She flipped open her computer, watching as it latched on to the airports wifi signal. A few keystrokes and she was there, at the Googledocs website. She logged in, typing Nicks name carefully and without spaces: nickducaines. Then the password, constructed from each letter and digit he had cried out: Nick4.
Incorrect name and password.
She tried again, this time spelling Nicks name in capital letters. Now a new error message appeared.
Incorrect password, insufficient characters.
Damn. Nicks effort, valiant though it had been, had been in vain. He had not lasted long enough to convey the last few letters.
She stared at the screen. Nick4. What could that mean? What might 4 refer to? Guessing, she typed in Nick4duC.
Incorrect password. You are approaching the maximum number of failed attempts. One more attempt allowed.
She looked around, checking the faces of those nearby: a mother with children, a student listening with eyes closed to an iPod.
Think.
Then she looked at it again Nick4 and a teenage memory returned. They had all done it, carving it on park benches and on school desks. She had done it herself once: Maggie4Liam. Was it possible that Nick du Caines had been that soft-hearted? Somehow she wouldnt have put it past him. She entered the password field and typed Nick4Maggie.
She was about to press enter on this, her last attempt when something stopped her. She could hear Nicks voice, on the phone or across the table in the bar. Now listen, Mags, when are you finally going to start moving those luscious lips of yours into the shape of a story for my newspaper?
Mags.
Carefully, so as not to hit enter by accident, she retyped so that the new password read simply Nick4Mags.
Without fuss, as if it had been waiting for her, the page transformed itself, offering a list of documents. She was in. Poor, sweet Nick, sending her an adolescent valentine even in his last moments. She had never once taken his interest in her seriously.
At a glance, she could see all his most recent stories, sorted by date. And there at the top, a document entitled New Orleans. She clicked it open, expecting a long, detailed memo, explaining all his findings. Instead there was a single line. Daniel Judd, aviation expert followed by a phone number.
Maggie pulled out her phone and dialled. After two rings, a voice answered: male, cautious.
Im a friend of Nick du Caines, she began. He left a message on my machine just before he died. I think he-
Died? Nick?
Im sorry, that was very insensitive of me. I thought you might have known. Did you know him well?
Who is this? What happened to Nick?
Maggie explained the circumstances that had led to her call. There was a long silence and for a panicked moment she thought the man had hung up, but then he said, How can I trust you? How do I know you didnt kill Nick and now youre after me?
Maggie was flummoxed. I dont know. All I can tell you is that Nick went to very great lengths to let me know how to reach you. He used his dying breaths to leave a message on my answering machine. It was-
All right, get off this line. Call me on a payphone in thirty minutes. Number is- There was a shuffling of paper, then he rattled off a number at her.
Hold on, hold on. Maggie scrabbled one-handed in her bag for a pen. Say that again-
You have thirty minutes. Go buy unregistered, pay-asyou-go phones, as many as you can afford. Call me from one of those. After that, throw it away. Never use any of them twice. And dont give the number to anyone. He repeated the number of the payphone, so quickly she barely had time to scribble it down, and hung up.
Maggie did what she was told, rushing to a cellphone store in Terminal 3. She bought five phones with her now-dwindling cash supply and punched in the payphone number Judd had given her.
He picked up and spoke on the second ring. You say he left my number on your answering machine?
No. Nick was smarter than that. A password, then a document.
No one else has seen it? The voice sounded harried, feverish.
Maggie looked at the screen, noticing the saved date for the New Orleans document was 10.54pm the previous evening a few minutes before Nick had been fighting for his life and that, according to its properties, it appeared not to have been opened again till now. I dont think so. She needed to get him to talk, before his nerves overcame him. Listen, Mr-
No names on the phone!
Of course, sorry. Listen, it was me who put, er, our mutual friend on to the, um, issue that I think he was discussing with you. I was the one who mentioned it to him. I think he wanted me to know whatever it was you told him.
Im gonna do this real quick and Im only gonna say it once. Are we clear?
Were clear.
After were done, you destroy the phone. Clear?
Sure. I understand your anxiety, Mr-
No names! Youre damned right Im anxious. This is some serious shit youre wading into here, Missy, I can tell you. She heard the sound of traffic rushing past.
Were clear.
After were done, you destroy the phone. Clear?
Sure. I understand your anxiety, Mr-
No names! Youre damned right Im anxious. This is some serious shit youre wading into here, Missy, I can tell you. She heard the sound of traffic rushing past.
I know that.
Right then. Once only. At midnight thirty local time on March 22, a jet departed from Lakefront Airport, New Orleans, Louisiana, carrying seven passengers. The number of the aircraft was November-four-eight-zero-eight-Papa. That aircraft is registered to one Premier Air Executive Services, an air operator based in Maryland. Its prior history indicates use by the Company.
As Maggie suspected, the CIA.
Judd wasnt done. That was its prior use. Two years ago it shifted ownership. It is now entirely at the service of a single client.
What kind of client?
One time. I will not repeat this, you understand? Premier runs private jets exclusively for AitkenBruce.
Maggie couldnt repress her surprise. AitkenBruce? The bank?
But Judd was in no mood for discussion. He had one more fact to convey. Today Premier submitted another flight plan. They have a Gulfstream 550 jet departing Teterboro, New Jersey for Washington Reagan at nineteen hundred hours. Looking back through the flight history, theres only one person who makes that journey on that aircraft. And thats the chairman of the bank.
58
New York, JFK Airport, Monday March 27, 16.25
Maggies thoughts whirled. A bank? What on earth could any of this have to do with a bank? And AitkenBruce speci fically. It made no sense. Forbes had no connection with finance in any form. What possible-
The phone she had bought in Aberdeen vibrated, making her jump.
Restricted.
But no one knew this number. And why would they call the second she had finished speaking to Judd? Had someone been listening in, waiting to pounce?
She picked up the device as if it were coated in poison, pressing the green button to answer the call, but saying nothing. And then she heard that voice.
Maggie? Is that you?
Uri.
Panic flooded through her. She spoke fast, thinking of Stuart and Nick and the curse that seemed to leave all those she touched dead. Dont call this number again. Give me a number where I can call you.
Her abruptness shocked him; a sudden wariness in his voice, he replied, Im in an edit suite. The number is, hang on, what is the number here? There was a second voice, barely audible. Hurry. Eventually, Uri gave her the number; Maggie scribbled it down, then ordered him to hang up.
She binned the phone shed used to call Judd, though the waste of a perfectly good phone went against her entire upbringing, picked another and called Uri back.
Maggie, what the fuck is going on?
Its a long-
Dont tell me: Its a long story.
Seriously, Uri. Anyone who talks to me is in danger. Grave danger.
Come on, Maggie, thats a bit melodramatic. Theres-
Remember my friend Nick? He was killed last night.
There was a beat of silence. Jesus. Im sorry, Maggie.
I so want to talk, Uri. Just to have a chance to talk. For as long as we like.
Where are you?
She hesitated. She knew it made no sense to say it out loud. But it was a virgin phone; it should be safe. Im at JFK.
Im coming. Right now.
She tried to argue, insisting it was too far, there was no time, but he bulldozed through her resistance the way she allowed him and no one else to do. By the time she had told him exactly where she was sitting, he was already in a cab.
Her pulse was throbbing now, with a new, gentler kind of fear. How long since she had seen Uri? Not since the inauguration; more than two months. She looked at her reflection in the window: she hardly recognized herself. And there was so much they hadnt said.
She turned back to the computer, still open at Nicks Googledocs account. Focus, she told herself. Focus. There was only one thing she was meant to think about now. She went to the search field and typed AitkenBruce.
She had heard of the bank, of course; everyone had. It was famous for its squillionaire traders and executives, rewarding themselves with telephone number salaries and even fatter bonuses. But how it could be caught up in all this, she couldnt imagine.
Google led her to AitkenBruces own website. It was full of corporate puff: pictures of smiling employees most of whom seemed to be either young, female or black, projecting an image of perfectly inclusive diversity and blurbs about the generous philanthropic activity the AitkenBruce family was engaged in around the globe. She clicked out of it almost immediately.
A fresh search revealed a long piece in the Sunday Times magazine, headlined: The True Masters of the Universe: Inside the Worlds Richest Bank.
She scanned the first few paragraphs, which revealed an institution with more cash in its coffers than many governments, one whose assets topped a trillion dollars and whose top brass routinely went on to take up posts in the commanding heights of the worlds economies. At any one time, the ranks of the AitkenBruce old boys association would include either a US Treasury Secretary, German finance minister or head of the European Central Bank and sometimes all three at once.