first, naturally, but he has $5,000 in cash in the pied-à-terre and he gives it all to them, throws in two bottles of an exquisite Grand Cru Classé from his favorite château in Bordeaux and then Vincent’s diamond bracelet and earrings—she’s in the bedroom, still asleep—and persuades them: He just wants a ride down to the street. That’s all. It’ll be over in a few minutes. No one will know. It’s a lot of money and the best wine they’re ever going to drink.
Who are they? It doesn’t matter. A and B. Let’s say they’re young guys who don’t know any better, or they know better but let’s say they have kids to feed. Window washing, that can’t be a particularly well-paying job, unless ascending the glass curtain walls of high-rises is one of those jobs that’s so terrifying no one wants to do it? Anyway, who cares, either way it’s a lot of money, so let’s say they take it. Alkaitis climbs out into the cold, and on the slow descent to the sidewalk, A and B are quiet and respectful, he senses that they’re admiring his forethought in dressing like them—not exactly like them, window washers don’t wear dress shirts, but enough like them that from any distance it’s just three men in white on a suspended platform, an everyday sight in the glass city, and by now the rising sun is reflecting off the tower so no one can look directly at them anyway, because that’s how brilliant his plan is, they descend in the glare and he climbs out and thanks them and hails a taxi to the airport. A few hours later he’s on a flight to Dubai, first-class obviously, in one of those reclining seats that are actually more like a private pod with bed and television. In the counterlife, he reclines the seat flat over the Atlantic and falls into a blissful sleep.
In FCI Florence Medium 1 the lights go on, the alarm for the three a.m. count blaring, and he gets out of bed, neither awake nor asleep, putting on his slippers in an automatic movement, still halfway somewhere else, Hazelton stumbling out of bed across from him. In the counterlife, he is never arrested, let alone sentenced, let alone subject to head counts. (Guards yelling in the corridor—“get up get up get up”—and then one stops in the doorway with his little clicker, and after a few minutes the count is over and it’s possible to go back to bed.) In the counterlife, he transfers all his money into the secret offshore accounts, out of the hands of the American government. By the time his daughter calls the FBI, he’s out of reach. Dubai has no extradition treaty with the United States.
He has enough money to live in Dubai indefinitely, in tranquility, in the cool interiors and the brutal heat. Hotel, or villa? Hotel. He’ll live in a hotel and order room service forever. Villas are a staffing headache. He’s had enough of staff.
* * *
—
“I’d like to ask about your daughter,” Julie Freeman says at their second meeting.
“I’m sorry,” he says, “but I’d prefer not to talk about her. I think Claire deserves her privacy.”
“Fair enough. In that case, I’d like to ask you about your wife.”
“Do you mean Suzanne, or Vincent?”
“I thought I’d start with Vincent. Does she visit you here?”
“No. Actually, I…” He isn’t sure it’s wise to continue, but who else can he ask? His only visitors are journalists. “Would you stop taking notes, please, just for a moment?”
She sets her pen on the table.
“This is embarrassing,” he says, “and I’d appreciate it if you’d keep this off the record, but do you know where she is?”
“I’ve been looking for her myself. I’d love to talk to her, but wherever she is, she’s keeping a low profile.”
* * *
—
Maybe the descent down the tower with the window washers is a little overdramatic. He could just as easily have kissed Vincent good night after the holiday party, told her he had to go get drinks with an investor and that she shouldn’t wait up for him; he could’ve sent her home in a car while he fled the country. No, he would have had to go back to Greenwich for his passport. Well, if he can rewrite history so that he fled the country, surely the passport isn’t an impediment. In the counterlife, maybe he’s the kind of person who keeps his passport on his person