Broken Mirror

The Exchange

I have acquired a tremor as I enter the Ritz. My body feels feverish as I traverse the luxurious lobby with comfortable leather couches next to polished wooden coffee tables.

My room is on the 8th floor. It is a penthouse suite with a soothing Ivory Castle interior overlooking the Gardens. My presumed Conference cohort of single nerdy techies with six-digit incomes who spend their money on expensive remote-controlled toys apparently likes to lodge in style.

I carry an entire suitcase of gadgets aimed to match the typical collection lugged to such conferences by that select crowd. Among the hi-tech paraphernalia, most of which I still struggle to identify, there is an old rotary phone from half a century ago. It is large, heavy, and faded chrome black. It has a transparent plastic dial with large printed numbers on it, and a clunky worn-out receiver that rests on top of a hook. It looks like a movie prop. It is, in fact, an antique. It is practically worthless, except perhaps to retro-collectors. I carry it for a different reason. It is a fully functional old analog phone.

I do my best to control my extraordinary shaking as I drill a hole in the wall next to the phone outlet with my Swiss army knife. I pull out the outgoing wire and bare a segment of it. Soon, my antique phone is connected to the line, bypassing the translator box. This setup has two distinct advantages. First, it allows me to place an actual phone call using an old-time analog signal. Second, it is untraceable, because telecom companies no longer own the expensive equipment to monitor and track this obsolete format. Outdated technology can be just as effective as the most sophisticated cutting-edge encryption when it comes to secrecy of communication.

I rummage the mini-bar, pour myself a glass of Scotch, and dial, spinning the wheel one number at a time.

"Who is this?" a voice answers.

"Hello, Paul," I say calmly.

"Who is this?" the voice repeats, this time with an unmistakable undertone of panic.

I take a generous half an hour to deliver a slow, deliberate, targeted monologue, paying attention to even the smallest of details.

It is five-fifteen when I hang up. My shaking appears to have subsided a little, but it is now replaced by an oppressive sinking feeling of guilt. The damage has been done. Now there is only one path forward.

I stare at the Gardens through the large glass window. The small pond glistens in gold, reflecting the sun that is now closer to the horizon. Two small dots on the water move around, creating curvy trails behind them. Some more of my conference-mates must have started arriving.

The background hum of the city traffic that carries over to the eighth floor sounds comfortingly familiar. It takes me years back.

I came to Washington at eighteen, on a similarly hot summer day, hoping to find answers of how a boy who was almost two years old was left at an orphanage, while at the same time someone had made certain that he would be financially secure when he becomes of age.

Two is close to the boundary when a child could start retaining memories of his mother's betrayal. My mother had waited that long before she had given me up. At eighteen, it was logical for me to ask the question why.

There were no records of my drop off, nor any birth records, as one could expect for an abandoned child. Most orphans have nothing to go by when they get curious about their heritage. Most, however, do not possess the trait that gave me the advantage no one was aware of. I had an uncanny ability to convince people and get them to do my bidding.

Using that still under-developed skill, I was able to play the heart-strings of a soft-hearted retired orphanage head to tell me what she remembered of my drop off. My mother had been distraught and conflicted, as if she were not fully convinced that she were doing the right thing. She had had difficult time letting go, and had left in tears. The orphanage head had gleaned only one piece of information about her. She worked for the Government.