CHAPTER 6
Daniel had to confess that Jerry had great taste. Admittedly, five thousand dollars ought to be able to get some decent clothes, but even so. Jerry had brought him three pairs of jeans, two pairs of boots, a new watch, a leather wallet and some jackets. He’d also bought some trainers – sneakers, Jerry had called them – a few pairs of shorts and t-shirts and had broken down four five-hundred dollar bills into more manageable units, just as Daniel had asked.
When he’d told Jerry that he’d be checking-out later that day, the hotel worker’s face had dropped, but a one-thousand dollar tip soon picked it back up. Daniel said that he was on the run from his billionaire uncle and Jerry had been happy to agree not to say anything if anyone should ask about him.
As he looked in the mirror at the new “him”, Daniel almost couldn’t recognise the stylish young man looking back. The cloth hold-all that the professor had given him had found space inside a complimentary hotel case large enough to take his new clothes, along with a set of extremely soft white towels, a robe and a pair of carpet slippers. Compliments of the Cerillo, Jerry had said.
Looking at himself in the mirror the professor’s words came back to him; trust no one. He took out the second DNA card and put it through a document shredder in the suite’s main room. He removed the shredder’s lid, took half of the thin shavings and put them into a side pocket in his new bag. They’d be disposed of later. The problem of getting a new DNA card could wait for another day.
Was there really anyone following him? Would there be anyone following him? Maybe the professor had just been paranoid. Who could track false DNA cards that were good enough to get him through two of the world’s most security-conscious airports? But still, one thing his dad had always said was; better safe than sorry. Daniel closed his eyes at the memory, and a tear forced its way between his lashes. He couldn’t go on like this. However horrible the events of the last few days had been, if he kept crying every time he thought about them, then he’d be a wreck in no time.
He wiped his eyes and made a decision. No more tears. He was on his own now and it was time to grow up. He had to be a man.
He pulled on a jacket and considered what his next move would be. Where would he go? He’d come a long way already, both in terms of miles and emotions; a couple of days ago he’d just been an ordinary school boy. But that was all in the past.
Of course – the past. Winston Churchill had once said that to understand the future, you must understand the past. He’d go into New York and see if he could find out anything about his past. If even a small part of what the professor had said was true, then there had to be some record of it. Daniel decided that if he were to make any sense of what lay ahead, he must first find out where he came from.
The bullet train from Washington only took thirty-four minutes to get into New York City. Daniel watched as the train passed through the tree-dotted residential streets of the suburbs and then the grey-fronted warehouses of the industrial ring; the landscape left behind as a blur.
As the train slowed on its approach to Giuliani Central Station at East 42nd Street and Park Avenue – right in the heart of Manhattan – Daniel took in his first gaze of the city that housed the world’s most stable financial centre. New York had been the first of the global banking cities to re-build after the monetary melt-down twenty years ago. And as such it had become first among equals.
There was only so much square meterage that the developers could build on, so they went up. Square footage, Daniel reminded himself, not meterage – the Americans still used the imperial system. He remembered reading somewhere that they clung to the old form of weights and measures to stand apart from the rest of the world; to show that they would not conform just because everyone else said that they should.
Regardless, the skyscrapers here did exactly as their name suggested. They looked to Daniel to be so tall that their peaks gave the illusion of touching the very edge of space.
On the few occasions that Daniel had been to London he’d been surprised by the number of people moving around, but it felt like everyone in the world had decided to cram themselves into the streets of New York. If there was anywhere on earth where he’d be able to lose himself then it was here. He remembered that the most recent census stated that twelve-and-a-half million people lived within the three-hundred-and-five square mile confines of New York City. It was impossible for him to really imagine what that amount of people looked, or felt like, simply by reading about it in a book but now that he was faced with the reality he could hardly believe that people actually chose to live like this.
How could they breathe?
Moving around such a congested city with a case as big as his would be next to impossible, so Daniel made his way through to the long banks of baggage lockers at the edge of the station’s main concourse and left the case there. The journey to the New York Public Library, although it was less than two blocks away, took another twenty minutes. He walked through its ornate entranceway and headed to the third floor and the general use terminals.
Daniel didn’t have much to go on. The professor had told him that he’d burned the lab down a few weeks after Daniel had been born, but hadn’t said where the lab had been. Would he have to trawl through every online report or newspaper copy? No; he had a name – Gregory Dryden. That might be enough to tie in with the fire.
At least he hoped that it would.
Daniel made his way up the central staircase; its huge, carved banister worn smooth from the hundreds of thousands of hands which had gripped it over the years. The general use room housed over three hundred terminals, laid out in back-to-back rows of twenty- five, each one within its own small booth. Nearly half of the terminals were unoccupied. Between the large, arched windows banks of floor-to-ceiling shelves held countless books; it looked as if it’d been years since the last one had been taken out.
Daniel selected a booth in the far corner – that way he could have a clear view of the entire room – and tapped at the screen. A paper-thin, holographic monitor sprang into life, with the screen automatically loading the World Online homepage. He entered “Dryden, Gregory” into the search criteria field and waited for the results.
In the corner office on the twenty-third floor of Brinkley House a red “Alpha Alert” box flashed up on Chris Matthews’ screen. The last such alert had occurred two years before, when a Chilean reporter had dug deeper into a potential story than was good for her. It turned out to be the last query she had ever made. Matthews picked up his phone and pressed a button.
‘Yes?’ a cold, irritable voice asked.
‘An Alpha Alert has just been received, sir,’ he said.
The response was brief. ‘Where?’
‘I’m locating the source now,’ he tapped at his screen. A series of satellite tracking images flashed up. ‘Continental U.S., sir. East coast. New York City.’
‘Where in New York?’
‘I’m in the NSA MilStar system now.’ The display on Matthews’s monitor changed; replaced by clear colour images of New York as seen from above. A tracking sequencer displayed a triangular pattern and closed in on Manhattan; closer, closer, until it focused in on one specific point.
‘It’s the Public Library building, sir, 5th Avenue,’ Matthews said. ‘Locating the precise point of origin now.’
The image of the library shifted into a three-dimensional replica. A red dot pulsed on the third floor. ‘Third floor, sir, general use terminals.’
‘Get me a visual,’ the quiet voice on the other end on the line said.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And send the display to my screen.’
Matthews tapped at his keypad and a series of real-time images from the library’s cameras flashed up. He pressed the screen to isolate the cell which covered the corner of the third floor room. ‘It’s with you now, sir.’
Gregory Dryden lounged back in his wide chair, in Brinkley House’s penthouse office. The feed from the library appeared on his monitor. He pr
essed the screen and dragged his finger slowly upwards; the image closed in on a young boy sitting in the corner booth. The image focused into sharper detail. Dryden watched him for several more seconds before speaking.
‘Hello, Daniel.’
‘Shall I notify D-section, sir?’
Dryden had almost forgotten that Matthews was still connected.
‘No. Let him think he’s safe. He’ll be making his way to us very shortly. But keep track of him. I want visuals; I want to know where he goes, where he eats, where he sleeps.’
‘Yes, sir.’ There was a soft click as the call ended.
Dryden continued to watch the screen. ‘Looking for me, are you Daniel?’ he muttered. ‘Told you my name, did he? I wonder what else Alan told you. Did he tell you the truth, I wonder? Well, whatever it was, let’s put an end to your snooping, shall we?’
He reached again for his screen.
Daniel speed-read what was on his monitor. Gregory Dryden had started his political career in 1988, became a Member of the European Parliament in ’99, and advanced to the European Presidency ten years later. He’d resigned mid-term after two years, citing that he wanted to spend more time with his family. After that, nothing. As far as politics was concerned he had simply disappeared.
There was a photograph of him celebrating his MEP election win in ’99, gripping the hand of his wife – Christine, the wording below the image stated – with both arms raised high. The article also told Daniel that Dryden, prior to entering politics, had been CEO of a pharmaceutical company based north of Oxford.
The display on his screen wavered as if the internet feed had been interrupted. Daniel watched in confusion as the display flickered several more times before failing completely. He tapped on the screen. Nothing. He tapped again, harder.
‘Having a problem, there?’ a girl’s voice behind him said.
‘Yeah,’ he replied. ‘It seems to have died on me.’
Daniel turned; an extremely pretty, mixed-race girl, perhaps a year or so older than him, stood off to one side. Her hair sat in large curls around her shoulders and her light brown eyes seemed to shine. She had a shoulder bag slung over one arm and carried a thin, silver laptop. Daniel’s mouth went dry and he could have sworn that the temperature in the room had suddenly shot up.
The girl looked along the line of terminals. The screens in every one of the other occupied booths were working fine. ‘Looks like you picked a dud,’ she said.
‘Yeah. Story of my life, I guess. I think there’s something wrong with my fingers.’
She laughed. Her hair bounced and dimples appeared in her cheeks. She pushed one long strand of hair that hung down over her right eye to the side.
‘It doesn’t happen very often, but that’s why I always bring my own.’ She patted the laptop.
‘Right.’
‘Plus I never really trust these public terminals.’
‘Yeah.’
‘You never know who’s keeping tabs on them. Right?’
‘I suppose.’
She laughed again. ‘You don’t say much, do you?’
‘I … Well. Sometimes I do.’
‘I love your accent, though. British, right?’
‘Yeah.’
‘On holiday?’
Daniel paused. ‘Kind of.’
She held out a hand. ‘I’m Eleanor.’
‘Daniel,’ he said shaking her hand. It was warm and soft. ‘No, Peter! I mean, my name’s Peter.’
Eleanor frowned. ‘Okay, well, Daniel no Peter, I’ve got to … you know,’ she waved a hand along the line of terminals, ‘meet a friend. I hope the next one you use doesn’t break on you.’
‘Me too.’
She smiled and turned to go.
‘Do you … do you use the library much?’
Eleanor stopped, and smiled for a third time; the dimples returning. ‘I’m sorry, are you asking me if I come here often?’
Daniel realised that he was, and only managed an embarrassed smile.
‘I’m here most days,’ she smiled again. ‘It’s pretty quiet here usually, except when the terminals break on tourists and I have to turn into an agony aunt.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Daniel spluttered. ‘I didn’t mean to sound –’
‘I’m kidding,’ she said. ‘I’m kidding. But I do have to go.’
‘Yeah.’
‘I hope the rest of your holiday’s error free.’
‘Yeah. Thanks.’
Eleanor took a few steps then turned. ‘Maybe I’ll see you around?’
Daniel wanted to say something clever and witty but the words somehow got jumbled together in his mouth and what came out sounded like an alien language that he’d just made up. He gave up and just smiled instead.
He watched as Eleanor walked away and took a seat next to another girl, farther down the line of terminals. They whispered something to each other, giggled, then glanced back towards him. He felt the colour rise in his cheeks but couldn’t turn away. He smiled and waved at them, which provoked even more laughter.
He got up and moved to the next available booth, aware that they were still watching him, but as he activated the terminal screen it too wavered and died. Daniel sat there for a few moments, confused – every other occupied terminal was still operating fine. What were the chances that the two terminals he’d selected would go on the blink?
He moved to different part of the room and selected another terminal. As soon as it was activated, it too wavered and went dark. There wasn’t anyone else having a problem. He was on the verge of going over to Eleanor to ask if he could use her laptop when he realised what was happening. This wasn’t random, this wasn’t coincidence. He realised that he’d made his first mistake: If Dryden was in any way connected to what had happened to him in the last two days then looking for evidence in such a public place was a stupid move. If he was to learn anything about the man who might be responsible for his parents’ death then he’d have to be more careful.
He moved away from the terminals and, with a final glance over at Eleanor, made his way out of the library.