The Genius Wars (35 page)

So he was quite nervous as he approached the airport, despite the fact that he knew what to expect. He’d been briefed by Gazo, and he’d watched countless television documentaries over the years, dealing with things like air safety, thrombosis and customs officials.

Nevertheless, he couldn’t help worrying. It was hard not to, because he was travelling under a false name, with a forged passport, as a member of the opposite sex.

The main problem was that Ariel didn’t quite fit him any more. Though he hadn’t grown much since first donning her snap-on earrings and Indian cotton skirt, there had been a lot of minor changes in his appearance – so many that they were beginning to affect the overall impact of his disguise. He was still small enough and cute enough to pass as a girl, but only if he was exceedingly careful. It couldn’t be done unless he took various precautions: plucking a few moustache and chin hairs, wrapping a scarf around his Adam’s apple, wearing sleeves so long that they covered not only his arms, but most of his hands as well. (His knuckles were no longer the knuckles of a teenaged girl.)
His jumper had to be very baggy and his make-up had to be very thick.

He also had to do as little talking as possible. Though his voice wasn’t exactly a booming baritone, it had well and truly broken; no matter how high he pitched it, or how softly he spoke, it wasn’t entirely convincing as a girl’s voice. So he’d decided to pretend that he had laryngitis. If he kept coughing and sniffing and squirting saline spray up his nose, people were unlikely to question his hoarseness, or his reluctance to answer questions.

‘They might stay away from me on the plane, as well,’ he’d observed, ‘if they’re afraid of catching the flu.’

‘They might,’ had been Gazo’s response. ‘Or they might be shoving cough drops and aspirins and neck pillows at you the whole time. Blokes on planes always chat up young girls. I seen ’em do it on my way here from England.’

‘You think?’ Gloomily, Cadel had surveyed himself in the ute’s wing mirror. He’d looked good, but not
that
good. Surely even a pair of enormous blue eyes wouldn’t be enough to make up for a hacking cough, or a volley of wet sneezes? ‘Maybe I’ll pretend not to speak English,’ he’d decided.

He had taken a taxi to the airport, having come to the conclusion that Gazo’s ute was too distinctive. A ‘Greening Landscapes’ gardening truck was exactly the sort of vehicle that might stand out on CCTV footage of the airport’s busy drop-off zone – where there were bound to be dozens of security cameras. And although Gazo had wanted to come with him in the cab, Cadel had scotched this idea, as well. In many ways, Gazo was just as distinctive as his truck. It was possible that Vee or Com or Dot might be keeping an eye out for Gazo, whereas it was much more unlikely that Ariel would trigger any online alarms.

Unlikely, but not out of the question. Despite his enveloping scarf, high heels and baggy jumper, Cadel’s measurements might still rack up enough matches to alert a video analytics program. So he kept his head down on his way to the check-in line, using
his handkerchief to shield his face as he pretended to blow his nose, repeatedly.

The taxi trip hadn’t been much of a challenge. After receiving his instructions from Gazo, the driver hadn’t uttered a single word during the entire half-hour journey. This might have been because Cadel was posing as a foreigner who couldn’t speak English. Or it might have been because the driver himself hadn’t been exactly fluent in the same language. Whatever the reason, they had parted without exchanging more than a halting sentence or two.

But the check-in counter was different. A cheerful Qantas representative asked Cadel question after question. Did he want an aisle seat or a window seat? Had he packed his bags himself? Were there any sharp instruments in his carry-on luggage? Cadel answered hoarsely, sucking on a cough lozenge as he sniffed and mopped his nose. He was hoping that the cold symptoms might explain his grumpy, monosyllabic demeanour. He was also hoping to distract the attendant with his wet noises and eucalyptus smell while she checked his passport, which hadn’t really been used before. He was concerned about his passport. He didn’t know if it was convincing enough.

He needn’t have worried, though. After about three minutes, he came away from the check-in counter with his boarding pass, his departure card, and instructions about where to go next. The security checkpoint was a breeze; having briefly surrendered his watch and computer bag, he stepped through the metal detector and was quickly on his way. No one asked any questions. No one wanted to search his baggage. He was surrounded by busy, preoccupied people who weren’t the least bit interested in who he might be, or what he might be up to.

It was still possible, however, that he was under surveillance. The airport was honeycombed with electronic security systems, and there were cameras mounted everywhere. For that reason, during his ninety-minute wait in the departure lounge, Cadel spent most of his time glued to one carefully selected spot. He had chosen it because it gave the cameras a restricted view of the
top of his head. As long as he remained there, and didn’t look up, his face would stay off the airport’s CCTV footage. In fact he was so anxious to avoid being filmed that he moved only once, to go to the toilet (in the ladies’ bathroom). Otherwise he sat with his head down, either reading or pretending to sleep, until his flight number was called.

And all the while he was sweating bullets, afraid that the police were going to pounce on him. Even after he’d boarded his flight, and the hatches had been firmly secured, he didn’t feel entirely safe; it was still possible that a last-minute delay might ruin everything. Only when his plane had finally taken off did he stop worrying about police interference – and start worrying about Prosper English, instead.

Planes were vulnerable things, run by complicated computer systems. What if Vee had worked out how to invade the navigation program on this particular flight? What if he’d done it to another plane as well, and the two aircraft were heading straight for each other? What if Prosper knew
exactly where Cadel was
, and had decided that a midair collision would get rid of him once and for all?

If Prosper wanted to crash this plane, he would have done it when it was taking off
, Cadel reasoned. The most dangerous sections of any flight were the take-off and the landing; he had heard this over and over again, from any number of sources. If Prosper hadn’t sabotaged the jet during take-off, when so many things could go so terribly wrong, then he was unlikely to do it over the Pacific Ocean.

That was what Cadel told himself, anyway. It was something to cling to during the fourteen-hour trip, which he didn’t enjoy very much. Apart from the hovering threat of sabotage, he had to endure all kinds of other discomforts – like the constant attentions of the woman wedged in beside him. She was a fat, friendly, grey-haired grandmother named Jan, who wasn’t at all put off by his sniffing and coughing. On the contrary, she seemed worried about him, and kept trying to make him comfortable. She would offer him her serving of cheesecake, for instance, or show him
where his air-sickness bag was, or kindly explain away various frightening phenomena. ‘You always get a bit of turbulence when you’re flying through cloud,’ she would say; or ‘That’s just the undercarriage retracting, isn’t it, Vern?’

Vern was her husband. He didn’t talk much, but he had a bladder problem. After he had climbed over Cadel four times in one hour to go to the toilet, Cadel agreed (in a hoarse mutter) to swap seats with him. So Vern ended up on the aisle, and Cadel found himself trapped by the window, unable to escape Jan’s endless chatter about swelling feet, sore ears and dehydration. ‘You should get up and walk around,’ she suggested, more than once. ‘Otherwise you’ll get a blood clot.’

Cadel dodged this steady stream of advice as best he could. He buried himself in a glossy magazine. He slapped on a pair of earphones and stared hard at the miniature TV screen in front of him. He pretended to fall asleep – and then he
did
fall asleep, only to be wakened two hours later by Vern’s reverberating snores. After that, he didn’t sleep again. He was too cramped, and worried, and miserable. There were so many things to keep him awake and fretting, apart from the air-safety issue, and the fragile nature of his own disguise. He was anxious about Saul and Sonja. He was concerned that his plan to trick Raimo Zapp might fail. He was nervous about getting through US Customs, and even more scared about what might await him outside Los Angeles airport.

Most of all, however, he was troubled by what Gazo had told him. To be accused of talking like Prosper English … what could be worse? For years Cadel had been actively rejecting the lessons he’d learned as a child. Yet he seemed to be reverting to his old patterns of behaviour. Was Prosper’s influence impossible to eradicate after all? Was it like a clinging vine, rooted so deep in Cadel’s past that no amount of hard work could rip it out?

It’s because I’m stressed
, he decided.
When I’m dealing with Prosper, I end up acting like Prosper. Which is another reason why I’m better off on my own, just now
.

God forbid that he would ever find himself using and abusing other people the way Prosper did.

Breakfast was served about two hours before the scheduled end of the flight. Although he wasn’t hungry, Cadel forced down a small wad of scrambled egg and half a sausage. Then, as the plane gradually descended, he pressed his nose against the window and watched California unfold beneath him. Jan kept asking him if he could see Disneyland or the Hollywood sign, but he ignored her. He wasn’t much interested in the scenery. Instead he focused his attention on the plane itself: on its speed, its heading, its hydraulics. He watched its flaps rise and its wheels drop. He listened for any telltale bangs, and checked the air crew’s faces for signs of panic.

The landing, however, passed without incident. A smooth touchdown was followed by an uneventful trip along the runway. Cadel didn’t leap up when the seatbelt signs were extinguished. Instead he chose to disembark with the stragglers, sensing that the first passengers to go through customs might endure closer scrutiny than the last ones off the plane. He waited until Jan and her husband were well ahead of him, then joined the tail end of the crowd that slowly made its way down corridors and along moving walkways, until it reached a forbidding row of glassed-in booths.

Here, at last, were the US Immigration officials.

Cadel’s heart began to pound as he surveyed these stone-faced men and women. He couldn’t help thinking that they would be more suspicious than the staff at Sydney airport – if only because he was arriving, rather than leaving. What’s more, each booth was fitted with equipment that scanned both eyes and fingerprints, and Cadel wasn’t sure about his status in America. The chances that he’d left his fingerprints behind as a toddler were almost non-existent; nevertheless, he approached his designated booth with a dry mouth and sweaty hands.

The woman behind the counter accepted his passport without comment. As she studied his photograph, he sniffed glumly, trying to look as sick as possible.

‘Here on vacation?’ the woman suddenly fired at him.

Cadel nodded.

‘Visiting family?’ she asked.

‘A family friend.’

‘Is that who you’re staying with?’

‘Uh-huh.’

Cadel had declared on his immigration form that he would be living at Kale Platz’s house during his trip to America. It wasn’t a complete lie, because Kale was still part of the investigation into Prosper English. The FBI had been monitoring Prosper’s activities for years, and Kale had visited Australia at least twice since rescuing Cadel from Prosper’s seaside mansion. Kale and Saul Greeniaus were in regular contact, frequently exchanging tips, warnings and personal updates. What’s more, the FBI agent had sent the Greeniaus family a Christmas card, with his home address printed clearly on the top left-hand corner of the envelope.

So Cadel was quite sure that Kale would be happy to hear from him. In fact it was possible that the FBI had been already been warned about Cadel’s disappearance. And if that were true, then he didn’t have much time – because Kale Platz had seen him dressed as Ariel. Two years before, when Cadel had walked out of Prosper’s house into police custody, he had been wearing exactly the same skirt and earrings and hairstyle. It wouldn’t be long before Kale remembered that. It wouldn’t be long before the FBI started checking passenger manifests and CCTV footage.

All I need is a couple more hours
, Cadel thought.
Just a couple more hours, and then I’ll turn myself in
.

His plane had touched down at 9:15 a.m. He was therefore convinced that he would be enjoying Kale’s hospitality by mid-afternoon – and if Kale decided differently, then US Customs and Immigration could take it up with the FBI.

‘Yeah,’ he added, in husky but confident tones. ‘I’ll be staying at my friend’s place.’

‘Could you place your right index finger on the screen, please?’

Cadel obeyed. He had his photo snapped, his eye scanned and his fingerprints taken before he was waved on. No electronic alarms were triggered. He wasn’t asked to step into a back room. Clearly, his biometric details weren’t on file in the United States.

And if the woman who interviewed him had any niggling doubts about his gender, she kept them to herself.

Cadel proceeded towards the baggage claim carousel. Here he picked up his green bag, which he’d checked in as a precaution. (He’d decided that it might look a bit odd if he went all the way to America with only carry-on luggage.) There was a queue to get through the Customs checkpoint, but no one wanted to inspect
his
meagre possessions, and he soon found himself waiting in a taxi rank, surrounded by cars and concrete.

The cabs didn’t look like Australian cabs. The drivers didn’t have Australian accents. Everything seemed intensely foreign, yet oddly familiar; Cadel felt as if he were in a Hollywood movie. He was so dazed and disoriented that, when asked where he wanted to go, he forgot to disguise his voice. He forgot about coughing and sniffing and mumbling into his handkerchief, and blurted out Raimo Zapp’s address without making the slightest attempt to sound like a girl with the flu.