“I’ll look at the street map.”
They found the Ferrocarriles Nacionales de Mexico easily enough. Shelly drove past the station and around the corner to a badly lit street, parked under a burnt-out streetlight. She took a small suitcase from the trunk, remembered to leave the keys, then helped Brian lift out the heavy box.
“The first step—and the biggest one,” he said.
“One hour and twenty-one minutes are left before the train leaves,” the box said in muffled but possibly admonitory tones.
“More than enough time. Be patient—we’re the ones dragging the box.”
They got it as far as the station entrance before Shelly called quits.
“Enough! You watch this thing while I see if they rise to something as exotic as a redcap.”
She was back a few minutes later with the man. He was wearing a battered cap, his badge of rank, and pushing a handcart.
“We have to buy tickets,” Brian said as the porter eased the metal edge of the hand truck under the box. He hoped that the man spoke English.
“No problem. Where are you going?”
“Mexico City.”
“No problem. You people, you just follow me.”
The unhappy-looking woman behind the window grille also spoke English, he was relieved to find out. Yes, there was a first-class compartment available. The ancient machine at her elbow disgorged two tickets, which she hand-stamped. The only problem was money.
“Don’t take dollars,” she said, scowling, as though it were his fault. “Only moneda nacional.”
“Can’t we change money here?” Shelly asked.
“The change is closed already.”
Brian’s surge of panic was only slightly relieved when the porter said, “I got a friend, change money.”
“Where?”
“Over there, he work in the bar.”
The bartender smiled broadly, was more than happy to sell pesos for dollars.
“You know I gotta charge different from the bank because I lose on the exchange.”
“Whatever you say,” Brian said, passing over the greenbacks.
“I’m sure he’s cheating you!” Shelly hissed when the man went to the till.
“I agree. But we’re getting on the train and that’s what counts.”
Cheated or not he felt immensely relieved to see the thick bundle of pesos that he got in return for his dollars.
It was eight minutes to twelve when the porter put the box on the floor in the compartment, pocketed his ten-dollar tip, closed the door behind him as he left. Shelly pulled down the curtain while Brian locked the door and opened the box.
“The correct rate of exchange for selling dollars in Mexico is—”
“Keep it a secret from us, will you please?” Brian said as he took out his airline bag. “Been enjoying your trip so far, Sven?”
“If looking at the inside of dark car trunks is enjoyable, then I have enjoyed myself.”
“It can only get better,” Shelly said.
There was the clank of distant couplings and the train shuddered and began to move; an imperious knock rattled the door.
“I’ll get that,” Shelly said. “You had better relax.”
“I would love to.”
She waited until he had slammed the box shut before she unlocked and opened the door.
“Tickets please,” the conductor said.
“Yes, of course.” He passed them over. The conductor punched them and pointed to the seats.
“Just pull the back of the couch down when you are ready to retire, the bed is already made up. The upper bunk swings down like this. Have a pleasant journey.”
Brian locked the door behind him and dropped onto the seat limply. This had been quite a day.
The train swayed as they picked up speed, the wheels clicked over the rails, lights moved by outside. He opened the curtain and watched the suburbs stream past, then the farms beyond.
“We’ve made it!” Shelly said. “I’ve never seen a more lovely sight in my life.”
“I am sure that it is a most interesting view,” the muffled voice said.
“Sorry about that,” Brian said as he opened the box again. Sven pushed his eyestalks out so he could see through the window as well. Brian turned off the lights and they watched the landscape drift by.
“What time do we get there?” Shelly asked.
“Three in the afternoon.”
“And then?”
Brian was silent, looking out into the darkness, still not sure. “Shelly, I still think I ought to be doing this on my own.”
“Nonsense. In for a penny, in for a pound, isn’t that what they say?”
“They say it in Ireland all right.”
“It is my belief that you should accept Shelly’s offer of aid,” Sven said.
“Did I ask for your opinion?”
“No. But her suggestion is a good one. You have been quite ill, your memory has gaps in it. You can use her help. Take it.”
“Outvoted,” Brian sighed. “The plan is a simple one—but you had better have your passport with you.”
“I do. Packed it in as soon as Dr. Snaresbrook mentioned she would be going to the Mexican border.”
“What I must do is stay ahead of anyone who comes looking for me.”
“Go to ground in Mexico?”
“I thought of that—but it’s no good. The Mexican and American police cooperate very closely in chasing down drug runners. I am sure that General Schorcht would tag me as a criminal if that was needed to track me down. So I have to go further than Mexico. I checked the schedules and a lot of international flights leave Mexico City in the early evening. So we buy tickets and leave the country.”
“Any particular destination in mind?”
“Of course. Ireland. You’ll remember that I am an Irish citizen.”
“That’s a brilliant idea. So we get to Ireland—then what?”
“I am going to try and find Dr. Bociort—if he is still alive. Which will probably mean making a trip to Rumania. The people who stole my first AI and tried to kill me are still out there. I am going to find them. For a lot of reasons. Revenge might be one of them, but survival is the main one. With their threat removed I can stop looking over my shoulder. And General Schorcht will no longer have an excuse to cause me trouble.”
“Amen to that.” She yawned widely and covered her mouth. “Excuse me. But if you are half as tired as I am we should get some sleep.”
“Now that you have said it—yes.”
He pulled down the curtain and turned on the lights. As promised, the two berths were made up and swung easily into position.
“I’ll take the upper,” Shelly said, opening her suitcase and taking out pajamas and a dressing gown, grabbed her purse. “Be right back.”
When she returned the only light on was the small one over her berth. Brian was under the covers and Sven had raised the curtain an inch and was looking out.
“Good night,” she said.
“Good night,” Sven said. A soft snore was the only other sound.
39
December 20, 2024
The scenery flowed by while they ate breakfast in the dining car. Small villages, jungle and mountains, an occasional glimpse of ocean as they skirted the Sea of Cortez. While they were finishing their coffee a phone rang and Brian saw one of the other diners take it from his jacket pocket and answer it.
“I’m being stupid,” he said. “I should have thought of it before this. Do you have your phone with you?”
“Of course. Doesn’t everyone?”
“Not me, not now. You know that you can receive a phone call no matter where you are. Did you ever think of the mechanism involved?”
“Not really. It’s one of those things you take for granted.”
“It was so new to me that I looked into it. There are fiber-optic and microwave links everywhere now, cellular nets right around the world. When you want to make a call you just punch it in and t
he nearest station accepts it and passes it on. What you might not realize is that your phone is always on, always on standby. And it logs in automatically when you move between cells by sending your present location to the memory bank of your home exchange. So when someone dials your number the national or international telephone system always knows where to find you and pass on the incoming call.”
Her eyes widened. “You mean it knows where I am now? That anyone with the authority could obtain this information?”
“Absolutely. Like General Schorcht for instance.”
She gasped. “Then we have to get rid of it! Throw it off the train—”
“No. If a phone goes out of commission a signal is sent to the repair service. You don’t want to draw any attention to yourself. We can be fairly sure that no one is looking for you yet. But when they find that I’m missing and the search begins, they will be sure to contact everyone who worked with me. Let’s go back to the compartment—I have an idea.”
There was a panel under the window that looked perfect. Brian pointed to it.
“Sven, do you think you can take those screws out?”
Sven swiveled his eyes to look. “An easy task.”
The MI formed a screwdriver head with its manipulators and quickly took out the screws that held the plastic panel in place. There were two pipes and an electric cable passing through the space there behind the panel. Brian pointed.
“We’ll just put your telephone in here. The plastic panel won’t block any signals. If the military call and you don’t answer they are going to have a busy time tracking the signal while it’s moving around Mexico. By the time they sort it out we will be long gone.”
The train pulled out of Tepic at lunchtime and turned inland towards Guadalajara, reaching Mexico City exactly on time. Sven was packed safely away and ready for the porter who came for their luggage. He led the way to the Depósito de Equipajes, where they checked everything in. Brian pointed to the bank next to it.
“The first thing we do is get some pesos. We don’t want a repetition of Mexicali.”
“And then?”
“We find a travel agency.”
Outside of the Buenavista railroad station, Mexico City was cold and wet; the smog hurt their eyes. They ignored the cab rank and walked out through the crowds and along Insurgentes Norte until they came to the first travel agency. It was a large one and a placard in the window said ENGLISH SPOKEN, a very hopeful sign. They turned in.
“We would like to fly to Ireland,” Brian told the man behind the large desk. “As soon as is possible.”
“I’m afraid that there are no direct flights from here,” the agent said as he turned to his computer and brought up the tables of departing flights. “There is an American flight that connects daily through New York City—and a Delta flight through Atlanta.”
“What about non-American carriers?” Shelly asked, and Brian nodded agreement. Safely out of the States they were in no hurry to return, however briefly. In the end they settled for MexAir to Havana, Cuba, with an Aeroflot Tupelov leaving three hours later for Shannon. The tickets were priced in pesos, but the agent called the bank for the current rate of exchange.
“Let’s hold on to the cash,” Shelly said. “We’re going to need it. Use my credit card instead.”
“They’ll track you down.”
“Like the phone—I’ll be long gone.”
“Cash or credit card, both okay,” the agent said, and pulled over the booking form. “American passports?”
“One. The other is Irish.”
“That will be fine. This will only take a few moments.” The computer link checked the credit card account, booked the seats and printed the tickets. “I hope you enjoy your flight.”
“I hope so too,” Brian said when they were back in the street. The query about their passports was a depressing reminder that they were going to have to pass through customs. The travel books had been quite clear about this and he knew he faced trouble. He hoped he could avoid it by what was called the mordida. He would soon find out.
“I’m cold and wet,” Shelly said. “Do we have time to buy a raincoat—maybe a sweater?”
He looked at his watch. “A good idea. More than enough time before we have to be at the airport. Let’s try that department store.”
He bought two more shirts, underwear, a light jacket as well as the raincoat. Just the basic items that would fit into the carry-on bag. Shelly did far better than that, shopping so well that she had to buy another small suitcase. Back in the train station Brian dug out the stub, retrieved Sven and their bags, then took a cab to the airport.
There were no problems at the check-in counter. They watched Shelly’s bag and the crated MI move slowly away on the belt as the airline clerk tore out sheets from their tickets and stapled them to the boarding cards.
“Might I see your passports, please?”
This first hurdle was easy enough to get over. All she wanted to do was look at the first page to see if the passports were current and had not expired. She smiled and passed them back. Shelly went through security first. He followed, clutching his passport and boarding pass, putting his bag on the belt of the X-ray machine before he stepped through the archway next to it. The machine bleeped and the security guard turned to him with a dark and suspicious look.
He took the coins from his pocket, even unclipped and removed his brass belt buckle and put that on the tray as well. Stepped back through the arch, which bleeped again.
Then Brian realized what was happening. The magnetic field detected metal—and electronic circuitry.
“My head,” he said, pointing at his ear. “An accident, an operation.” Not a computer—keep it simple. “I have a metal plate in my skull.”
The guard was most interested in this. He used the magnetic field hand detector, which only bleeped when it was near Brian’s head. No weapon there; he was waved through. Everyone was just doing their job.
Including the customs officer. He was a dark-skinned man with an elegant mustache. When Brian gave him his passport he flipped the pages slowly, went back and repeated the action. Looked up and frowned.
“I do not see the visa entry showing where you entered Mexico.”
“Are you sure? Can I see the passport again?” He pretended to look through it and, with the great fear that he was making a total fool of himself, slipped a hundred-dollar bill between the pages. It is one thing to read about bribes—another to really attempt bribery. He was sure he would be under arrest within moments.
“I didn’t know I needed one. We crossed the border by car. I didn’t know about a visa.”
He pushed the passport back and watched with horror as the officer opened it.
“These things happen,” the officer said. “Mistakes can be made. But you will need two visa stamps. One to enter the country, one to leave. If the lady is with you she will need two stamps as well.”
The man looked bored as he returned the passport unstamped. Brian flipped through its empty pages—empty of money as well as visas—then realized what was happening.
“Of course. Two stamps, not one. I understand.”
They both understood. Three more hundred-dollar bills went the way of the first; there were two thuds and he had the passport back. Shelly’s was treated in the same way. They were through and on their way!
“Did I see what I thought I saw?” Shelly hissed in his ear. “You are a crook, Brian Delaney.”
“I am as surprised as you are. Let’s find our gate and sit down. This kind of thing is not easy on the nerves.”
The plane was only an hour late in leaving; the rest of the trip passed in a blur. They could only manage to doze on the plane and fatigue was beginning to tell. Havana was just a dimly lit transit lounge with hard plastic seats. The Aeroflot flight left two hours late this time. They ate some of the tasteless airline food, drank some Georgian champagne and finally fell asleep.
It was just after dawn in Shannon. The plane dr
opped down through the cloud-filled sky, came in low over cows grazing in green fields as they approached the runway. Brian pulled on his coat and took down his bag from the overhead rack. They left the plane in silence along with the rest of the weary travelers. Another transatlantic flight had arrived at the same time, so they were a long time shuffling along in the line of unshaven men, bleary-eyed women, whimpering and wailing children. Shelly went through first, had a visa stamped in her passport, turned to wait for him.
“Welcome home, Mr. Byrne,” the wide-awake and sprightly customs man said. “Been away on a holiday?”
Brian had been prepared for this moment and his accent was purest Wicklow without a trace of American. “You might say so—thousands wouldn’t. The food’s a shock and they seem to think that overcharging is a way of life.”
“That’s very interesting.” The man had the rubber stamp in his hand but he was not using it. Instead he raised cold blue eyes to Brian.
“Your current address?”
“Number 20 Kilmagig. In Tara.”
“A nice little village. Main Street with the primary school just across from the church.”
“Not unless they’ve jacked it up and moved it a half mile down the road, it isn’t.”
“True, true, I must have gotten it confused with someplace else. But there is still one little problem. That you are Irish I don’t doubt, Mr. Byrne, and I wouldn’t be one to deny a man access to the land of his birth. But the law is the law.” He signed to a garda, who nodded and strolled their way.
“I don’t understand. You’ve checked my passport—”
“I have indeed, most intriguing as well as puzzling it is. The date of issue is perfectly correct and all the visas appear to be in order. But I find one thing difficult to understand—which is why I am asking you to proceed with this garda to the office. You see this style passport has been replaced by the new Europas. This particular style passport hasn’t been issued for over ten years. Now don’t you find that interesting?”
“You better wait here for me,” Brian said weakly to Shelly as the big man in blue uniform led him away.
The Turing Option Page 37