Chapter Ten
BRADLEY CAUGHT UP with me at the doors leading from the hotel’s beautiful courtyard into the grand gallery, moving surprisingly fast, given his limp.
I had said a curt goodbye and headed out, but he managed to grab my arm before I knew he was following. ‘I have a favour to ask,’ he said. ‘That’s why Marcie and I came to Paris.’
I shook my head. ‘I’ve got to go,’ I said.
‘Listen – please …’ He took a breath, struggling with what he was about to say. But I didn’t give him a chance. I pushed his hand away and started to leave.
‘No,’ he said, in that authoritative voice. I looked around and saw that people at the nearby tables were watching us. I didn’t want to create a scene and it gave him a moment.
‘Go down deep enough into darkness and nothing’s ever the same,’ he said quietly. ‘Being injured made me think differently – about life, my relationship with Marcie and my work. Especially my work. If there was one positive—’
I’d had enough. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘the injury must have been terrible and I’m glad you came through okay, but there are things I’ve got to arrange.’ I didn’t have time for a sob story or to hear reflections on life from a man I would never see again. I was getting out of Paris, running for cover and maybe my life, and I didn’t have time to waste.
‘Just one minute – one more,’ he said.
After a beat I sighed and nodded – I suppose I owed him some small courtesy for telling me how my former life could be laid bare so effectively. But I didn’t bother moving, and everything about my body language told him the Wailing Wall was in Jerusalem and to just get it over with.
‘You never asked about how I got my injuries – and I want to thank you. Professionals usually don’t, of course. Most of us have been in bad situations so there’s not much point in talking about it.’
Yeah, yeah – enough about correct professional conduct. What do you want to ask me? I thought.
‘I told you I was trapped in a building. It was a little more than that – I was in the North Tower of the World Trade Center when it went down.’
Chapter Eleven
BRADLEY KEPT TALKING but, to this day, I have no idea what he said. Somehow we returned to our table, but I was too preoccupied with cursing my stupidity to listen. No wonder he had post-traumatic stress disorder, no wonder he had weeks in intensive care, no wonder he was suffering from survivor guilt, no wonder he needed an impossible investigative project to bring him back from the dead.
Bradley had said he was holding some guy in the dark, listening to him die. Meanwhile, outside their concrete tomb, Lower Manhattan was on fire. And yet I was so smart I had worked out it was a gunshot wound to the hip and another one that took out his lung. If that was the best I could do, it was probably a good thing that I had retired.
I was shaken from my harsh self-appraisal by his voice – he’d taken his cellphone out and was asking me something. ‘Mind if I make a call? I want to check in with Marcie.’
I nodded. He waited for her to answer, turned away, and said a few brief words I couldn’t hear. As he hung up, he motioned for more coffee and pastries. I hoped he had a credit card with no limit.
‘I only mentioned September eleventh,’ he said, ‘because it’s the basis for what I want to ask you.’
‘Go on,’ I said softly, trying to make up for even thinking the poor mother should have gone to the Wailing Wall.
‘As part of my recovery, I finally went back to Ground Zero, to the spot where the North Tower had stood,’ he said. ‘I looked at it for a long time – God, it was cold – and I finally realized that I was so damned angry I had no hope of ever making a full recovery.
‘But I wasn’t angry at the hijackers – they were already dead. And it wasn’t because of the injuries I had received – c’mon, I was alive.
‘I was angry about injustice – about the uncaring way the world works. I knew a lot of ordinary people had died that day not because of fire or falling masonry but because of their compassion. It was their desperate attempts to save other human beings – often total strangers – that had ended up costing them their own lives.’
He took a sip of coffee, but I knew he didn’t want it. He was buying time, trying to work out how best to go on. I just waited. To my mind, he’d earned the right to take as long as he needed.
‘Ever think about how many disabled people were working in the Twin Towers that day?’ he asked finally.
‘No, it never crossed my mind either,’ he continued, ‘not until just after the planes hit. Of course, if you were in a wheelchair your problems were far worse than anyone’s – it wasn’t as if you could try to get out by elevator. That’s one thing we all know, isn’t it? Those signs are always warning us to use the stairs. But say you can’t walk? If I ever get trapped in a burning building, Mr Campbell, all I ask is that I can use my legs. Just an even chance to run or die. That’s not asking much, is it? An even chance.
‘There was a guy – he was working for a financial-services company – who had listened to all the fire drills and knew where his evacuation chair was. Ever seen one of those? It’s like an aluminium dining chair with long handles that stick out front and back so people can lift and carry you.
‘He was a paraplegic, and I suppose he was proud he’d overcome his disability and had a job. Might have had a wife and kids too, you never know.
‘September eleventh was the first day of school, and a lot of people were late. It meant he was alone in his corner of the North Tower when the American Airlines plane hit.
‘The impact jumped his wheelchair halfway across the room. Through the window, he saw a blast of flame arcing into the sky and he knew he had to move fast or he was dead.
‘He found his evacuation chair, balanced it on his lap and headed for the emergency stairs. On the way he got drenched – the sprinklers came on and with it the lights gave out.
‘He got out into the elevator lobby, but there were no windows so it was dark. It was the building-maintenance guys who gave him a chance. A few years back, they had used glow-in-the-dark paint on the emergency doors so that in a disaster people could still find them. God knows how many lives the decision saved that day.
‘He propped open the door into Stairway A with his wheelchair and positioned his evacuation chair inside. He wasn’t a strong guy, but he transferred himself across.
‘Immobilized now, he sits in an emergency stairway inside a burning building and does the only thing he can. He waits.
‘There are three emergency staircases in the North Tower. Two are forty-four inches wide, the other is fifty-six inches. It’s a big difference – in the wide one two people can pass each other and it’s not as tight on the turns. Those turns would be critical for anyone trying to carry what is really a stretcher with a seat. As you can imagine, fate being a bitch, the paraplegic guy is on one of the narrow staircases.
‘All through the building people are deciding which way to run – towards the ground or up to the roof for a helicopter rescue. Those that go up die – the door on to the roof is locked to prevent suicides.
‘Stairway A is full of dust, smoke, people and water. Like a fast-running stream, it pours down the steps from overworked sprinklers and busted pipes. But the guy in the evacuation chair doesn’t call out, doesn’t ask for help. He just waits. For a miracle, I guess.’
Bradley paused, thinking about miracles, I suppose. For a moment, as he started speaking again, there was a tremor in his voice, but he managed to control it. ‘A long way below, some middle-aged, not very fit, guy hears about the man in the chair and starts yelling. He wants volunteers to go back up with him and help carry him down.
‘Three men step forward. Ordinary guys. They follow the middle-aged man up the stairs, pick up an end of the chair each and choose the right way – they don’t go up, they carry him down. Through the crush of people, the smoke, the water and those corners that were too fucking tight.’
r />
He paused again. ‘They carried him down for sixty-seven floors! And you know what they found when they got to the bottom? No way out.
‘It had taken them so long that the collapse of the South Tower next door had destabilized its neighbour. Ahead of them was just fallen concrete. Behind them was the fire.’
Bradley shrugged. I remained silent. What was there to say, even if I could trust my voice not to falter? Sorrow floats was all I could think of.
‘They turned back, reached a door on to a mezzanine and got in to the lobby. A short time later, everything went to hell when the building crashed down. The wheelchair guy and two of the rescuers somehow made it to safety, but two of those who saved him didn’t.’ He paused for a moment. ‘You know what took their lives, Mr Campbell?’
‘Compassion?’ I said.
‘That’s right, like I told you – it wasn’t the falling masonry or the fire that killed them. It was their goddamned attempt to help somebody else. That was where my anger came from. Where was the justice in that?’
He caught his breath for a moment before saying softly, ‘I wasn’t sure I wanted to live in a world like that.’
I knew then that Bradley had visited Ground Zero in more ways than one. I pictured him in the snow at dusk, a tiny figure in the acres of emptiness where the Twin Towers had once stood, doing his best to find a reason for living.
Thankfully, Marcie was with him, and he said they held hands as he told her about his despair. ‘So what are you going to do about it?’ she wanted to know, totally matter-of-fact.
He told me he looked at her in confusion, no idea what she meant. ‘Yes, I got it, Ben, you don’t want to live in a world like that,’ she said. ‘Okay. But as people say – are you gonna curse the darkness or light a candle? So let me ask you again: what are you going to do about it?’
That was Marcie – she had become so tough, she wasn’t surrendering an inch any more.
‘She was right, of course,’ Ben continued. ‘And we talked about what to do all the way home.
‘Because of my injuries, I didn’t know much about the 9/11 investigation, and as we walked uptown I listened as she told me fifteen of the nineteen hijackers were Saudis, how bin Laden’s family were spirited out of the country in the aftermath, that most of the perpetrators were in America on expired visas and several of ’em had learned to fly planes but hadn’t shown any interest in landing them.
‘It became clear that, even though the hijackers had made scores of mistakes, they were still better than us – and if anyone doubted it, there were three thousand homicides on my turf that proved it. By the time we reached the Village I realized that an idea was taking shape.
‘I worked on it through the night, and the following day – a Monday – I went to New York University and lit my candle.’
He said that, in a large office facing Washington Square, he explained to the college executives that he wanted to start an event that would become as famous in its way as the World Economic Forum in Davos – an annual series of lectures, seminars and master classes for the world’s leading investigators. A place where new ideas would be exposed and cutting-edge science displayed. He said it would be moderated by the top experts in their field, crossing all disciplines and agency boundaries.
‘I pointed through the window,’ Bradley told me, ‘to where the Twin Towers had stood. ‘Men like that’ll come again,’ I said, ‘and next time they’ll be better, smarter, stronger. We have to be too – all of us who are investigators have got one clear objective: we’ve got to beat them next time.’
‘There were eleven people in the room and I figured I’d won over three of ’em, so I told the story of the guy in the wheelchair and I reminded them that they were the closest college to Ground Zero – they had a special responsibility. If they weren’t going to stage it, who would?
‘By the end, half of ’em were ashamed, a few were in tears and the vote in support was unanimous. Maybe next year I’ll run for mayor.’ He tried to laugh, but he couldn’t find it in his heart.
He said the arrangements for the World Investigative Forum were going better than he had expected, and he rattled off a list of names of those who had agreed to teach or attend.
I nodded, genuinely impressed. He said, ‘Yeah, it’s all the big ones,’ and then looked at me. ‘Except one.’
He didn’t give me a chance to reply. ‘Your book has had a huge effect,’ he continued. ‘Being over here, you probably don’t realize, but there’s hardly an A-list profess—’
‘That’s why you came to Paris,’ I said, ‘to recruit me?’
‘Partly. Of course, I came to finally solve the mystery of Jude Garrett but, now that I have, here’s a chance for you to make a contribution. I know we can’t say who you really are, so I thought you could be Garrett’s long-time researcher. Dr Watson to his Holmes. Someone who helped—’
‘Shut up,’ I said – something he probably wasn’t used to hearing. I was staring at the table and, when I looked up, I spoke low enough to ensure it was for his ears only.
‘Right now,’ I said, ‘I’m gonna break all the rules of my former profession – I’m going to tell you the truth about something. This is probably the only time you’ll ever hear it from someone in my line of work, so listen carefully.
‘You did a remarkable job in finding me. If I ever did another edition of the book, I would include your work for sure. It was brilliant.’
He sort of shrugged – flattered, I think, really proud, but too modest to express it.
‘You found a lot of names, unravelled a lot of cover stories, but you didn’t find out anything about what I actually did for my country, did you?’
‘That’s true,’ Bradley replied. ‘I’m not sure I wanted to. I figured anything that secret was best left alone.’
‘You’re right about that. So let me tell you. I arrested people, and those I couldn’t arrest I killed. At least three times I arrested them first and then I killed them.’
‘Jesus,’ he whispered. ‘Our country does that?’
‘I think homicide detectives and judges have a name for it, don’t they? I can tell you, though, those sort of actions can weigh heavily on a man’s spirit – especially as he gets older. One thing I can promise you: nobody could ever accuse me of discrimination. I was ecumenical in my work – I took down Catholics and Arabs, Protestants, atheists and at least a few Jews. The only ones who seemed to miss out were the Zoroastrians. Believe me, I would have included them too if I knew exactly who they were. Trouble is, a lot of the people I hurt – their friends and family, mostly – aren’t active practitioners of what you and I might call Christian principles, Mr Bradley. Specifically, they don’t care too much for the bit about turning the other cheek. You know the Serbs? They’re still angry about a battle they lost in 1389. Some people say the Croats and Albanians are worse. To people like that a few decades hunting me wouldn’t even count as a weekend. I’m telling you this so that you can understand – I came to Paris to live in anonymity. I’ve been trying to reach for normal. Tonight hasn’t exactly been good news, so I won’t be running any workshop, I’m running for my life.’
I got up and held out my hand. ‘Goodbye, Mr Bradley.’
He shook hands, and this time made no attempt to stop me. The courtyard had emptied and Bradley cut a forlorn figure sitting alone among the candles as I made my way out.
‘Good luck,’ I called back. ‘The seminar’s a great idea, the country needs it.’ I turned to continue on my way – and came face to face with a woman.
She smiled: ‘I take it from the look on my husband’s face the answer was no.’ It was Marcie. Bradley must have told her where we were when he phoned her.
‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘I can’t take part – he knows why.’
‘Thank you for giving him the time, though,’ she responded quietly. ‘For spending so long listening to him.’
There was no resentment or anger – her only concern seemed to be
her husband’s welfare. I liked her instantly.
Bradley turned away from watching us and tried to attract the waiter’s attention, calling for the bill.
‘You know, Ben admires you tremendously,’ Marcie said. ‘I don’t suppose he told you, but he read the book three times just for pleasure. He always says he wishes he could have done half the things you wrote about.’
For a moment I glimpsed a different Bradley – a top-flight investigator who believed he had never played in a league big enough to match his talent. More than most people, I knew that professional regret was a terrible thing to live with and, as often happened, I started thinking about two little girls and what I did in Moscow a long time ago.
Marcie had to touch my arm to break me out of the alley of my memories, and I saw she was handing me a business card. ‘It’s our number in New York. If you ever get a chance, call him – I don’t mean now, some time in the future.’ She saw my reluctance and smiled. ‘A few years would be fine.’
But still I didn’t take it. ‘He’s a good man,’ she said seriously. ‘The best I’ve known; better than most people could ever imagine. It would mean a lot to him.’
Of course I knew I would never call but it seemed so unnecessarily hurtful not to take it that I nodded. As I was putting it in my pocket, Bradley turned back, and he and Marcie’s eyes met for a moment across the silent courtyard.
In that unguarded second, neither of them aware that I was watching, I saw them stripped of their social armour. They were no longer in Paris, nowhere near a five-star hotel; I saw in their faces they were exactly where they had been before and after the North Tower fell – in love. They weren’t kids, it certainly wasn’t infatuation, and it was good to know that in a world full of trickery and deceit something like that still existed. Maybe the evening hadn’t been a complete bust after all.
The moment passed, Marcie looked back at me and I said goodbye. I went through the tall doors and paused at the lectern where the courtyard’s maître d’ stood in judgement. He knew me well enough and after I thanked him for his hospitality I asked him to send the trolley over one more time and gave him two hundred euro to cover the bill.