My expectation of general seediness and bad-neighborhood vibes for the 8:00 P.M. meeting was not at all met by the trappings of the actual location.
The address Jacques provided belonged to a nice building with a doorman. My former papers man worked out of the basement of a pawn shop in New York City, in a section of town that looked like it needed to be hosed down with antibiotics, so I arrived carrying a certain expectation. I figured at minimum, Paris would provide us with a storeroom in a warehouse on a riverbank someplace where the odor of the river was particularly strong. But this wasn’t even in a part of the city that hotels instructed tourists to avoid, which was downright disappointing.
The doorman directed us to the concierge, who held up a finger to cut off the greeting that was about to come out of my mouth. (I was going to go with, hi, we’re expected.) He looked us over for a three-count before making a call on the house phone.
We must have matched a description. I’m thinking Mirella was described in great detail, while I was probably “…a guy.” That’s how I would do it.
“Penthouse,” the concierge said, in English. “Take the middle one.” This appeared to be in reference to the elevators, of which there were three.
He slid a key across.
“We’re expected,” I said, finally, even though we were past that part already.
“Yes, sir.”
We had to insert the key in a slot next to the button for the penthouse, which was the only way to get the lift to go up there.
“Classy,” Mirella said, once the doors closed and we were on our way up.
“Weird, isn’t it?” I said. “I guess there’s money to be made in counterfeit passports around here.”
“It’s… disconcerting. I’m not sure why.”
“I feel the same way,” I said. “Like we’re in the wrong place, and someone screwed up the instructions.”
“Yes.”
What with the private key to activate the button, it was unsurprising that the elevator doors opened on the penthouse directly.
There was a man waiting for us. He was about what I was expecting, in thug terms: stocky, nice suit, shoulder holster for a sidearm, all that. No sunglasses, but it was nighttime. Basically, he should have been at the riverfront warehouse I’d been expecting, instead of inside a pricy penthouse.
He looked us over for a few seconds, and then gestured that we could continue into the loft.
“Not going to frisk us?” I asked.
“Well, don’t know,” he said, in an American brand of English. “You here to kill somebody?”
“We don’t plan to, no.”
“Cool, then I won’t frisk you.”
“Really?”
He shrugged.
“If you want me to frisk, I’ll frisk, but most people don’t get this far without being well-spoken-for. You guys look okay. But if you want, I can linger at the edge of the living room and stare at you menacingly. If it helps the mood.”
“No, that’s all right.”
We left the entryway and stepped into the living room, which had a simply epic view of the city. The room itself was appointed with leather furniture, a grand piano, tables that were useless for anything other than a tray of hors d’oeuvres, and so on. Very clean, very antiseptic. There wasn’t any art on the walls, books on the shelves, or family photos. It was homey, and welcoming, but it didn’t feel as if anyone actually lived there. It felt like a movie set. But the view of the Paris skyline was great.
“Down the hall,” the man said, pointing to the hallway at the other end of the room. “She’s waiting for you.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Is Jacques here?”
“I don’t know who that is, friend.”
“Right.” That was either a no, or a don’t mention anybody’s name around here. Probably the latter, since he hadn’t introduced himself or asked our names.
There was an open door at the end of the hallway, out of which streamed the familiar glow of multiple computer screens. I was about to call back to the fellow at the elevator to make doubly sure it was okay to go down the hall, when someone poked a head out of the room.
“Ah, you are here, good. No, stay there, I will come to you.”
The woman who emerged from the room was short and skinny, with army-cut brown hair, in sweatpants and a hoodie. She was holding a camera that looked heavier than she was, and moved with the kind of manic energy one usually only saw in coke addicts and tornadoes. Her accent—like the man at the door, she spoke English—was vaguely Germanic.
“Welcome, welcome to my home,” she said, a burst of activity as soon as she made it to the living room. “Call me Ina! You, there, you sit, go, on the couch, it’s very comfortable I’m proud of it. You, stand against the wall. No, not there, here, against the white background.”
The first ‘you’ was to me and the second to Mirella. She likewise had no interest in getting our names, which was now sort of making sense, given we were getting new ones anyway.
“No, no don’t smile” Ina said, attempting to direct my girlfriend. “Look displeased.”
“I am actually displeased,” Mirella said. “Can’t you tell?”
“Then you are too pretty. Try anger. You have waited in line for days before this photo, you hate bureaucracy, give me that! Yes! More of that!”
I’m not an expert in fake passports or photography, but from where I was sitting every expression Mirella tried from the moment she was asked to pose looked like she was unhappy, so I didn’t know what Ina was hoping for, but whatever. Goblins don’t often smile for pictures anyway, because if their teeth show, it can be a problem: most of them have pointed teeth. I understand there’s an entire clandestine dental industry catering to goblins and elves, which in addition to the usual teeth-cleaning and what-not, will cap teeth so they aren’t pointy any more. It wasn’t a procedure Mirella had gotten, though.
Ina took about twenty photos too many, then sent Mirella to the couch.
“You, man. Come here.”
I stood up against the wall.
“You don’t actually live here,” I said.
“Hold still and look aggrieved. What do you mean?”
“You said welcome to your home, but this place doesn’t look lived in.”
She took three photos, and then lowered the camera.
“I didn’t say I lived here,” she said. “You are done. Go sit.”
“You used up a whole roll of film on her,” I said.
“I needed a bad photo, and she doesn’t take bad photos so easily. You, very easy. Also, it is digital, there is no roll. I have better cameras that use film, but there is no darkroom in this penthouse, and you asked for a rush. Developing film takes too long.”
“I’m not used to letting people I’ve just met take pictures of me,” I said, because for some reason I felt like explaining why I was a good model for a bad photo.
Cameras, radios, and telephones are all ‘new’ technology from my perspective. (So are eyeglasses, indoor plumbing, the printing press, and so on. You get the point.) I’m not always good about embracing new technology, especially when it complicates my passage through a world in which I often prefer anonymity.
I will say that I’m glad we got past the part where we had to stand motionless for an hour to get a photo taken. I’d just rather not have the photo taken.
“Yes, fine. Now. Tell me where you are going?”
“Is that important?”
“Everything is important. Some borders are inhospitable to people from certain places. Are you visiting a sanctioned country? How many languages do you speak? Why are the passports you used to get into France no longer adequate? I am very expensive and I do very good work, but I traffic in a level of realism which requires a thorough perspective on my clients. If you are concerned, much of what you are paying for is my silence. So. Tell me what it is I don’t know, so that we can get you to where you would like to be.”
I looked at Mirella, who shrugged.
“We’re going to the United States,” I said. “I’ve been there before, and she was raised there, but we don’t want there to be any connection between the last time we were in the States, and this time.”
“This is not your ultimate destination.”
“I don’t know if it is or not.”
“Multiple identities, then. I’ll arrange three. Are you criminals?”
“I don’t understand the question.”
“Are you on any watch lists? Is Downing Street looking for you, or the CIA, or Mossad? Who are you hiding from?”
“That’s complicated.”
The reason I killed my ‘self’ and broke off all contact with the outside world was that a small number of incredibly wealthy people happened to know I was immortal, and had already exhibited an unseemly degree of motivation in attempting to exploit that fact. I wanted nothing to do with them. This was partly because their plans didn’t include my surviving the experience, which was an admittedly selfish motivation.
The less selfish motivation: sharing total immunity and effective immortality with the richest .1 percent of the planet would be a disaster from just about every angle. If I knew exactly who these people were, I could maybe develop a strategy to avoid them. But I don’t. And, based on everything I’ve come to understand about the world of high finance—holding companies, venture capital firms, offshore accounts, and all that—the people behind it might not even know they’re behind it. They could just be rich people investing in an untested medical procedure.
That wasn’t the only reason, though. We had to burn all connection between what we were doing now and the secret island from which we came, both to preserve its secrecy and to protect Eve, who was convalescing there. This was maybe just paranoid thinking on my part, but I thought it would be best if nobody knew where she was until we better understood how she’d gotten sick when that was supposed to be impossible.
“This is a yes?” Ina asked.
“We are not wanted by Downing Street,” Mirella said. “Nor by Mossad, so far as we’re aware. The CIA, possibly.”
“Don’t hold out, pretty woman,” Ina said. “Any others? Interpol?”
“I don’t think so.”
Ina checked with me.
“The Inquisition,” I said. “But they’ve probably stopped looking for me by now.”
She grunted.
“Show me the ID’s you’ve already used, please.”
I tried to come up with a reason for her to need these, without asking, because it was becoming obvious that her answer wasn’t going to change the end-result of us handing them over. Then I tried to come up with a reason why showing them to her would be bad, and came up with only one: if she didn’t give them back, we’d be stuck in Paris.
That was a good reason to hang onto the passports, but at the same time I was standing in the living room of a master forger already, so other options were available if this became an issue.
I handed mine over, and Mirella did the same.
Ina examined both for several seconds, nodding slowly.
“Yes,” she said. “I know this work. Very good. There’s a bar behind that wall. Sit. Drink. Wait.”
You may know this about me already, but the very best way to get on my good graces is to share your large stash of expensive alcohol.
The secret bar behind the wall was fully stocked with top shelf liquors, plus a couple of wines older than everyone who wasn’t me, and Ina was now my best friend. I went straight for the bourbon, because decent bourbon is harder to find than you might think, and this was on the good end of decent.
“Careful,” Mirella said, as she took the bottle out of my hand—I’d filled a glass, drained it, and was about to refill it—and poured a drink for herself. “We could use you clear-headed right now.”
“Same to you.”
She smiled. “I handle my liquor better. We both know cirrhosis would have claimed you a millennium ago if you functioned like the rest of us.”
“So, you’re saying try not to get drunk.”
“I am saying that, yes.”
“But I do some of my best work drunk.”
“This is only something you tell yourself. It isn’t true.”
“I think I’m supposed to be offended now,” I said, somewhat close to being genuinely offended.
“You would be if I was wrong.”
I don’t let a lot of people get to know me as well as Mirella. Maybe one person every third generation. When it happens, I make it a habit to not ignore their wisdom as it pertains to my behavior. Usually, they’re right. Sure, a lot of the time they have a crummy way of making their point—lovers habitually leave, for instance—but they’re still usually right.
The point is, I took her concern seriously.
Mirella scooped up her glass and took it to the window to get a proper look at Paris at night.
“I’ve been in rooms such as this before. You’re right, I don’t believe this woman lives here. I don’t think anyone does. I suspect it’s loaned out for parties and the like. The bar makes that point strongly.”
“You’ve been to parties in places like this?” I asked.
“I’ve guarded people who went to parties in places like this,” she said, referencing her prior career as an expensive bodyguard. “I met you in a place like this.”
“That was a hotel room.”
“Similar view, different city, same size bar.”
“Better alcohol here.”
“Fair.”
She downed the glass and went back to the bar.
I snuck a peek around the corner and down the hall to see if there was any way to discern exactly how long this was going to take. (You would think I’d be more patient, given boredom has been the defining mood of almost my entire existence.) There wasn’t; I’d have to break whatever politeness protocol we were observing and walk into the room at the end of the hallway to get an idea.
Mirella watched me fidget.
“I feel it too,” she said, quietly. “This was not a night I expected to feel safe and relaxed, and with a drink in my hand, and so I don’t feel safe or relaxed. If it puts you at ease, I’ve checked the windows for sniper positions four times and identified two likely fire exits. I also believe I can shatter the overhead window if we need immediate roof access.”
“That does make me feel better, thanks. And I can add that the man at the door is right-handed and has a Glock holstered on his left side. He favors his left leg. Knee problems, I’m thinking. He looks like he’s carrying about twenty pounds more than he should be for his frame, and his peripheral vision sucks.”
“Don’t we make a pair,” she said, smiling. Casing a room is kind of like foreplay for us.
“I think maybe we shouldn’t be released on the world,” I said. “Let’s go find another island, or we’ll never get to relax again.”
“Certainly. Right after we save everyone once more. It’s your turn to pick the island.”
“Here we are!” Ina said, from halfway down the hall. “I will show you the first set, and then we will talk some more.”
She bustled into the room with two passports in her hand. She tossed one to each of us.
“Sit!” she said, before taking a seat of her own in a lounge chair opposite the couch.
I flipped open the new passport immediately, to see what my new name was about to be.
Frederick Mayall. Didn’t roll off the tongue, but okay.
“I have a large list of appropriate names from which to choose, with the paperwork already completed and ready to go,” Ina said. “All of this documentation cost time and money to obtain and create, and so it only wastes my time if there is a name which I cannot use, about which I’m not notified.”
“Sure,” I said. I wasn’t at all clear on the point she was trying to make.
“I will explain. You are better known by the world at large as an immortal man named Adam. Knowing this, it would have been unfortunate had I used one of the two ‘Adam’ documents I have available.”
I looked blankly at Mirella, and she back at me.
“Neither of us gave you that name,” I said.
“Exactly. And you ought to have. Now, let’s discuss why Dimitri should have never let you leave the island.”