‘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living in a five star hotel near Central Park, Manhattan, using the thousands of dollars I’ve made from forging historical documents, and I’m reading a newspaper in the hotel lobby.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.
I was aware, as I did so, that I’d shattered the confidence I’d been projecting; that I now looked completely desperate. But at least it was honest. It was how I was truly feeling.
A few moments later, I’d opened the internet browser, and inserted the website name into the URL bar. After a considerable lag, the website appeared.
Across the top was the same photograph: the bay, with purple flowers.
Ellen walked over to my side, and clicked a link to the website’s gallery. After another considerable pause, a new page appeared.
It was a catalog of all the photos that’d ever appeared across the top of the webpage. The photos had been shrunk to half their original size, and appeared along the left-hand side of the page – with the most recent nearest the top. On right-hand side was the date and time – rendered in Californian Time – they’d been uploaded. The most recent photo of the bay – had been uploaded the previous evening at 6:20 p.m.
The photo that had appeared before that – a vista of Californian oak trees, though I didn’t recognize it as a specific landmark – had been uploaded at 11:02 p.m. on Saturday night. The photo before that – of Hopi House, the landmark at the Grand Canyon Village – at 6:54 a.m. on Wednesday 9 December.
Then there were further photos, dating back from much earlier. For instance, a photo that I reckoned was of a Borax Lake – a lake of historical significance to the north of Sacramento, uploaded at the end of November.
I stared at the photos, uncomfortably aware of Ellen standing at my shoulder. Ellen, whose confidence in me was undoubtedly plummeting by the second. Because as I stared, I knew I’d been barking up the wrong tree. Knew that I’d ludicrously fabricated a whole chain of events from a single goddamn rash—
‘The receipt,’ Ellen exclaimed abruptly with almost an air of panic. ‘The receipt!’
I looked at her. This time, it was my turn to experience utter confusion.
Ellen continued staring at the screen for a few seconds. Then she turned to me. ‘Back at the quarry, when we frisked Yuelin’s men, we found two things. A piece of paper containing both a room number at the Bellagio and a short-wave frequency. And a receipt, which we discarded as rubbish. It was for a lunch on Wednesday, 9 December, at a diner near the Grand Canyon – what was its name?’ She paused, her eyes rolled up in thought.
‘The Maswik Café’ I said, the name suddenly jumping into my head. And barely had I said it when I typed it into a search engine. After a few heart-pounding seconds, I got a map of its location. Sure enough, it was less than a mile from Hopi House.
I turned to Ellen. Her eyes were wide. ‘You were right,’ she said in quiet awe, placing a shaking hand on my shoulder. And she was right to be awed: we’d just found Yuelin’s most hidden line of communication. No doubt about it. And simply by stumbling on it, we’d rendered Yuelin potentially vulnerable.
And yet – given the tentative look we were sharing – we both understood it was only a potential vulnerability.
‘So everything depends on this contact setting a further rendezvous point?’ said Ellen.
I nodded. ‘The photo of Hopi House went up just before seven. They were in the cafe by midday. So, if we’re to assume they ate after the rendezvous, it means there’s at most a five hour gap from when a photo goes up and the meeting’s due to happen. But the space of time could be considerably shorter.’
‘In other words, it also depends on us being able to get to the location in time…’ Ellen paused. ‘And identifying the location.’
I nodded. ‘But that’s a damn sight better than fifteen minutes ago, when everything depended on Yuelin contracting appendicitis, and a bolt of lightning destroying the hard-drive. But look at it this way. If it is a Chinese spy, you can bet your bottom dollar that the whole reason he’s mixed up with Yuelin – willing to work with her at all, however surreptitiously – is because of that goddamn technology. He’s the one who’ll be smuggling it out of the country and getting it to the Chinese government. And I reckon there’s a very real chance that Yuelin won’t have handed it over quite yet, and that they’ll still need a last rendezvous for that to happen. The fat lady may still be yet to sing.’
I stood. But before I could do anything, Ellen clasped me in a big hug. There was no longer just fear and despair in the air: there was hope and possibility.
From the moment we’d worked it out, the little staff room became a sweatbox of tension and anticipation, as we desperately waited for a fresh photograph to appear. In between our constant page refreshes, we discussed tactics; what we’d do once the photo appeared. First, of course, we would have to identify the location in the image, and we knew an internet connection – however slow – would almost certainly come in handy. Then we’d need to get there post-haste, which would entail us continuing with our previous arrangement: me driving; Ellen in the back, out of sight.
Then what we did at the location really depended on timing. If we got there before them, we’d devise some kind of trap – whereas if we got there at the same time, we’d have to respond more impromptu.
And if, in the worst case scenario, we missed the meeting altogether well, then we’d just have to improvise as best we could. Though of course we also acknowledged it might be tricky to know whether the meeting had yet taken place.
Once we were all talked out, we fell into contemplative silence, and took turns pacing the office.
This seemed to go on interminably. But we continued waiting with a weird pent-up calm; with an almost religious conviction it would happen, and that even thinking otherwise might somehow jeopardize it. And as the minutes became hours, and the hours started adding up, the tension became near unbearable.
Then – more than three hours later, at 1:40 p.m. – our prayers were answered.
Ellen refreshed the page for the umpteenth time. But on this occasion, to our unspeakable relief, there was no longer a photo of a bay.
I scrambled to Ellen’s side.
The image was of a small clearing, and in the background there were a few low-lying trees which partially concealed what looked like a pink-walled church – there was a small cross affixed to the top of the wall. In fact, this church looked oddly familiar.
And then I got it.
‘I know this place. It’s La Purisima Mission, an old Catholic church near Lompoc, a couple of hours north of LA. I know because’ – I racked my brains – ‘because it’s right near Vandenberg Air Force Base. Or, at least, where Vandenberg used to be: it closed a few years back. I was stationed there briefly while with the HRT, and even visited the Mission. I’m pretty sure this is its back-end.’
Ellen put La Purisima into Google. And though it took a few tense minutes, we eventually managed to get up a satellite view of Purisima Mission. And sure enough – with my heart pounding – I spotted a small road, which ran behind the Mission, and which led eventually to what looked like an abandoned farm. A road that nobody would ever bother heading down and was surely where the photo had been taken.
The perfect rendezvous spot. A spot that could be easily communicated via a recognizable landmark, and yet tucked away.
‘We’ve got it,’ Ellen said, her voice trembling.
I was feeling the same giddy mixture of relief and excitement. But it wasn’t so simple.
‘It’s a good three hours away, El. No guarantee we’ll make it in time.’
She looked at me for a long moment, as though she hadn’t processed what I’d said. Then all of a sudden, she jumped to her feet.
‘So what the hell are we waiting for?’