I Am Pilgrim

“‘Oh good,’ I say without much interest, ‘an intellectual.’ ‘Not really,’ he replies, ‘according to their database she only borrowed one book in a year.’ He pauses, looks at me hard. ‘Yours.’ I stare back at him, robbed of words. No wonder he was preoccupied. ‘She read my book?’ I manage to say finally.”

Initially Murdoch is casual and unaffected, joking amid the horror that surrounds him. Only Bradley changes his relationship to what he sees, underlining the importance of their relationship. They are united in a shared horror, one Hayes does not explain, adding to the suspense and confusion of the scene.

I was a perfect candidate for the secret world. I was smart, I had always been a loner, and I was damaged deep in my soul. My father walked out before I was born and was never seen again. Several years later my mother was murdered in her bedroom in our apartment just off Eight Mile Road in Detroit—like I said, there are some places I will remember all my life. An only child, I finally washed up with adoptive parents in Greenwich, Connecticut—twenty acres of manicured lawns, the best schools money could buy, the quietest house you’ve ever known.”

The self-description here is an early manifestation of the themes of family bonds and moral redemption. Murdoch calls himself “damaged deep in my soul” and emphasizes his family tragedy. His adoption is not a panacea or a respite; he “washes up” like a piece of debris or a wreckage. The description of his later upbringing emphasizes both his privilege and the isolation—he is inserted into a tidy universe where he does not truly belong.

“I remembered what somebody once said about Bill Clinton—he never met a woman he didn’t like. I figured it wouldn’t be helpful to tell them I felt the same way about drugs. I denied even a passing knowledge, thankful I had never adopted the reckless lifestyle that usually accompanies their use. I’d made it a secret life and kept it hidden by following my own rules—I only ever got fucked up alone, I didn’t try and score at bars or clubs, I figured party drugs were for amateurs, and the idea of driving around an open-air drug market sounded like a recipe to get shot.”

Murdoch’s self-deprecating humor about his substance use, like his description of his childhood, establishes him as a detective with a darker side. He describes his drug use as a “secret life” and an escape route he conceals from others. His tone assumes a note of superiority, revealing his ego: He sees himself as superior to those who use substances in more public or riskier ways.

“I hadn’t meant to, but I realized I was drawing up a sort of profit-and-loss account. By the end there were fourteen Russian children in one column, the Rider’s two daughters in the other. You could say it had been a good exchange by any reckoning. But it wasn’t enough—the names of the Russians were too abstract and the Rider’s children far too real.”

The financial language that Hayes uses here suggests that Murdoch is seeking a tidy solution to his moral dilemma. His focus on children underlines the depth of his interest in the loss of innocence and the destruction of families. He admits that the lives saved are “abstract” to him compared to the children he knows personally—for all his cynicism he is still influenced by personal ties and relationships.

“Somewhere in it he also used the word hero. I walked to the door. I felt the assembled eyes on me, but I hardly noticed. I went out and stood on the lawn, looking across the bleak landscape. ‘Cleared of all wrongdoing,’ the letter had said and as I thought on that and the other word he had used, it unchained a host of emotions in me. I wondered what Bill and Grace would have thought.”

This close reading of the president’s personal letter of gratitude reveals the extent of Murdoch’s turmoil and the moral weight of his work. He focuses as much on the idea that he has been absolved as on the assertion that he might be heroic. His uncertainty, emphasized with the word “wonder” and the question about his adoptive parents, suggests that he feels no inner certainty about his conduct.

“And of every kind of love—the epic and the small, the noble and the base—the one that a parent has for their child is the greatest of them all. That was the lesson I learned that day and I’ll be forever grateful I did—some years later, deep in the ruins called the Theater of Death, it salvaged everything.”

Hayes’s use of adjectives here plays up contrasts between various scales and extremes. The word choice serves to underline the depth of Murdoch’s interest in the nature of human connections. He learns this as an outside observer, however, not from personal experience, ever the detached outsider.

“I know that on that night, encountering each other for the first time, we both thought that our race was run, our professional lives had ended, but here’s the strange thing—that meeting was of huge significance. It mattered—my God, did it matter. All of it turned out to be important—the murder at the Eastside Inn, Christos Nikolaides gunned down in a bar in Santorini, the failed covert operation in Bodrum, my friendship with Ben Bradley, and even a Buddhist monk traveling down a road in Thailand.”

Murdoch’s unlikely kinship with Bradley emphasizes both of their losses and enduring fatigue. The reference to a “run race” evokes St. Paul’s epistle to Timothy in the New Testament, casting the two men as part of a tradition of divine favor and work for salvation. The emphasis on chains of seemingly random events reinforces the power of chance and Morality and Contingency, an enduring theme in Murdoch’s life and investigations.

“But most youths had never faced a Soviet Hind helicopter gunship in full rampage, not once, not even in their worst nightmares. Watching the Saracen, the governor wondered, not for the first time, if he himself could have found the courage—armed with nothing more than a Blowpipe—to have done it.”

The language here underlines that al-Nassouri is exceptional, even in the eyes of a much older man. He has faced what others cannot imagine even in “nightmares,” and the older warlord privately doubts his own ability and resolve. This description of his younger self prepares the reader for what will become clear later: Al-Nassouri is just as intimidating as Murdoch himself is.

“They were no longer in Paris, nowhere near a five-star hotel, I saw in their faces they were exactly where they had been before and after the north tower fell—in love. They weren’t kids, it certainly wasn’t infatuation, and it was good to know that in a world full of trickery and deceit something like that still existed.”

Once again, Hayes casts Murdoch as the keen observer of others, from a distance, often without their awareness. Love transports Bradley and Marcie beyond their personal tragedies. Murdoch sees this as a kind of antidote to his doubts and cynicism, and this may explain his later choice to seek Bradley’s friendship, consequential as this proves to be.

“It meant, not for the first time, that the lives of countless people would turn on a tiny event—if only the bomb hadn’t been placed under an oak table in the Führer’s conference room. If only the tsar of Russia hadn’t executed Lenin’s brother. If only—but it has been my unfortunate experience that you can’t rely on divine intervention and that fate favors the bad as often as the good.”

Here, the repetition of “if only” betrays the depth of Murdoch’s desperation, the wish that other tragedies might have been averted. His use of historical analogies compares al-Nassouri’s work, and the quest to find him, with other attempts to change history or thwart evil. Murdoch suggests that there is no animating force for good in the universe, only chance—an assertion that is likely meant to add to the reader’s doubts about his ability to thwart al-Nassouri in time, increasing narrative tension.

“Two men, neither of them young, standing outside a hospital—one of them a candidate for vice president and supporting the other in his time of anguish—was such a human, unscripted moment that minutes after the anonymous camera person uploaded it onto the Internet it went viral. For the duration of the film clip, the electorate saw behind the curtain of image and spin, and what they recognized in the man who stepped to the front of the ticket was, I believe, a person not too different to themselves.”

The description of Grosvenor highlights his humility and compassion—assuring the reader that he, like Ben Bradley, is a force for good in the world. The anecdote posits that what the world needs is authenticity, to believe in leaders who are vulnerable. Even Murdoch believes in the power of empathy to sway public opinion, cynical as he may otherwise be.

“‘Years back he was known as the Rider of the Blue. He was probably the best intelligence agent there’s ever been.’ The special assistant smiled. ‘I thought that was you.’ ‘So did I,’ Whisperer replied, ‘until I met him.’”

Whisperer makes as a dramatic pronouncement, a confession of his own inferiority, just as the reader has seen several episodes where he is the most analytical mind among the president’s advisers. Even his own assistant is unprepared for his admission of humility. The dialogue here, the intentional closing of a scene, seems cinematic, as though Hayes wants the reader to picture a camera searching for Murdoch.

“I was thinking about failed dreams, about reaching for normal and an attractive woman in New York whose phone number I would never know. I was thinking about the Fourth of July, days on the beach, and all the things that so easily get lost in the fire. But mostly I was thinking about how the secret world never leaves you—it’s always waiting in the darkness, ready to gather its children back again.”

Murdoch’s reverie here is a catalog of his thwarted hopes: romance, patriotic holidays, and vacations. He seems almost haunted by his past, suddenly captive by ghosts in a world he hoped never to see again. Tellingly, he refers to those like him as the “children” of the darkness—he has no parents, but he has, nevertheless, been reclaimed.

“The old man with the translucent skin and impatient manner had convinced me that what he termed a ‘modern, intelligent enemy’ would never be caught by rounding up the usual suspects. Nor would there be any suicide vectors.”

In using the phrase ‘the usual suspects,” Murdoch quotes the 1941 film Casablanca. The Usual Suspects is itself the title of a 1995 neo-noir classic. Both films depict struggles against unlikely odds—French resistance to the Nazi occupation and the effort to unearth a criminal mastermind. The allusion emphasizes that Murdoch himself is on a significant, if possibly futile, quest, underlining his pessimism.

“Kramer would have recounted that he saw fear on my face, that it appeared I had felt so much for the man being interrogated that my body was rigid and drenched in sweat. He might even have questioned my courage and whether I was suitable for frontline service. In his own way, he was probably saying that my weight was my heart. It was that report which Whisperer would have read when he called up my file from the archives.”

Murdoch’s memories of his time in Thailand are another window into his capacity for empathy, through the eyes of an adversary. His empathy is visible even to those who dislike him, manifest as physical stress. This, then, explains Whisperer’s instructions and cryptic remarks: Murdoch’s empathy is his vulnerability. This scene will take on new import when Murdoch encounters al-Nassouri, who will also become his torturer.

“Call it a tiny signature, but it had made me really angry. I was certain that the thread from Dodge’s chinos had been planted on the railing to make sure the cops would come to the right conclusion. A case in which the killer had followed exactly the same procedure that was featured in my book.”

While Murdoch’s search for al-Nassouri is international and political, his quest for Dodge’s killer is personal, as evidenced by his open admission of anger. At the same time, he explains his unusual display of emotion: The killer is following his work, making him, in some way, complicit. The “tiny signature” is also a revealing word choice, underscoring that murders are a kind of macabre art unique to their authors.

“We shook hands and I walked away. We never saw each other again, but a few years later I was listening to National Public Radio and I heard him interviewed—I learned that by then he’d had a string of hits playing traditional instruments and had become a sort of Turkish Kenny G. His biggest-selling album was called ‘If You Want to Be Free.’”

This aside establishes that Murdoch uses his hard-earned experiences to help others, even those he begins by threatening. Pamuk’s new fame using Murdoch’s advice to him underlines the value of personal transformation. The anecdote also establishes that Murdoch himself is now free, looking back on the case from years in the future.

“I took a breath and thought how wrong I had been—despite the ventilation system, the air wasn’t fresh and sweet at all. It was rank and foul and I hurried forward, wanting to be done with the place and the terrible memory of the men who had once escaped down the tunnel.”

In calling the tunnel “foul” Murdoch establishes a contrast between its physical and metaphysical presence. The French House, for him, remains haunted by its original purpose and the goals of those who built it. Both Murdoch’s older and younger selves are haunted by Nazism and its implications, a way for Hayes to establish that his empathy has remained with him even in his challenging career.

“She was stunning, no doubt about it—five hip young guys staring from a nearby table proved that—but if she was even aware of it she seemed to give it no importance. Maybe that was why she could carry everything off—even the damned dog. A long time back, I said that there were places I would remember all my life. People too. And I knew then, sitting in a nondescript café under the hot Turkish sun, that the first sight of her would be one of those things that would stay with me forever.”

Murdoch takes in Ingrid’s insouciance and beauty, clearly drawn in by her even from a narrative distance. He quotes the Beatles, as he did in the opening scene, subtly indicating the relationship between Ingrid and the Eastside Inn case. The song itself is a nostalgic reflection on love and emotional bonds—underlining that Murdoch’s captivation with Ingrid may have a sinister edge, as though he cannot resist her charms.

“The rain was starting to hit and I couldn’t tell whether it was that or the tears in my eyes that was clouding my view. Even at the end of his life, when he was doubting my character, Bill had tried to take care of me. What more could I have asked? He was a wonderful man and once again, I realized I should have treated him better. I turned and looked at Finbar and he handed me all of the documents—signed, sealed, and delivered.”

Murdoch’s open display of emotion at Bill’s bequest confirms for the reader that his bond with his foster father is formative for him. Murdoch’s regrets lead him to accept, finally, that Bill was a parent to him, that he, too, experienced familial devotion. The concluding words echo a soul song by Stevie Wonder, cementing Murdoch’s tendency to quote music in moments of extreme emotion.

“‘Would you have shot the nanny?’ I asked Ben. He didn’t reply and I knew that was answer enough. ‘Would you?’ he countered after a moment. ‘That’s the difference between us, Ben,’ I said softly. ‘It’s why I was made for this business and you weren’t. Of course I would have.’”

Murdoch’s last dialogue exchange with Ben Bradley establishes the key differences between them. Bradley is never able to truly abandon his conscience for a mission, whereas Murdoch can do so without hesitation. Murdoch understands this distinction, while Bradley, it seems, hopes that he and his friend may be alike.

“But that was all in my conscious mind. In a far deeper place, did I know that there was another weapon? One that was fully loaded—my own Beretta, the gun the Albanians had taken from me at the fall of masonry and discarded next to my smashed cell phone? Did I leave it there for the Saracen to use on himself—and, if so, why?”

Murdoch’s use of repetitive questions here underlines his doubts and fragility as he contemplates his encounter with Zakaria al-Nassouri. His speculations here imply that he felt some solidarity with the man he had spent days desperately searching for. Uncharacteristically, however, Murdoch provides no answer, leaving the reader to wonder whether the error may have been a mere accident, yet another contingency.

“But didn’t Ingrid love Cameron? I asked myself, always the investigator. But I already knew the answer—she had been betrayed and abandoned by her longtime lover. She didn’t love Cameron, she hated Cameron. Of course, working to my belief, she would have had no difficulty in concealing her true feelings—she was an actress and she would have played the part right up to the end.”

Even after his ordeal in Bodrum, Murdoch remains haunted by the Eastside Inn case, relentless in his determination to understand it. His grasp of Ingrid’s character is intuitive and detailed—he realizes that Ingrid is capable of deep emotion on both ends of the spectrum. Ingrid “played the part” and achieved her final revenge. The tone here is almost admiring, as if he cannot help but appreciate her skill.