"How do you know this?"
"We're... incommunicado." She shrugs.
A pause. "What's the safety factor?" I ask.
"As long as you stay away from him?"
I nod.
A tear, one tiny drop, slips down her cheek, changes its mind and evaporates, while she tries to smile.
"So-so," she whispers.
Finally I say, "I'm leaving."
"Victor," Jamie says, touching my arm before I turn away.
"What?" I groan. "I'm leaving. I'm tired."
"Victor, wait," she says.
I stand there.
"In the computer," she says, breathing in. "In the computer. At the house. There's a file." She pauses, nods at a guest. "The file is called 'Wings."' Pause. As she turns away, she says, "You need to see it."
"Why do I need to see it?" I ask. "I don't care anymore."
"Victor," she starts. "I... think I... knew that girl you met on the QE2.. .." Jamie swallows, doesn't know where to look, tries to compose herself, barely succeeds. "The girl who disappeared from the QE2..."
I just stare at her blankly.
When Jamie grasps my reaction-its hatefulness-she just nods to herself, muttering, "Forget it, forget it."
"I'm leaving." I'm walking away as it starts raining confetti.
Because of how the apartment is lit, extras have to be careful not to trip over electric cables or the dolly tracks that line the center of the living room, and in the lobby the first AD from the French film crew hands me tomorrow's call sheet and Russell-the Christian Bale guy-is wearing little round sunglasses, smoking a joint, comparing shoe sizes with Dermot Mulroney, but then I realize that they're both on separate cell phones and not talking to each other and Russell pretends to recognize me and "drunkenly" shouts, "Hey, Victor!"
I pretend to smile. I reach out to shake his hand.
"Hey, come on, dude," he says, brushing the hand away. "We haven't seen each other in months." He hugs me tightly, dropping something in my jacket pocket. "How's the party?" he asks, stepping back, offering me the joint. I shake my head.
"Oh, it's great, it's cool," I'm saying, chewing my lips. "It's very cool." I start walking away. "Bye-bye."
"Great," Russell says, slapping my back, returning to his conversation on the cell phone as Dermot Mulroney opens a bottle of champagne gripped between his knees.
In the cab heading back to the house in the 8th or the 16th I find a card Russell slipped in my pocket.
A time. Tomorrow. An address. A corner I should stop at. Directions to that corner. Suggestions on how to behave. All of this in tiny print that I'm squinting at in the back of the cab until I'm nauseous I lean my head against the window. The cab swerves around a minor traffic accident, passing patrolmen carrying submachine guns patiently strolling the streets. My back aches. Impatiently I start wiping makeup applied earlier off my face with a cocktail napkin.
At the house, after paying the cab fare.
I press the code to deactivate the alarm. The door clicks open.
I tumble through the courtyard.
The living room is empty-just the furniture pushed aside earlier this afternoon by the French film crew.
Without taking off my overcoat I move over to the computer. It's already on. I tap a key. I enter a command.
Chapter Sixteen
I type in WINGS.
A pause. The screen flashes.
WINGS ASSGN#3764 appears.
Letters start appearing. A graph starts unfolding.
NOV 15
BAND ON THE RUN
Beneath that: 1985
And then: 511
I scroll down to another page. A map appears on the screen: a highway, a route. It leads to Charles de Gaulle airport. Below this the Trans World Airlines logo appears.
TWA.
Nothing else.
I start tapping keys so I can print out the file. Two pages.
Nothing happens. I'm breathing heavily, flushed with adrenaline. Then I hear four beeps in quick succession.
Someone is entering the courtyard.
I realize the printer's not switched on. When I switch it on, it makes a soft noise, then starts humming.
I press another key: a flash.
Voices from outside. Bobby, Bentley.
Page 1 of the WINGS file slowly prints out.
Keys are being entered into the various locks on the front door.
Page 2 of the WINGS file follows page 1, slightly overlapping it.
In the foyer, the door opens: footsteps, voices.
I pull the two pages out of the printer, shoving them inside my jacket, then flick off the computer and the printer. I lunge toward a chair.