, smiling at the doorman as if nothing bad had happened. He double-checked his apartment to make sure all traces of illegal activity had been erased. As he worked, he thought back to the old man in Colorado, to Hobart’s nonstop lectures. A voice in his head said, Deception is a key to success. Always make the other guy think you are doing one thing, when you are actually up to something else. In World War Two, the Allies built an entire phony army out of plywood, in England, to make the Germans think that the invasion of Europe would come at Calais. When the invasion came at Normandy, the Germans were not ready and lost the war.
Tom used one of the half dozen remaining encrypted phones to call Cardozo in Brazil. Once again their talk, on the surface, was mundane, about a sick aunt in Oregon. But Oregon was the code word.
Oregon meant, It’s time to divert the FBI away from the East Coast.
As he worked, the words of Hobart Haines came to him, guiding him, but not in the way that Hobart had intended.
Make the other side think you are bigger, stronger, smarter than you really are.
Tom knew that someone in Brazil should now be alerting a sleeper somewhere in the United States. Tom would not know where, or who, only that the sleeper was far from New York. The sleeper might be a student, or housewife, or any sympathizer. The sleeper would be directed to make a phone call to Washington, get a message to Kyle Utley, and say words that Tom had written, but the sleeper would not know why. The sleeper could not damage Tom, even if apprehended. He or she was completely expendable.
The diversion will hopefully give me more time.
It was 9 P.M. now.
He was helpless until he got the damn boxes! Maybe they would come tomorrow.
Hobart Haines had said, over and over, If you’re going to do something big, try to make your opponent think you are planning something else.
EIGHTEEN
Izabel Santo knelt and lit another candle, and the flame flickered to life. Saint John the Divine — near Columbia University — is one of my favorite cathedrals in the world. The ceiling is high and magnificent, a Notre Dame in New York. The stone buttresses anchoring the nave stand as thick as California redwoods. The soaring ceiling inspires and awes. The vast interior and events held there — solstice celebrations, New Year’s concerts, student weddings, or Senatorial speeches — offer up the best spirit of a diverse city, and draw people from all religions. Saint John is an inclusive place.
Tonight it was filled with people praying for sick loved ones, or protection for those so far spared.
“Twenty candles,” I counted as she rose and crossed herself. I hoped they did not represent lost love, but who else do you light candles for, if not those who you miss?
“They are for men and women that I killed, Joe.”
I must have looked surprised. She said, in a flat voice, “They were evil. Their souls are not in heaven. When they see the flames they are attracted to a church where God reminds them of what they did, what they lost.”
“You don’t think evil people go to hell?”
“What is being lost forever if not that?”
At 10 P.M. we had stopped in while strolling from office to dinner. A seedy-looking man on the front steps had tried to sell us “fresh malaria medicine,” then backed away when he saw my face. Eddie had gone back to Stuart’s apartment, to sleep, he said, but I think he just wanted Izabel and me to be alone. Eddie the matchmaker. Saint John dominates a hilly area on Manhattan’s Upper West Side where, back on Amsterdam Avenue, we passed the cathedral’s Alice in Wonderland sculpture garden, and bronzes of Alice and the Mad Hatter, eternally watching each other, eternally healthy. A convertible BMW pulled up beside us, filled with laughing young people, blasting music. Many of those who had malaria pills were as oblivious to fear as tourists in a malarial country. They went on with life.
Izabel’s frizzy hair fell against her bare shoulders, in an inverted V of coppery waves. Her eyes were a burnished dark green that highlighted the mocha skin and single gold-link necklace around her slender throat. She wore a black top with spaghetti straps, fitted white jeans, and cork-heeled sandals with rainbow straps at the toes. She carried a lightweight cashmere sweater against air-conditioning. She smelled of musk.
Her nearness created a fluid weakness in my groin, a stirring in my chest. It was not a romantic feeling. It was more of an animal waking up after a long sleep. Over two years had passed since I had chosen to be alone. This all felt quite strange.
“It is good to take a few hours off,” she said as we strolled beneath hundred-year-old oaks. A blinking airplane, high above, moved west over the metropolis. It would have been sprayed with pesticides between trips.
“Look, Joe.” She held out her wrist. Beneath the mosquito that had landed on it, I saw the small pulsing motion of life beneath her skin. “Killer? Or not?”
She smashed the insect with her other hand, leaving a smear of blood, hers, perhaps, or a prior victim’s. What remained was a pinprick mass of mashed-up membranes.
“My people have located Cizinio, Joe. They’re making drawings of the men who bought art from the Indians, and of the man who Cizinio said came there and directed buying.”
“When can I see these drawings?”
“Probably faxed tonight. Or tomorrow.”
“What have you learned in the Brazilian neighborhoods?”
She shrugged. “Nothing yet. But tomorrow I will zero in on Indian folk art shops. Who collects it? Who ships it to the cities that were hit so far?”
“Aya is working on that, too, on Customs lists.”
“Yes, I spoke to this girl.” Izabel smiled admiringly and wryly. “She is very passionate,” she remarked.
I glanced down into the heart-shaped face, and sensed that what she had meant was, She doesn’t like me too much.
“She’s sixteen. But she is very smart, Izabel.”
“You had sex with her mother?”
I halted, startled by the directness, although I shouldn’t have been by now. I shook my head. Why not answer? “Aya wanted us to get together but it never happened,” I said.
“I see. Because of you? Or the mother?”
“Both,” I lied. It had been my decision.
“And Chris — Aya’s mother — is engaged to Ray Havlicek?”
“Yes.”
Izabel nodded as if some mystery had been cleared up. “So we can conclude that all the bullshit that has happened to us is a result of this situation?”
“Ray is a professional.”
“Are you telling yourself this lie, too, or just me?”
I laughed. Business over. She slipped her arm in mine, her shoulder brushed me, and her hip grazed me, quick as thought, clear as intent. The few taxis on Amsterdam Avenue seemed to float through heat-convoluted air. The restaurant, Miss Mamie’s Spoonbread Too, serves the best fried chicken I’ve ever eaten, candied yams, and sweet tea in mason jars, so sugary that it hurts your teeth. It’s a small, homey place frequented by neighborhood and university types. OPEN! WE WON’T BE DEFEATED BY FEAR, a sign in the window said.
A few restaurants had reopened over the last few days as the infection rate slowed, although none offered outdoor tables. We sat beneath the blowup black-and-white photo of the ex — fashion model who had founded the place.
The restaurant was only half filled. Clearly, a couple by the front door recognized us, from the news. But in New York celebrities are left alone. Privacy is a gift given by this rambunctious city to celebrities. And at the moment, our TV appearances put us in that category. Our table was small and we sat very close.