Chapter 10: Get Out Quick

by Ryan Russell as "Bob Knuth"

Dawn, April 15th. It takes me an hour and a half to walk to the Greyhound bus station in town. I buy a ticket for Las Vegas; it s the next bus to leave that goes to one of my cities, which seems somehow appropriate. I have a 40 minute wait in the station until my bus boards . The ride to Las Vegas will take most of the day. I peruse the newsstand at the station and buy a paper and a Tom Clancy novel .

0-Day

I m slightly hungry, but the bus station food is disgusting. No doubt, later I will be starving enough to give in and eat some; there s nothing but bus stations between here and Las Vegas. This will be the first day in nearly a year that I haven t eaten from my prescribed menu. This will be the first day in nearly a year that I have not done a lot of things. I don t have any vitamins to take.

They make the boarding call, and I file onto the bus. It s not very crowded, and I have no problem finding a seat by myself near the driver. I need to hear any communications that he makes on the radio.

I try to relax and read, but it s useless. I can t sleep either.

I think I got away with it. I won t know for certain until sometime tomorrow, and I won t know how much I ve netted, total, for a few weeks. I m just a little surprised by how smoothly most things went, and how much of the team chose to cooperate and do things my way. There was some dissent and temptation , and contingency plans have always been in place. In some cases, I may not ever know what happened with some individuals. My mouthpieces have their instructions for any of the possible outcomes . If everyone followed instructions, then they should have their reward. If they didn t, then they have their reward for that, too.

At one point during the ride, a highway patrol car pulls even with the bus. I feel just cold. But it pulls away without further incident. There s very little that can go wrong now. I ve planned things too well. There s always a possibility that something random might happen. Some freak might stick a knife in my back on the bus. But that kind of thing could happen at any point in your life. That s the price for walking outside. As it is, I control my own destiny. My behavior dictates how I am treated at any checkpoint I encounter.

The ride to Las Vegas turned out to be uneventful. I was driven to eat at a middle-of-nowhere diner, and that isn t sitting with me too well. The Las Vegas bus station is swarming with people. Old people, college kids , losers, scum. It s all I can do to walk calmly away. I have to get away from these people. The last thing I need is some disease. After I get a few blocks away, I look for a phone booth , so I can locate my PO box here. Why aren t there any phone booths any more? I m forced to enter a casino to look through the phonebook at a payphone. I can feel the kid behind the concierge desk watching my back the entire time. You don t know me kid, and I m not going to wreck your casino.

I located the address, and wait in line for a cab outside. Why are there so many people here in the late afternoon on a weekday? I finally get my cab. When did they start using minivans as taxis? I give the driver the address. It takes almost 15 minutes to go a relatively short distance. There s a lot more traffic in Las Vegas than I would have thought. I pay the driver and walk into the storefront.

As I m standing in front of the rows and columns of glass-fronted PO boxes, I have a small moment of panic when I can t immediately remember my box number. Damn! OK, worst case, I can catch a bus to Salt Lake, where I have another identity set. First, concentrate, relax. Las Vegas. PO Box 867. Yes! Combination

Hello sir, find everything OK? My head whips to the left, and I stare in shock at the clerk behind the counter. Whoa, sorry, didn t mean to scare you.

I reply, No, I m fine, thanks. Just trying to find my box.

He asks, Do you need me to look it up? What s your name ?

No, it s 867, I got it. Damn.

That one is over there, he replies, pointing to the opposite wall. I try to force a smile, and walk to the other side of the room, zeroing in on 867. I crouch down to the level of the box, and stare at the combination lock. I purposely use PO boxes that have combinations, so that I won t have to arrange for or carry a key. Four digits. Las Vegas. PO Box 867. Combination

Got anything today? he says. Shut up! Why are you speaking to me?

I say Yes, I ve got a package. I m in a hurry, I m just going to grab it, and

He interrupts, I can grab it from the back side if that would be quicker, I just need to see a driver s license and check it against the box.

No! I say, probably a little too quickly. I got it.

I place my hands on the box, thumbs on the dials, mostly to steady myself while crouched. Combination 3835. I dial it and twist the knob. The little glass door swings open , and I grab the puffy brown envelope inside. Placing it under the heel of my left foot , I gently close the door and spin the dial to relock it. With the fingers of my right hand splayed on the wall of glass doors, I grab the envelope in my left and push myself back to standing.

Clutching the envelope to my chest, my back to the counter, I wave with my free hand and say bye. I push the door outwards, and step back into the desert heat.

I ve got nowhere to put the envelope. It s too big for my pants pockets, no jacket. I wouldn t want a jacket right now. I hate the heat. I ve got no choice but to awkwardly switch the envelope from hand to hand as I walk, trying not to leave a wet handprint on it. Where to go? I don t mind using a casino to find a phonebook, but I m not about to walk into a casino with an envelope in plain sight, go to the bathroom, and come out with no envelope. The camera operators would spot something like that in a second.

After two long blocks, I come across a small section of road between massive casinos, containing some small trinket shops and a Burger King. I go in the side door, and head straight for the men s room. Good, a handicap stall, and the room is empty.

I check the seat briefly , and then sit down on it, pants up. The envelope is padded , slightly larger than a standard letter. The front of the brown envelope has the cancelled postage , and meaningless sender and receiver names , PO Box 867, Las Vegas. One end of the envelope is folded over on itself, held closed with adhesive . I don t have a knife; I didn t want to have to worry about accidentally trying to cross airport security with one. Prying at the folded end just hurts my fingernails, so I try to rip the envelope just beside the fold. It won t tear. I think I must be slightly weaker than I used to be. There will be time to build my strength back up later.

I firmly grab the envelope with both hands, and pull with all my might in opposite directions. I raise my elbows into the air with the effort, looking like some giant chicken straining to lay an egg. The paper gives way with a tear, and the air is filled with grey dust. Looking at the pieces of envelope in my hands, I discover that the envelope is padded with some kind of grey lint material, which I have sprayed all over the stall and myself. Crap!

I stand to allow the dust to fall from my lap, and hopefully to get my head above the cloud. I drop the loose flap to the ground, and upend the envelope into my hand. In addition to clumps of lint, a folded wad of currency slides into view atop the dark blue color of a US passport. I grasp the contents and shove those into my pants pocket. After double-checking that the envelope is empty, I upend it again over the toilet , and tap out the rest of the lint into the water. I tear the paper off the outside of the envelope and let the rest of the lint drop to the water.

I get down on my hands and knees, and begin sweeping the dropped lint onto the paper with my hand, and then dump that into the water. I stand and lift the seat, and do the best I can to beat any remaining lint from the front of my clothes into the water. I then flush the murky grey water.

I can t exactly flush the paper and plastic liner, they re too likely to clog the toilet. I tear loose the addresses and postmark, and exit the stall. I drop everything but the bits I ve torn off into the trash. Moving to the sink, I turn it on. I run my hands under the water with the paper spread wide. I wash the dust off the paper, and watch a small portion of the ink fade. Making sure the paper is saturated , I tear off a strip with words on it, and ball it up. This I put into my mouth, and swallow, repeating this exercise until all the printing has been consumed. I leave the remnants at the bottom of the sink, and rinse my hands. I reach out for a paper towel and wipe out the sink, collecting the remaining sodden paper. I ball the paper towel and crumple it up inside another. I shove these to the bottom of the trash, grab another handful of towels to dry my hands and arms, and place those on top of the pile in the trash.

I exit the bathroom, and head straight outside. The spattered water on the front of my clothes will be dry in minutes outside. I need to go shopping.

I can t seem to hail a cab on the street, so I wait in another line in a nearby casino. Once inside, I ask the driver where I can buy some casual clothes. He makes a suggestion, and I reply, That will be fine. I m dropped off at a collection of outlet stores. I find one that sells casual clothes, and purchase some slacks and shirts. During the process I take a brief stop in the dressing room to asses my ID and cash. I ve got about $650 in cash now, and a passport, driver s license, credit card, and ATM card (linked to an account that matches the ID, $15,000 available). In my wallet now is a set of cards and a driver s license I need to dispose of. I didn t bring a passport with me to Las Vegas. I fill my wallet with the new ID, and place the outdated ones in my left front pocket. Before leaving the outlet area, I also purchase a suitcase with wheels and a handle, a pair of shoes, and appropriate undergarments.

Securely disposing of ID isn t necessarily an easy task, and being intercepted while carrying two sets is an immediate giveaway. I have a seat at a bench, and transfer the contents of my shopping bags into the suitcase. I shove all the receipts into my left pocket, shove one of the shopping bags into an outside pocket of the suitcase, and dispose of the rest of the bags and boxes. I locate an office supply store in the outlet area.

Entering the store, I glance around to locate the store employees , and locate the shredder aisle. When the aisle is otherwise vacated, I causally stroll over and locate the heaviest-duty crosscut shredder with a card slot that I can. Making sure that no one is heading my way, I remove the receptacle, line it with my shopping bag, and reinsert it. I grab the contents of my left front pocket, and feed them into the shredder, driver s license first. Next, plastic cards. I m standing there with a handful of paper receipts when a red shirt comes wondering in my direction.

Anything I can help you with? he asks.

Maybe, I reply, shredding a receipt in front of him. Do you have any of these in stock? Do you know how much they weigh?

Let me go check for you, he says. I simply smile and then break eye contact, thoughtfully shredding the last piece of paper in my hand, and then beginning the I m waiting pace. When he turns the corner, I open the shredder, knock loose as much confetti as I can from the blades into my shopping bag, and stuff it into my luggage.

I m out the front door before red shirt ever returns from the back. After 15 minutes of sprinkling shreddings in about a dozen garbage cans, I m on my way to the airport.