5

I awoke early the next afternoon, feeling like I’d fallen out a fifth-floor window. My computer was still on, but the last e-mail Bredahl had sent me was gone. I must have deleted it, out of drunken panic or spite. Among the usual spam I found a flight itinerary, an electronic voucher for my e-ticket, and Ilkka Kaltunnen’s address and phone number in Helsinki.

I cursed myself for deleting that message. I tried in vain to remember the URL, checked my browser’s history and clicked on the link. It was no longer valid. Neither were any of the links that had brought me to the darkweb the night before. If it hadn’t been for the e-ticket and itinerary, the whole thing might have been the backwash from another bad hangover.

But given my recent phone messages, it seemed like a good time to get the hell out of Dodge. I downed some ibuprofen and a couple of Focalin and scrambled around the apartment to pack. I didn’t have much in the way of warm clothes: a few long-sleeve black T-shirts and worn black cashmere turtlenecks, a bulky black sweater, two pairs of skinny black jeans, an old striped Breton shirt, some socks that weren’t too threadbare. I went to an ATM and withdrew what remained of my cash. I briefly considered splurging for a warmer coat but didn’t want to use up my meager credit. Instead I bought a pair of cheap leather gloves and a knit watch cap from a street vendor, along with a fake Burberry scarf.

Back in the apartment, everything fit into the same beat-up satchel I’d been carrying around since I was a teenager. I transferred the Focalin into an empty prescription bottle that had last held antibiotics, tossing in some Vicodin to even things out; stuck Phil’s glassine envelope of crank into a little Baggie with some ground coffee, to throw off drug dogs at the airport, and shoved the Baggie through a hole in the lining of my leather jacket. Then I found my camera, the ancient Konica my father had given me on my seventeenth birthday.

Over the years I could, intermittently, have afforded a better rig. Phil Cohen never stopped giving me shit for not upgrading to digital.

But the Konica got the job done. I replaced the battery and made sure the flash was charged, and stuck the zoom into the satchel with everything else. I got out the ziplock bag of film I kept in the freezer, removed some rolls of Tri-X, and packed them, setting aside one. A camera’s like a gun—no good unless it’s loaded and in your hand when you need it.

I printed out the information Bredahl had sent me, then deleted all his e-mails and cleared my browser’s history. They could still be dug out of the hard drive by a cop or dedicated hacker, but I hoped my anxiety was a function of alcohol and prescription amphetamines. If it wasn’t, I wanted to make my electronic trail a little harder to follow. I pulled on my cowboy boots—not the best gear for Helsinki, but all I had—grabbed my leather jacket, started for the door, and hesitated.

On the desk beside my computer was the envelope from Quinn. I pulled out the photo and stared at it; then I stuck it in my bag, and went to catch the bus to JFK.

By the time I got to the airport, I was vibrating from caffeine and Focalin and shaky because I hadn’t had a drink since leaving my apartment. The TSA guy gave me the hairy eyeball. But there didn’t seem to be an APB out on my passport, so once past security I loaded the roll of Tri-X into my camera, exchanged some of my dollars for euros, and found the duty-free shop. I knew two things about Finland: It was cold, and alcohol cost more than cocaine. I bought a bottle of Jack Daniel’s for the trip, then found a bar to kill time until my flight was called. Once on board I wedged myself against the window. I swallowed a Vicodin, pulled the watch cap over my eyes, and passed out.

It was dark when I left New York, dark when the flight landed at 6:00 A.M. in Helsinki; dark when I filed through Border Control and got my passport stamped by a guy who looked like his last job had been checking IDs in Lothlórien. Two hours later, when I finally stumbled from a bus into the slush-covered street in front of the railroad station in Helsinki, it was still dark.