Never Forget

by Richard Davis

  ‘This is a highly-wanted, highly-dangerous suspect – we both know that full well,’ he said evenly. ‘We’re a professional outfit, and we’re not about to turn up underprepared.’ Then he added, as if only just realizing: ‘And meanwhile, there’s only just one of you? I know you State Police have been round the block, but…’

  He trailed off deliberately. He’d said it with an undercurrent of accusation as if to imply executing the arrest alone had been negligent.

  Up and down the country, there’s tension between city and state police. And now that I’d aroused that tension, I had to ride it out.

  I shrugged, chuckled. ‘Well, somehow I managed it. Mind you, she was scrappy, but not highly-dangerous.’

  He narrowed his eyes. I didn’t reckon he was suspicious. I reckoned he was just a professional old-timer who didn’t deal in bullshit. But either way, I had to hope he didn’t challenge me further, because the more he challenged, the likelier it was he’d catch us out.

  After a second, he nodded as though rising above it and said: ‘Good work.’

  I nodded, and took a step past him, pushing Ellen along. But he took a step with us.

  ‘But since you’re a one man band,’ he said politely, ‘I insist you take one of my officers with you. Can’t be too careful.’

  I stopped, raised an eyebrow: ‘With all due respect, Officer – what was it? – I managed to bring her in myself, so I’ll manage the rest.’

  Again, I walked past him, and could see the frustration on his face in my peripheral vision. I hardly looked at the other officers – most of whom were within ear-shot of what’d been said. Just took another three steps.

  Then Davison said: ‘Would you mind if I looked at your ID again? So I can jot down details, and have something to officially log. My superiors will want to know.’

  It was a reasonable request – one that’d be very difficult to shoot down. And as he said it, I realized – with a mad sinking feeling – it was the end of the line. That our little performance had run its course.

  Involuntarily, I glanced at the Ithicas – chambered, ready. No making a run for it. We’d be blown into a thousand pieces of flesh and blood and—

  Suddenly Ellen started thrashing around. ‘You fucking cops – you goddamn pigs – you have no fucking idea—’

  I reacted immediately: I gripped her arms hard, though she kept on thrashing – her face red, spittle flying from her mouth.

  It was one last throw of the dice.

  ‘Look,’ I said, as I genuinely exerted myself, and gave Davison a look that said I didn’t need his help as he took a step forward. ‘I’m not in the mood to mess around—’

  ‘—you cocksuckers. I’ll slit your goddamn throats—’

  ‘—So if you don’t mind’ – I continued marching her across the blacktop, without looking back, right through the middle of their four squad cars – ‘I’m going to take her in. I appreciate you want closure, but I’m only taking her to the FBI Fresno Office – it’s not a Field Office, but it’s a secure outpost, only fifteen minutes away. Call them up in twenty, and they’ll confirm things, I’m sure.’

  We carried on. Davison said nothing. I reached the car, put the valise on the floor, and took out the keys, while continuing to exert myself against a still thrashing Ellen. I pushed her roughly into the back of the car, closed the door, after which, I paced to the driver’s door.

  I turned to Davison, who was looking on with an intense frown.

  ‘Thanks for your backup, officer.’

  He gave a slow, begrudging nod. I got behind the wheel, fired the engine, and nosed out of the spot and onto East Kings Canyon Road. Then I squeezed the gas, without once looking in the mirrors.

  * * *

  As soon as we reached the Roadmaster – three minutes, and a quarter mile later – we hurriedly changed car. Ellen got in the back and laid across the seats, so she was out of sight. I got behind the wheel, ripped off the khaki top, and threw on my tee.

  And because Ellen had been wise, and left the car on a quiet residential street, nobody seemed to see us do it.

  Scarcely were we back on the road again when the all-too-familiar sound of sirens started up back in the direction we’d come. Davison had realized he’d been duped. I continued in the opposite direction towards the I-80. Four minutes later, we passed two squad cars moving past us in the opposite lane, and I held my breath as they did so. But they didn’t stop. They hadn’t yet realized we’d changed car.

  I kept on navigating the city, careful not to overdo it. Then, before we knew it, we were on the westbound lane of the I-80, putting distance between us and the mounting heat.

  We were silent for a good fifteen minutes. Finally Ellen said:

  ‘Where are we going?’

  There was nothing in her voice. I imagined her emotional capacity was exhausted. That, after everything she’d been through, it was hard to feel anything.

  ‘As near to nowhere as we can get.’

  Chapter 40

  We continued driving west without any coherent plan. As the bleak desert landscape passed outside the window, desperate ideas passed through my mind – ideas with no hope of coming off. I contemplated, for instance, tracking down the other elites named on the USB stick Manek had handed over, and attempting elaborate counter-blackmail plots. But of course, this was futile. I wouldn’t be able to apply pressure any different from Yuelin. On the contrary, I was in a less powerful position, since I didn’t actually have the evidence.

  Then, after a while, the outlandish ideas fizzled out, and I focused merely on finding somewhere we could rest. Somewhere remote, but not altogether cut off from the outside world: we’d learned our lesson about cutting ourselves off. And even now, I had the news playing quietly on the radio. Yes, Ellen’s name was being uttered time and again, and this was undoubtedly unnerving for her, especially when news came in, thirty minute into the drive, that she’d been sighted in Fresno. But we need to keep our finger on the pulse.

  Besides, Ellen seemed to have processed the original panic, and had fallen into calm contemplation. And I kept shtum. Wanted to let her think things through.

  After an hour, I came off the I-80, and started south, through the desolate expanse of Fresno County: a large, sun-scorched part of the world, populated by dwindling communities and ghost towns. The sense of desolation was reassuring. Then thirty minutes later – after passing an ancient roadside reading ‘Welcome to Five Points’ – I found something promising. Because instead of a town, Five Points was nothing more than a five-way crossroads, with a solitary weather-beaten structure on the roadside: a Post Office. And crucially, while there appeared to be no sign of life inside, it didn’t look out of use.

  ‘How does this look as a place to lay low? Seems empty. Often, in rural locations like this, the post office will only open a few hours a week. But that also means that it’s probably inhabitable.’ I slowed to a crawl. On the front window, a sign indicated it was only open on Wednesdays to Fridays. ‘Apparently it’s not open at all today.’

  Ellen was now sitting up on her elbows. ‘It’ll give me a chance to catch up on the hate-mail I’ve undoubtedly been accumulating.’

  She still sounded down; but I was relieved to hear her joking. When the world’s lusting for your blood, sometimes only a sense of humor can keep insanity at bay.

  I pulled in round the back, so the car was out of sight. We got out, and scanned our surroundings: brown, desolate sand in all directions, under a dismal grey sky.

  I approached the back entrance, and since the door was made of decaying wood, it was easy to force. And unsurprisingly, when we entered the staff office space to the back of the building, it was clear there was zero security in place.

  The staff space was run-down, and looked like it hadn’t been renovated since the 1940s. It was like stepping into a time capsule but it was comfortable enough. A RCA CTC-11 television sat in the corner – a brown box, with fiddly knobs on the side, which had to be one o
f the original color televisions in America. Two ancient-looking computers, accompanied by a dial up modem, on a desk. A moth-eaten sofa. A kitchenette.

  I walked through the partitioning door. The main post office space was much the same: pokey, outdated, run-down.

  But the important thing was: it was somewhere we could stop, think, catch our breath.

  I re-entered the staff office, and looked at Ellen, who’d sat on the sofa. And though some of her old resilience seemed to have returned, I could still see in her face a deep anxiety at our lack of direction. And yet, I still didn’t have an answer.

  I walked over to the TV, hit the power. And miraculously – after a few long seconds – the screen lit up, and we were in business.

  I switched to the news, which was saying nothing new. Then I sat next to Ellen, and put my arm around her.

  I wanted to tell her that I was thankful for everything she’d done – for saving my skin yet again in Fresno; for her ingenious play acting, which’d bailed us both out at the very last moment. But I knew she didn’t want to hear any of this. She wanted a plan.

  But though I didn’t have one – not yet – I was there for her. I needed her to know it.

  Chapter 41

  Monday, December 13, 10:22 a.m. – US Post Office, 21074 Lassen Ave, Five Points, California.

  ‘So picture the scene. It’s summer, 1993. I’m eighteen, living in a five star hotel near Central Park, Manhattan, using the thousands of dollars I’ve made from forging historical documents, and I’m reading a newspaper in the hotel lobby. There’s a guy sitting opposite, and we get to talking. He asks me what I do, and on a whim, I tell him I’m the bell-boy and I’ve just finished my shift. He compliments me on my expensive clothes, and I joke that that’s where all my salary goes. Then he gets serious, tells me his name’s FBI Agent Morton Giles, and he’s actually investigating a fraudster, who he believed could be living out of the hotel – though he knows very little about him – and he asks if he could ask me some questions.

  ‘All at once, I realize that he’s looking for me. For a moment, I get this giddy, overwhelming feeling: my childish pranks had finally caught up with me in the form of a real, bona fide FBI Agent. Then, because I realize he hasn’t got the slightest clue I’m his man, a strange hubris kicks in, and I make a mad decision to lead him on. He asks me if I’d seen anyone suspicious, and I start claiming that one of our regulars could be the man and make up a bunch of ridiculous reasons. Then I ask him – with phony naïvety, phony wonderment – what it’s like to be a G-Man.

  ‘I can’t explain it, really. It all felt like a game back then. I did it for the rush. And not only did I believe I couldn’t fail, I also didn’t feel like the consequences were real. You know in cartoons when they pull the trigger, and a banner with the word “Bang” pops out the gun? That’s what the threat of prison felt like.’

  ‘Then what happened?’ asked Ellen.

  ‘After half an hour, he left. That is, after I overzealously shook his hand. Then I calmly went up to my room, packed my bag, and got a cab to the airport. The end of the first chapter of my con-artist career.’

  Ellen grinned widely. ‘And now he’s your closest friend?’

  I nodded. ‘Though he still doesn’t like it when I bring up that first meeting.’

  Ellen smiled.

  After twenty minutes of dismal silence, I’d decided to try and boost Ellen’s spirits; after all, I was dealing with a human being who, after facing a litany of tragedies, was facing yet another intense challenge. And since I had power to cheer her, I felt compelled to.

  But though I was talking about lighter things, I was – in the back of my mind – desperately fumbling for a solution; desperately thinking of some kind of tactic. And yet, even as I was doing so, I was beginning to realize that the situation was more than desperate. Yuelin had all the balls in her court: the technology, the capacity to wreak more terror. And I was beginning to realize also, that unless we came across some new lead or insight we were dead on our feet, and the prospect of turning the tables was a remote daydream.

  Yet, I was maintaining an air of quiet confidence. Because at this point, I had to allow Ellen to believe things weren’t hopeless: it was the only way she’d survive.

  ‘It’s ironic isn’t,’ Ellen said suddenly. ‘The source of all Yuelin’s power has been intercepting communications. And now we’re hiding out in a post office – the first place folk would go to intercept communications back in the day.’

  I nodded. ‘And she’s been so meticulously careful with her own communications that’s she’s managed to achieve a situation in which she’s nowhere on the authorities’ radar, while her victims are directly in the firing line.’

  Ellen made a small smile. ‘I should have known when my brother told me about TOR to trust my gut and stick to the invisible ink.’

  I returned the grin. ‘If only it were that simple: I heard Yuelin has the invisible ink producers in her back pocket, too. Now telepathy – that’s the ticket.’

  We were silent for a spell, as the TV blared on. Watching the news on this outdated little box had a comforting effect: it made it seem distant, as though we were watching some footage from a historical disaster, which we had no reason to fret about.

  But then – just as I was thinking that – we were brought back to reality by some breaking news. Minxin Gu and Hao Ting had not only turned up, but they were both at the Chinese Consulate in Los Angeles, and Minxin was about to make a speech.

  We sat to attention.

  The screen cut to Minxin, standing outside the Consulate, with Hao just behind him and, though Minxin looked like hell, Hao looked a good deal worse: positively done-in. Then Minxin proceeded to make a small speech, in which he categorically denied any prior knowledge of the attack, and claimed they’d changed car because they’d received a tip that the car may’ve been compromised in some way, and they wanted to play it safe. Then he condemned the attack on the San Fran Consulate, as he was bound to do.

  ‘This is bullshit,’ Ellen said savagely. ‘The authorities know from the driver that’s bullshit, but let me guess: they can’t touch him with a bargepole, because he’s a damn diplomat. And that condemnation…’ she uttered a bitter laugh.

  I replied with a half-hearted grunt. I wasn’t feeling the same vitriol. I was just staring absent-mindedly at Minxin’s hands; his hands that betrayed how run-down he was – they were red, sore, rashy. Then I studied his gaunt face, before again looking at his hands.

  Then, all at once, something clicked in my mind.

  ‘His hands,’ I exclaimed, pointing at the screen.

  Ellen gave me a look of utter confusion.

  ‘They’re rashy, look.’

  ‘So what?’

  I blinked, ordering my thoughts. ‘Remember you showed me the FreeTibetGuy blog yesterday, and the photo on top was of those flowers – the ones that gave you a rash as a child? Well, what if they’re linked?’

  Ellen shook her head. ‘What are you saying?’

  I stood and started pacing.

  ‘I’m saying that maybe it wasn’t an innocent photo. Maybe it was a communiqué, a way of broadcasting a rendezvous point. I’m saying that maybe the guy who runs that blog isn’t an activist – he is, I don’t know, some kind of contact of Yuelin’s. And maybe that photo was designating a place for Yuelin to drop Hao and Minxin off…’ I thought a moment. ‘Hell, maybe this Free Tibet Guy is in fact a state-sponsored Chinese spy. And that theory makes an odd kind of sense. If it was a Chinese spy, while he’d almost certainly want to be in communication with Yuelin, the last thing he’d want would be for anyone to ever realize; because, in the eventuality Yuelin were caught, it’d be catastrophic if the Chinese government were implicated. So instead of using shortwave radio which can, after all, be compromised if a frequency’s leaked, they were communicating via images. In fact, the last images anyone might suspect – images on a Free Tibet blog.’

  I continued pacing. The more I
was saying, the more sense it seemed to make.

  I went on: ‘We were only just saying how careful Yuelin’s been with her communications. This technique coheres with her tactics. An ingeniously unexpected method; a method incredibly hard to prove, even in the extreme off chance it were noticed. So what happened was this: the Chinese spy realized Yuelin’s plan had gone amuck – that Minxin and Hao had been taken – so put up the photo to set a place that Yuelin could hand over Minxin and Hao, and he could take responsibility.’

  I turned to Ellen. Her mouth was hanging open. But then, after a long moment, she shook her head. ‘I want to believe it, Saul. But it’s such a huge leap from a rash. It seems far more likely it’s merely coincidence.’

  I absorbed this slowly. But once it sunk in, the wind was immediately out of my sails. Ellen was right: it was probably just a goddamn coincidence.

  But even as I conceded this, my thoughts involuntarily turned to the other two photos I’d seen on that blog: a landmark at the Grand Canyon; a vista of Californian oak-trees. But as my mind then sifted through everything we’d been through, I could think of nothing that indicated these locations had been rendezvous points; nothing to dispel Ellen’s instinct that I’d spotted nothing but a coincidence.

  And yet, a part of me couldn’t let it go.

  I went to one of the old computers, and switched it on.

  ‘I hear what you’re saying, and I agree that it’s almost certainly a coincidence. But, I just have to look at the other photos on that site one more time. Can you see his historical photographs anywhere on the blog?’

  She bit her bottom lip as if reluctant to give me encouragement. Then, after an infinitesimal shake of the head, she said: ‘Yes, there’s a gallery of historical photos.’

  I nodded, and there was an awkward silence as the ancient computer slowly ratcheted up. Once it was finally alive, I sat, and connected to the internet using the dial-up modem which made that psychedelic series of beeps and noises.