American Subversive by David Goodwillie Page A

conference made for riveting television as Valencia, dressed all in white, broke down completely in front of cameras while U.S. Special Forces stood in the background, bewildered expressions on their hard faces. Clearly, the man knew nothing.
    So the trail went cold. No one claimed responsibility, though several Muslim groups were immediately suspected. Local imams were rounded up and questioned. Pundits appeared on TV, blaming various Al Qaeda–trained offshoots. But even the experts weren’t particularly impassioned. Something didn’t feel right. Bin Laden’s boys didn’t usually bother with haute couture.
    The day of Cressida’s party, a
Times
editorial raised the possibility of a botched job; the bomb, they posited, might have been meant for someone or somewhere else. But that’s as far as it went. The argument was rooted more in frustration than fact.
    The blowout sale was on the wrong floor.
    I stared at the e-mail, remembering something a techie friend had told me when I first started Roorback:
Be careful what you write, because a record of every word you type and every site you visit is being stored not only on your laptop hard drive, but in a massive mail server somewhere in Virginia
. He also said there were ways to trace e-mails to their sources. A second language existed behind the first—IP addresses and proxy servers, subnetworks and geocoded metadata. It all sounded complicated. And frightening. Anyway, I’d never sought out someone’s online identity, and I wasn’t going to now.
    But the hook was in. I was curious. I called Cressida at the
Times,
and she answered on the first ring, hurriedly spitting out her name as if angry at its length.
    â€œIt’s me,” I said.
    â€œAidan, I don’t have time for—”
    â€œI need your help.”
    â€œCan’t it wait till dinner? We are still having dinner tonight, right?”
    â€œIt’s about the bombing. I might be onto something.”
    â€œYou?”
she cried. “How could
you
be onto anything? What, did one of your readers confess?”
    â€œCome on, I’m serious. I’ll fill you in later. Right now I need you to do a background check on someone.”
    â€œWhat the hell has gotten into you? Does this have to do with Touché?”
    â€œCressida . . .” She didn’t answer, which I took as a sign of intrigue (she
was
a reporter, after all). “Please,” I said.
    â€œFine, give me the name.”
    This I wasn’t ready for. And I did something I still can’t quite believe.
    â€œIt’s actually a few names. Easton St. Claire, Paige Roderick, and Kimball LeRoux.” I spelled them out.
    â€œAre these real? They look fake. Did you just—”
    â€œCome on, stop.”
    â€œOkay, okay,” she said. “I’ll see what comes up.”
    â€œThank you. How’s Malatesta at nine thirty?”
    â€œDo you promise you’ll explain this when I get there?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAll right. I’ll see you then, love.”
    The line went dead, but her last word hung in the air. As if it didn’t belong.

PAIGE
 
    WE STOPPED FOR THE NIGHT AT A MOTEL JUST SHORT OF WILKES-BARRE, Pennsylvania. Keith stayed in the car while Lindsay and I paid cash for two rooms. She snores, Lindsay told the young man behind the desk, motioning at me for effect. He smiled faintly, nervously, then printed out the paperwork. Lindsay signed it using a false name. We were ready with a backstory—two tired girls driving to a friend’s wedding—but he never asked. How difficult it might have been. How easy it was. Details were everything, and Lindsay, I was learning, was a pro.
    The rooms were next to each other on the ground floor. We parked a few doors away, then slipped inside—Keith into one, Lindsay and I into the other. I turned on the TV while she took a shower, but when I saw American soldiers on CNN, I turned it