knew was disconnected. I imagined that’s tough to do. So I was impressed. But then I figured in fact that’s impossible to do, given Manhattan’s population. Someone dies or moves away, their number gets recycled pretty fast. So then I guessed you had access to a list of numbers that never work. Phone companies keep a few, for when a number shows up in the movies or on TV. Can’t use real numbers for that, because customers might get harassed. So then I guessed you know people in the movie and TV business. Probably because most of the week you rent out as sidewalk security when there’s a show in town. Therefore the closest you get to action is fending off autograph hunters. Which must be a disappointment to guys like you. I’m sure you had something better in mind when you set up in business. And worse, it implies a certain erosion of abilities, through lack of practice. So now I’m even less worried about you than I was before. So all in all I’d say the card was a mistake, in terms of image management.”
The guy said, “Can we buy you a cup of coffee?”
* * *
I never say no to a cup of coffee, but I was all done with sitting down, so I agreed to go-cups only. We could sip and talk as we walked. We stopped in at the next Starbucks we saw, which as in most cities was half a block away. I ignored the fancy brews and got a tall house blend, black, no room for cream. My standard order, at Starbucks. A fine bean, in my opinion. Not that I really care. It’s all about the caffeine for me, not the taste.
We came out and carried on down Eighth. But four people made an awkward group for mobile conversation and the traffic was loud, so we ended up ten yards into the mouth of a cross street, static, with me in the shade, leaning on a railing, and the other three in the sun in front of me and leaning toward me like they had points to make. At our feet a burst garbage bag leaked cheerful sections of the Sunday newspaper on the sidewalk. The guy who did all the talking said, “You’re seriously underestimating us, not that we want to get into a pissing contest.”
“OK,” I said.
“You’re ex-military, right?”
“Army,” I said.
“You’ve still got the look.”
“You too. Special Forces?”
“No. We didn’t get that far.”
I smiled. An honest man.
The guy said, “We got hired as the local end for a temporary operation. The dead woman was carrying an item of value. It’s up to us to recover it.”
“What item? What value?”
“Information.”
I said, “I can’t help you.”
“Our principal was expecting digital data, on a computer chip, like a USB flash memory stick. We said no, that’s too hard to get out of the Pentagon. We said it would be verbal. Like, read and memorized.”
I said nothing. Thought back to Susan Mark on the train. The mumbling. Maybe she wasn’t rehearsing pleas or exculpations or threats or arguments. Maybe she was running through the details she was supposed to deliver, over and over again, so she wouldn’t forget them or get them confused in her stress and her panic. Learning by rote. And saying to herself, I’m obeying, I’m obeying , I’m obeying . Reassuring herself. Hoping that it would all turn out right.
I asked, “Who is your principal?”
“We can’t say.”
“What was his leverage?”
“We don’t know. We don’t want to know.”
I sipped my coffee. Said nothing.
The guy said, “The woman spoke to you on the train.”
“Yes,” I said. “She did.”
“So now the operational assumption is that whatever she knew, you know.”
“Possible,” I said.
“Our principal is convinced of it. Which gives you a problem. Data on a computer chip, no big deal. We could hit you over the head and turn out your pockets. But something in your head would need to be extracted some other way.”
I said nothing.
The guy said, “So you really need to tell us what you know.”
“So you’ll look competent?”
The guy shook his head. “So you’ll
The guy said, “Can we buy you a cup of coffee?”
* * *
I never say no to a cup of coffee, but I was all done with sitting down, so I agreed to go-cups only. We could sip and talk as we walked. We stopped in at the next Starbucks we saw, which as in most cities was half a block away. I ignored the fancy brews and got a tall house blend, black, no room for cream. My standard order, at Starbucks. A fine bean, in my opinion. Not that I really care. It’s all about the caffeine for me, not the taste.
We came out and carried on down Eighth. But four people made an awkward group for mobile conversation and the traffic was loud, so we ended up ten yards into the mouth of a cross street, static, with me in the shade, leaning on a railing, and the other three in the sun in front of me and leaning toward me like they had points to make. At our feet a burst garbage bag leaked cheerful sections of the Sunday newspaper on the sidewalk. The guy who did all the talking said, “You’re seriously underestimating us, not that we want to get into a pissing contest.”
“OK,” I said.
“You’re ex-military, right?”
“Army,” I said.
“You’ve still got the look.”
“You too. Special Forces?”
“No. We didn’t get that far.”
I smiled. An honest man.
The guy said, “We got hired as the local end for a temporary operation. The dead woman was carrying an item of value. It’s up to us to recover it.”
“What item? What value?”
“Information.”
I said, “I can’t help you.”
“Our principal was expecting digital data, on a computer chip, like a USB flash memory stick. We said no, that’s too hard to get out of the Pentagon. We said it would be verbal. Like, read and memorized.”
I said nothing. Thought back to Susan Mark on the train. The mumbling. Maybe she wasn’t rehearsing pleas or exculpations or threats or arguments. Maybe she was running through the details she was supposed to deliver, over and over again, so she wouldn’t forget them or get them confused in her stress and her panic. Learning by rote. And saying to herself, I’m obeying, I’m obeying , I’m obeying . Reassuring herself. Hoping that it would all turn out right.
I asked, “Who is your principal?”
“We can’t say.”
“What was his leverage?”
“We don’t know. We don’t want to know.”
I sipped my coffee. Said nothing.
The guy said, “The woman spoke to you on the train.”
“Yes,” I said. “She did.”
“So now the operational assumption is that whatever she knew, you know.”
“Possible,” I said.
“Our principal is convinced of it. Which gives you a problem. Data on a computer chip, no big deal. We could hit you over the head and turn out your pockets. But something in your head would need to be extracted some other way.”
I said nothing.
The guy said, “So you really need to tell us what you know.”
“So you’ll look competent?”
The guy shook his head. “So you’ll
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