The Turing Option

The plane was only an hour late in leaving; the rest of the trip passed in a blur. They could only manage to doze on the plane and fatigue was beginning to tell. Havana was just a dimly lit transit lounge with hard plastic seats. The Aeroflot flight left two hours late this time. They ate some of the tasteless airline food, drank some Georgian champagne and finally fell asleep.

It was just after dawn in Shannon. The plane dropped down through the cloud-filled sky, came in low over cows grazing in green fields as they approached the runway. Brian pulled on his coat and took down his bag from the overhead rack. They left the plane in silence along with the rest of the weary travelers. Another transatlantic flight had arrived at the same time, so they were a long time shuffling along in the line of unshaven men, bleary-eyed women, whimpering and wailing children. Shelly went through first, had a visa stamped in her passport, turned to wait for him.

“Welcome home, Mr. Byrne,” the wide-awake and sprightly customs man said. “Been away on a holiday?”

Brian had been prepared for this moment and his accent was purest Wicklow without a trace of American. “You might say so — thousands wouldn’t. The food’s a shock and they seem to think that overcharging is a way of life.”

“That’s very interesting.” The man had the rubber stamp in his hand but he was not using it. Instead he raised cold blue eyes to Brian.

“Your current address?”

“Number 20 Kilmagig. In Tara.”

“A nice little village. Main Street with the primary school just across from the church.”

“Not unless they’ve jacked it up and moved it a half mile down the road, it isn’t.”

“True, true, I must have gotten it confused with someplace else. But there is still one little problem. That you are Irish I don’t doubt, Mr. Byrne, and I wouldn’t be one to deny a man access to the land of his birth. But the law is the law.” He signed to a garda, who nodded and strolled their way.

“I don’t understand. You’ve checked my passport—”

“I have indeed, most intriguing as well as puzzling it is. The date of issue is perfectly correct and all the visas appear to be in order. But I find one thing difficult to understand — which is why I am asking you to proceed with this garda to the office. You see this style passport has been replaced by the new Europas. This particular style passport hasn’t been issued for over ten years. Now don’t you find that interesting?”

“You better wait here for me,” Brian said weakly to Shelly as the big man in blue uniform led him away.

The interrogation room was windowless and damp. There was nothing on the drab walls except some water stains; a table and two chairs stood in the center of the worn wooden floor. Brian sat on one of them. His carry-on bag was on top of the box in the corner. A large policeman stood next to the door staring patiently into space.

Brian was depressed, chilled, and probably catching a cold. He rubbed his itching nose, pulled out his handkerchief and sneezed loudly into it.

“God bless,” the garda said, glancing at him then back to the wall again. The door opened and another big man came in. No uniform, but the dark suit and heavy boots were uniform enough. He sat down on the outer side of the table and put Brian’s passport down before him.

“I am Lieutenant Fennelly. Now, is this your passport, Mr. Byrne?”

“Yes, it is.”

“There are certain irregularities about it. Are you aware of that?”

Brian had had more than enough time to think about what he was going to say. Had decided on the truth, everything except the fact that he had been imprisoned by the military. He would keep to a highly simplified version of what had actually happened.

“Yes. The passport was out of date. I had some important business appointments, couldn’t wait to get a new one. So I made a few slight changes myself to bring it up to date.”

“Slight changes! Mr. Byrne, this passport has been so excellently altered that I sincerely doubt that it would have been detected had it not been the old model. What do you do for a living?”

“I’m an electronic engineer.”

“Well you could make a grand living as a forger should you wish to continue your criminal career.”

“I’m no criminal!”

“Aren’t you now? Did you not just admit to forgery?”

“I did not. A passport is only a piece of identification, nothing more. I have just brought my passport up to date — which is the same thing that the passport office would have done had I the time to apply for a new one.”

“That’s a pretty Jesuitical argument for a criminal to use.”

Brian was angry, even though he realized the detective had angered him on purpose. A sneeze saved him; by the time he had dug out his handkerchief and wiped his nose he had the anger under control. Attack was the best defense. He hoped.

“Are you charging me with some kind of crime, Lieutenant Fennelly?”

“I will make my report. I would like some details first.” He opened a large notebook on the table, took out a pen. “Place and date of birth.”