Searching for Celia (2 page)

Audrey shuffles back to her seat. Meanwhile, 46D has yet to emerge. Several passengers mass at the lavatory door—a bored teenage girl, a frail elderly man in a fedora, a mother clutching a feisty, red-faced baby. The first casualties, I think bleakly, and return to my prayer:
And she put the child therein; and she laid it in the flags by the river’s brink…

The corpulent Belgian in his creased linen suit reaches into the seat pocket and pulls out the international edition of the
New York Times
.
UK Terror Alert Highest Ever
, the 24-point headline proclaims.
Authorities Fear Attack is Imminent.

The Belgian, sensing me peering over his shoulder, raps the paper with his meaty knuckles. “Frightening,
non
? It won’t be much longer now.”

Where is 46D? I close my eyes and pray.
And his sister stood afar off, to wit what would be done to him…

Pressure builds behind my ears as the plane begins its descent.
And the daughter of Pharaoh came down…

My temples pound. We’re so close now. The next twenty minutes will either bring safety, or annihilation.

Ten minutes later a shadow darkens my eyelids. I look up as 46D returns to his seat. Without his briefcase.
Oh no.
I flip open my seat belt and begin to stand. The stewardess rushes down the aisle, briefcase slapping her narrow hip. “Sir?” She is breathless. “You forgot this.” She holds out the briefcase and 46D accepts it, blinking a wordless thanks. A dark yoke of sweat spreads from his shoulders to his chest.

A bump, then grinding.
Oh God.
No, it’s just the landing gear. 46D rests the briefcase on his lap and fiddles with the locks. Five minutes to touchdown—it will either happen now, or not at all. Just pray:
And the daughter of Pharaoh came down to bathe at the river; and her maidens walked along by the river’s side…

My ears pop. The ambient aircraft noises rush in to fill the void, sounding huge and malevolent.

…and she saw the ark among the flags, and sent her handmaid to fetch it.

The wheels touch ground. Gravity captures the aircraft, drawing me backward and sucking my tailbone deep into the upholstered seat. Buildings, hangars, and other aircraft poised for takeoff shoot past in a blur as we hurtle forward, at one with the earth and all its forces once again. 46D doesn’t scare me anymore.

And she opened it, and saw the child: and, behold, the babe wept.
“The babe wept,” I echo, releasing my fists.

As the plane taxies to the gate, the Belgian grabs my arm with an unexpected intensity. His eyes, formerly a washed-out bluish gray, have turned small and steely in the now more natural light. “Ze flight is over but ze danger remains,” he warns. “Safety is only an illusion.”

*

The Belgian’s words still ring in my ears as I wait in line at passport control. “What is the nature of your visit?” the officer asks when I reach the front. His ID badge says
Geoffrey Curzon
and he is a thin civil-servant type with a receding hairline and pinched, colorless lips.

“Attending a conference.”

“I see.” He riffles through my passport. “You’ve spent a great deal of time in the UK.”

“Yes.”

“Over the course of several years.” He licks a fingertip, then pages through my passport again, this time in reverse.

“Yes.” The strap of my laptop bag presses heavily against my neck.

“Conference, you say?”

“That’s right. I’m giving the keynote speech.” I pull a small white envelope from my backpack and place it on the countertop.

Curzon opens the envelope, takes out the invitation, and types something into his computer. His eyebrows arch as his pupils collapse to tiny slits.

“Please come with me, Miss Salvesen.”

“Why?”

“Just come with me.” He steps down from his stool and around his glass-sided pod. Clutching my arm, he leads me out of passport control, through a bank of elevators, and down a long, narrow, darkened hallway. He opens a door, one of several in a row, and guides me into a small, windowless room with bare white walls, two metal chairs, and a clear Plexiglas table. Another man, already inside and leaning, arms folded, against the far wall, motions for me to drop my bags and extend my arms. The heavyset fellow steps closer, waves an electronic wand over me, then starts to pat me down. My eye is level with his ID badge, which reads
Barry Everton
.

“I’d prefer a female officer,” I say carefully.

Everton’s bloodshot eyes retract into the folds of his fleshy face. “If you insist. But it might be a while.”

“All right then.” I sigh and lift my arms again, just wanting to get this over. No doubt Celia is already waiting for me in the arrivals area. I can just see her, clutching an unlit cigarette, with her hair disheveled and day-old mascara smeared across her cheek. She is defiantly beautiful as she slouches, tapping her foot.

Everton’s plump, stubby hands are lewd and brutish, lingering at my breasts and cupping my butt. I fight back tears.

“Take a seat,” Everton orders, pointing to one of the small metal chairs. Geoffrey Curzon flips the invitation onto the table. “This is for a Candee Cronin,” he says as I sit down.

“Yes. That’s my pseudonym.”

No response.

“You know—my pen name.”

Curzon and Everton exchange glances without saying a word.

Nervous, I continue. “I’m speaking on Contemporary Genre Fiction and the Post-Feminist Paradigm. I’ll be explaining how, by embracing seemingly stereotypical female pursuits such as shopping and romance, our protagonists are in fact creating a new, and ultimately empowering, feminist norm.”

Everton grabs the other chair and straddles it, pressing his weight against the table. The thin, efficient Curzon, still standing, picks up my passport and cracks it open, bending back the cover. He licks his index finger and pages through it, nodding. I know what he sees: Bangkok, Jakarta, Hamburg…

“Miss Cronin…”

“My name is Dayle Salvesen.”

“Miss Cronin, did you travel to Madrid on the fifteenth of January this year?”

Madrid? “Yes. For the book fair.”

“And did you travel from Munich to Budapest on the second of February?”

“Yes. For a literary festival.” My voice quivers. “Look, call my agent in New York. Call the conference organizers here in London. I’m sure we can sort this out.”

I’m interrupted by a knock at the door. “Come,” Everton barks. A young woman in uniform enters. She could have frisked me. She hands Everton a folded piece of paper, whispers in his ear, and quickly retreats. Everton leans forward. His meaty forearms flatten on the table, looking as pink and greasy as boiled hams.

“Miss Cronin, I’m afraid you won’t be allowed to enter the UK today.”

“Why not?” My head spins.

“Your name is on the terrorist watch list.”

Wednesday

7:54 a.m.

Everton slaps the paper on the table in front of me. It’s a photocopied mug shot of a young, dark-haired woman with a hard-set mouth and pale, penetrating eyes.

“Candace Marie Cronin. Age thirty-four. Known IRA associate. Born in Dublin but travels on an American passport,” Everton recites.

“So?”

“Arrested two years ago in Madrid. Served six months in Holloway prison.”

I glance at the photo again and make the connection. “You think that’s
me
?”

“Can’t deny the resemblance.”

“But I’m really a blonde,” I say, then realize that Terrorist Candace might be naturally blond too. “Look, you’ve got my passport. I am Dayle Anne Salvesen, born in Green Bay, Wisconsin, on February 17th, 1978, to Sven and Katherine Salvesen.”

“Tell us again why you are here.”

“For the Women and Fiction conference. It’s tonight at Dartmouth House, sponsored by The English-Speaking Union. I’m giving the keynote speech.”

“I see. And why do you continue returning to the UK?”

“Because I
like
the place?”

Everton is not amused. “We’ve called for our supervisor,” he warns.

“Good.” I cross my arms and try to sound brave. “He’ll see that I’m Dayle Salvesen.” I am aware that beneath their polite and deferential exteriors, the British are tough customers. How worried should I be?

“Whom will you visit during your stay?” Curzon asks, pacing behind Everton.

“You want their names?” My voice cracks. The British devised the infamous so-called five techniques of interrogation during Operation Demetrius in Northern Ireland in the early 1970s.

“Yes, their names,” Everton growls.

The five techniques of interrogation are wall standing, hooding, noise bombardment, sleep deprivation, and deprivation of food and water. I doubt I could survive any one of them, much less all five.

“Names? There’s so many.” I stall. Instinctively I want to protect Cecelia. From what, I do not know. “I first lived in the UK as an exchange student in high school. Then study abroad, junior year of college. I did my MA in Norwich and lived in London for two years after that. I must know hundreds of Britons.”

“Why do you possess this invitation for Candee Cronin?”

“I told you—that’s my pen name.” My fictional heroine, Redleigh Smith, is a C-level graduate of the US military’s SERE program: Survival, Evasion, Resistance, Escape. Neither Redleigh nor I will go down without a fight.

“Something wrong with your real name?” Curzon poses.

“If Dayle Salvesen
is
your real name,” Everton taunts.

“It’s complicated,” I say evasively. What do they actually do to people in these situations? Torture? Waterboarding? They don’t
really
think I’m a terrorist, do they?

“We’ve got time,” Curzon offers.

“All the time in the world,” Everton adds.

I sit forward, place my palms on the cool Plexiglas table, and take a deep breath before speaking. “My publisher suggested I use a new name when I started writing thrillers.” I don’t reveal that, in fact, I
had
to use a pseudonym—my Dayle Salvesen books sold so poorly I was told I would never be published again, except as someone else.

“Why Candee Cronin?”

I shake my head, maintaining eye contact. I must stay strong; they will exploit any sign of weakness. “No reason. Had I known about Candace Marie Cronin, I’d have picked something else.” Will they at least let me call a lawyer? What will my family be told?

A staccato knock rattles the door behind me. Startled, I jump. Everton eyes me icily. “Anything else you’d like to tell us?”

“No.”

Curzon opens the door. The supervisor enters and she is not what I expected. Early fifties, she is five foot six and slim, in a crisp navy-blue suit with long auburn hair wound in a bun and minimal makeup on her translucent skin. Pressed to her hip is a hardcover copy of
Assignment: Sao Paulo
, published six weeks ago. Peeking from between the pages of the book is a receipt, indicating that the book was purchased from an airport bookshop just minutes ago.

“It
is
you!” she exclaims, scanning my face.

“Ma’am?” the men ask, confused.

The woman steps to my side and extends her hand. “Laura Winchester,” she says. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Thank you. I’m Dayle Salvesen,” I reply as we shake. “Also known as Candee Cronin.”

“Miss Cronin! I’m a big fan of your books.” She settles into the chair across from me and smiles.

Curzon and Everton, now standing shoulder to shoulder, look away like schoolboys rebuked. “Ma’am, we were concerned this woman could be Candace Marie Cronin.” Curzon hands her the photocopied mug shot.

Winchester leans forward and squints, pursing her lips. “There is a resemblance, I’ll grant.” She places the mug shot next to the book’s back jacket, the majority of which is taken up by my publicity photo. To see the images side by side is striking: the alleged IRA terrorist and I could be long-lost sisters. And it is especially strange that we employ such similar names.

“But the woman in this photo”—Winchester taps the book jacket—“has a small scar just below the left eyebrow. The woman in the other photo does not.”

I slide my hand up my forehead, lifting my bangs. “That’s me. See? Here’s the scar.”

Winchester cranes across the table and stares at my eyebrow, then settles back in her seat, satisfied. “Yes, indeed. Chaps, we have before us the author Candee Cronin, not the terrorist Candace Marie.”

Apparently satisfied, Curzon and Everton tell me I’m free to go. As I gather up my things, Winchester slips a ballpoint pen from her jacket pocket and places it on the table beside the book. “You will sign this for me, of course?”

“Sure.” My hand trembles as I take the pen. “Should I make it out to…?”

“Laura is fine.” She smiles, tucking a loose strand of auburn hair behind her ear. “Can’t wait to read it. Hope it’s as good as
Assignment: Bangkok
.”

When I finish I hand the book back to her and she touches my elbow. “Do be careful during your visit,” she warns with a frown. “We’re in the midst of a major security alert.”

I am still shaking following my interrogation as I collect my suitcase from baggage claim, pass through customs, and emerge into the arrivals area, which is packed with all manner of humanity. I search the scores of faces for Cecelia Frost, for the familiar features that will resemble my own. Celia is the bad-girl version of me, edgy in every way I am not: wry, stylish, and bold. Friends since our teens and briefly lovers, we were stars of the famed creative writing program at England’s University of East Anglia six years ago. It is remarkable to think how dramatically both our lives have changed since then, my life in one direction and hers in another.

Can you believe they thought I was an IRA terrorist? Saved by the little scar below my eyebrow.
In my mind I’m busy spinning the story for Celia, making it funnier and more dramatic. Worthy of her hearing.

After searching for several minutes with no luck, I pull out my cell phone and call Celia. After several rings I hear a click followed by her familiar Oxbridge accent:
Hello. You have reached the London Refugee Relief Centre. Please leave a message and someone will return your call as soon as possible.