“What is fair enough?”
“I believe what you meant to say is there is no translation. It’s music. How do you translate music, right?” Eddie CHIRPED some more. The old man smiled with astonishment. He was like a veteran music teacher unexpectedly coming upon a prodigy of unfathomable talent. It was how Beethoven’s father, who was a decent composer himself, must have felt. “You know, I’ve spent my whole life around birds, and I’ve never seen anyone do what you can do. Did someone teach you?”
“No.”
“Then how did you learn?”
“I have golden ears like William Tuthill.”
“Who is William Tuthill?”
“He is the architect who designed Carnegie Hall.”
The shop owner nodded, now remembering that little bit of New York history. “Yes, Eddie, I believe you do have golden ears.”
Eddie returned his focus to the birds. “They do not like to be kept in cages, you know.”
“No, I don’t suppose they do.”
“If you love them more than people, why do you keep them in cages?”
“Selling them is how I make my living.”
Eddie looked confused. “How does selling birds make you live?”
“It’s the way I earn money. Selling birds is how I keep a roof over my head.”
Eddie looked up. “Structural support beams keep this roof over your head.”
“This shop is how I put food on the table.”
“I carry mine on a tray.”
The owner could only stare in wonder. This young man was unlike anyone he’d ever met. Rupert knew this was one day he would never forget.
CHAPTER 69
West End Avenue, New York City, May 27, 7:44 p.m.
Skylar was exhausted. She’d been searching for miles. The shadows on the buildings were growing longer. There wasn’t much daylight left. And she was no closer to finding Eddie than when she started. In fact, she was further away than ever. Somehow, she could sense it. She was looking for a needle in a haystack. The best way to help him might be to turn herself in and help Homeland find him before something unforgivable happened.
She moved to a graffiti-strewn pay phone mounted on a wall, only to find the receiver had been smashed long ago. There were no other pay phones in view, because so few people used them now, but there were dozens of cell phones in use all around her. Everyone she approached, asking to borrow their phone, looked at her with mild annoyance, moderate disdain, or outright disgust, if they acknowledged her at all. Skylar was beginning to dislike New York almost as much as Eddie did.
She walked to a newsstand, where she pleaded with the proprietor to borrow his phone. Engrossed in his own conversation, he pointed across the street to the dilapidated Jones Marquis Hotel. She darted through traffic and into the hotel lobby, where the elderly front-desk clerk flat-out refused Skylar’s request, even when she explained it was a police emergency. He pointed to the 1970s-era phone booth on the other side of the lobby and told her to call 911.
Skylar collapsed inside the booth and pulled the glass doors closed. She enjoyed the moment of privacy, then collected herself before calling to turn herself in. Skylar glanced out through the glass doors at the elderly clerk as she dialed 911. The clerk leaned down behind the front desk to pick up something off the floor. It turned out to be a rusty little birdcage containing a yellow parakeet, which he placed on the counter. It was apparently dinnertime for the tiny creature. It flitted about excitedly in the cage as the elderly clerk scooped out a small portion of seeds, which he poured into a rectangular dish at the bottom of the cage.
Through the phone, the police operator spoke the six words she repeated several hundred times each eight-hour shift. “Nine one one, what’s your emergency?”
Skylar hung up the receiver. She was no longer ready to give up her search for Eddie. Not yet. Skylar still had one more trick up her sleeve. She grabbed the well-worn yellow-pages book dangling from a metal chain inside the phone booth. The book was missing its cover and a considerable number of other pages. She prayed the one she needed was still intact. After flipping through the eight and a half pages of listings for “Beauty Supplies,” she came to the listings for “Bird Shops.”
In all of New York City, there were only three. Total page space was less than one-quarter. Only one of the shops, Flight, on East Eighty-Seventh, had any kind of ad at all. The other two, Give ’Em the Bird and Beautiful Birds, on Amsterdam, simply had their addresses and numbers listed. Skylar didn’t know New York all that well, so she wasn’t entirely sure which of the three shops was closest, but she thought it was the one on Amsterdam Avenue. And she had to start somewhere, so she left the hotel, after tearing out the yellow page containing the three bird shops, and hailed a cab.
CHAPTER 70
New York Office, Department of Homeland Security, May 27, 7:55 p.m.
What Skylar couldn’t have known was that the Jones Marquis had only five months ago been a popular address for prostitution. The New York City Police had successfully raided the establishment on several occasions, and had installed a camera directly across the street, providing a clear view of every individual who entered or exited. The ACLU had tried to force its removal, like they had so many others, but the matter was successfully tied up in the courts and the camera had already caught all the working girls and johns it was going to, so the matter seemed to simply fade away. While the hookers had moved on to another area, the camera remained, mostly because it was cheaper to leave it up than take it down.
The city was full of such surveillance refuse, which now included over 127,000 cameras. The law-enforcement and intelligence communities had only recently figured out how to utilize them in real time. Part of the solution was the new facial-recognition software being used inside 633 Third Avenue. Three of the eight Homeland analysts using it were currently engaged in a debate over whether a recent “catch” with a 55-percent-probable identity match for the female suspect as she entered a particular hotel several minutes ago was worth forwarding to the agents in the field.
The analysts had studied the profile image as closely as the particular camera’s resolution would allow. Three hundred and fifty horizontal television lines (TVL) was on the low end of surveillance-technology resolution, and not nearly as useful as cameras with 480 TVL or higher. The three analysts did the best they could with what they had to work with, enhancing the footage to a nominal degree. When they brought the possible catch to Max Garber, he refused to act on it. Seventy percent was their threshold. Anything less sent field agents on too many wild-goose chases.
As the three analysts continued brainstorming how to improve the image to give them an actionable probability rating, none of them did what Max Garber did, which was to simply watch the ongoing real-time footage from the same camera. The same blonde woman in the same outfit who had only been seen in profile entering the hotel a few minutes ago could now be seen exiting the hotel, hailing a cab. This image was not in profile. She was looking directly at the camera. It was only moments before 87% Probable Match—Skylar Drummond appeared across the bottom of the screen.
“Hey, guys.” He pointed to the image, leaving the other three analysts speechless. Within seconds Max was on the phone with Agent Raines, who immediately directed four field teams to go after the cab Skylar Drummond had just gotten into. They were going to form a perimeter around the moving vehicle and immediately close in as soon as it stopped moving. Max contacted the New York City cab-dispatch office, and coordinated with them to track the cab’s progress without alerting the driver. The dispatcher would also steer other cabs away from the immediate vicinity.
Agent Raines was right to have singled out Max. He was their quarterback, and the other DHS analysts were only too happy to follow his play call.