by Barry Eisler
“That’s what this is about?”
“Sure sounds like it. The FBI pulled the plug on the operation the very morning of the night two shooters showed up and tried to kill my gal. But she’s so fine, she killed them dead instead. Now tell me who’s behind this whole thing, ’cause they tried to kill my gal and brought down an entire plane full of innocent people just to cover their own asses, and I’m not going to stop until they’ve been delivered some righteous fucking justice.”
“Oliver Graham.”
“Well, shit. Why am I not surprised? Like they say, you can’t spell rogue without O-G-E. But what’s his angle? Just a cutout for the Secret Service?”
“Seems a reasonable inference. But we need more intel on who’s ultimately behind this.”
“And how we get to them.”
“Exactly. We’re working a couple contacts now. One is Treven—”
“Ben Treven? How’s that boy mixed up in this?”
“I don’t know that he is. But he brokered the introduction to Graham. And he’s currently employed by OGE.”
“Well, that sounds promising. And when I’m off the phone with you, I’m fixing to call our mutual friend at Christians In Action. Would have pinged him sooner, but I nearly missed my flight as it was and besides, I wanted to get with you first.”
“I was going to do the same myself. He’s still stationed at Langley, is that right?”
“Yeah, he’s more management than field now. But his intel is better than ever. He was a big help to me and my gal during that recent Southeast Asian imbroglio.”
Something occurred to me. “You keep calling her your gal. Are the two of you . . .”
“Nah, it ain’t like that. Not that she’s not in love with me, you know my effect on women, but no.”
For whatever reason, it sounded a touch defensive. Which of course engaged my latent urge to give him some shit—payback for the far more generous portions he typically ladled out to me.
“Okay,” I said. “It was just the ‘my gal’ that was throwing me.”
“Look, would you prefer ‘my friend’? I’m happy to refer to her that way instead.”
“Whatever you like. I mean, I’m your friend, right?”
“Generally yes, though at moments like this you give me cause to wonder.”
“Well, you don’t refer to me as your ‘guy,’ do you?”
“I can see where you’re going with this, partner, and I can see where it ends up, too, with you reminding me for the umpteenth time about how I was all set to go off with Tiara the lady boy but for your untimely intervention. And that’s fine, I’ll own all of it if it makes you happy. But right now, I want us to get it in gear, because as capable as my friend is, with OGE in the mix it’s even more clear to me than before that she needs our help. Comprendez?”
Coming from Dox, “Comprendez?” wasn’t a question. It was your last warning. All at once, it was obvious: whatever was between him and this Seattle cop, it was serious. And because Dox being serious about a woman was new to me, I’d been slow to process it.
“You’re right,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
“Ah, shit, forget it, I’m just tense. And it’s not like I’ve never given you a hard time, either, and I certainly will again. But yeah, you contact Treven, I’ll get in touch with our mutual acquaintance, and hopefully at that point, between the two of us, we’ll have enough pieces to figure out how to shut this shit down like it ought to be. Larison’s on board?”
I glanced at Larison. “Yeah. He’s on board.”
“Good. Sounds like we might be spending some time in dark alleys, and I don’t mind the idea of the angel of death being there with us.”
“So you guys have been in touch.”
“Yeah, you know, from time to time. He’s a better conversationalist than some people I might mention.”
Well, it didn’t take him long to deliver on his promise to give me a hard time again. But I let it go. “Horton’s here, too.”
“You trust that hombre? Larison sure doesn’t.”
“I think some of that’s changed.” I glanced at Horton. “But right now? Yeah. I trust him.”
“Well, he’s a capable sumbitch, I’ll give him that, albeit a bit devious for my tastes. Or at least he was back in the day—I’ll accept maybe that’s changed if you say so. Plus he knows where a lot of the bodies are buried. And given what it seems we’re up against, we’re going to need all the intel we can get. Where are you, anyway?”
“Near DC. Between our CIA friend being close by, and OGE being headquartered in Virginia, and the attack that just went down here, I’m hoping you’re heading this way.”
“Negative on that. I’m not going to leave my friend alone while the head of the world’s biggest mercenary army has her in his sights.”
“Could she come out here? Sounds like she should get out of town and be on the move regardless.”
“Yeah, I advised her on some of your basic best practices for fugitives. And she’s already pretty damn tactical on her own. But . . . that’s an interesting idea. Tell you what, I’ll get in touch with our deskbound friend and see what he knows, and let’s you and I revisit once I’m stateside. Hey, put old Larison back on for a minute, would you?”
I handed the phone back to Larison. He listened, then said, “Yeah. Yeah, don’t worry, we’ll leave it on. Talk to you soon. And watch your back.”
He clicked off.
“What was that?” I said.
“He said he admires your paranoia, but he wants to be able to reach us and we should leave the satellite phone on.”
I could see this was a battle I wasn’t going to win. I briefed the two of them on what I’d just learned from Dox.
“Well,” Horton said when I was done. “Now we know what was big enough to risk all the attention a helicopter rocket attack on my house is going to cause.”
I nodded. “And why the initial hits they wanted me for were supposed to look natural. And worth a million dollars.”
Larison laughed.
I looked at him. “What?”
“It’s nothing. I mean, it’s not really funny. It’s just a good thing you didn’t take that contract. Not saying you couldn’t have brought it off the way they wanted. I’m sure you would have. But that Seattle cop Dox is calling ‘my gal’ . . . well, let’s just say I wouldn’t want to be the one to punch her ticket. From what you’ve told us, I’d say whoever did it would have to kill Dox, too.”
I didn’t respond. I hadn’t even thought of that, but now that Larison had pointed it out, the prospect actually made me feel mildly ill.
It’s okay. It didn’t happen. And it wasn’t going to happen. You don’t do women. Or children. And you’re not going to. Ever.
Or at least . . . not ever again.
“Let’s call Treven,” I said, shaking it off.
“I’ve got a better idea,” Horton said. “I know where he lives. Why don’t we pay him a visit?”
chapter
eighteen
RAIN
Treven’s place was in a town called White Sulphur Springs, West Virginia—on the other side of the national forest, about an hour’s drive for us. And about ninety minutes from Roanoke, where OGE was headquartered. “It’s a small town,” Horton told us as we drove, “though notable for the presence of a resort called the Greenbrier, which itself is notable because it served during the Cold War as the secret location of Project Greek Island—the emergency bunker where Congress was supposed to be relocated in the event of a nuclear war with the Soviets.”
“Who would want to save Congress?” Larison asked.
Horton chuckled. “Well, since it was Congress appropriating the money for the plan, there’s your answer. Anyway, when he’s not doing whatever he does for OGE, I know the quiet suits Ben. For a variety of reasons, he’s feeling estranged from Washington.”
I thought of my minka in Kamakura. Far enough from Tokyo to support the notion that I was done with the city.
Close enough to suggest something else.
Showing up to Treven’s place in person, as opposed to picking up the phone, had its advantages and disadvantages. On the one hand, in person wouldn’t leave an electronic trail anyone could follow. It would also give us the best chance of assessing him, and maybe of persuading him.
On the other hand, if Horton were wrong about Treven’s relative trustworthiness, things could become unpleasant. And though we judged the chances of physical surveillance low—OGE had been devoting a lot of resources to watching Horton and had just lost them—we might be wrong.
Treven lived in a white one-story clapboard house on the corner of a quiet street dotted with similarly nondescript homes. The only indications that the occupant might be security conscious were subtle: a surrounding chain-link fence; well-lit grounds; the absence of any shrubbery on the perimeter, denying concealment to anyone hoping to break in to the house or set up a close ambush. The curtains were drawn, but there was nothing out of the ordinary about that. Of course, there would be additional security layers, not all of them defensive, that wouldn’t reveal themselves to a casual inspection.
We circled the block and didn’t see anything that concerned us. The parked cars we passed were empty. The likely surveillance and ambush spots were clear. Still, there was no moon and few streetlights, and it was hard to be sure. I wished we’d brought along some of Horton’s night-vision gear. In fairness, though, we’d left in a bit of a hurry.
In the end, we decided on a direct approach. Horton, leaving his M4 in the car, opened the gate, walked up a short flight of stairs to the front door, and rang the bell, keeping his hands in plain view. It was a safe bet Treven would see him, and the car waiting in the street, via a hidden camera. At which point Treven would have the advantage. The question was what he would want to do with it.
We waited. The windows were open; I was behind the wheel, the engine running; and we were parked at an angle to the door that would force Treven from behind cover if he wanted to shoot at us, if things got ugly. All sound tactics. But Larison was still tense, the Glock at the ready—a measure of his respect for Treven’s skill, I thought, despite his earlier prediction about how it would have ended had Treven been one of the men in the woods.
Another moment passed. Then a light came on inside. The door opened—Treven. It was hard to tell at this distance and at night, but he didn’t seem to have changed—the same blond, all-American football-hero type. In fact, he’d played college ball, Larison had once told me—linebacker at Stanford, where he’d been benched for unnecessary roughness as often as he’d taken the field, before dropping out of college entirely.
“Hands are empty,” I said.
“Yeah? If he doesn’t have a pistol in the back of his jeans, you can have my share of Hort’s diamonds.”
That wasn’t a bet I was willing to take. Treven glanced at the car, then spoke for a minute with Horton. The two of them came down the stairs toward the car. Larison started to get out.
I put a hand on his shoulder. “Not with the Glock.”
“Are you fucking serious?”
“What would you do if you saw you coming out of a car on a moonless night holding a gun?”
“I’d run the fuck away.”
“Or you’d shoot first and run later.”
“He’s carrying. And I’m not getting out of this car with nothing to offer but a handshake.”
I thought for a second. “Okay. You stay put. I’ll get out.”
“What are you now, some kind of diplomat?”
“Somebody’s got to be, if we’re not going to all just shoot each other.”
He shook his head disgustedly. “Well, better you than me. Okay, go make some peace, if you can. I’ve got your back.”
I stepped slowly out of the car, giving Treven a little two-handed wave to let him see as well as possible in the dim light that I wasn’t holding anything.
He regarded me, his hands on his hips. But the thumbs were forward, not hooked behind—faster access to a pistol in a waistband.
“Rain,” he said. “Can’t say I was expecting to see you.”
I nodded. “Sorry for the surprise. How’ve you been?”
“No complaints.” He glanced at the car. “Larison getting out?”
“He’s got a pistol. Like you. I asked him to stay put because everyone’s a little nervous, and I’m looking for a way to make sure this stays convivial. But I’m sure he’d like to say hello, if you’re okay with that.”
Larison looked out the window. “Treven, you dumb shit, if I were here to kill you, would I be sitting in a car in front of your fucking house?”
Diplomacy, I thought. Larison style.
Treven did a quick perimeter scan. “Probably not.”
“Right. Are you going to try to kill me?”
“Probably not.”
“Good. Then I’m going to get out.”
Treven took a half step offline, positioning Horton in the potential line of fire. Larison slowly exited the vehicle. He closed the door, which I know must have been hard for him, because the door would have provided some cover, and then eased the Glock into the back of his pants, which I imagined must have been harder still. Then he walked forward and held out his hand. “It’s actually good seeing you, you prick.”
Treven smiled. “Yeah, I was thinking the same about you.”
They shook, and a little of the tension went out of the air.
“I was briefing Ben about the little problem we just had,” Horton said. “Obviously, there’s more to discuss.”
Treven gestured to his house. “You’re welcome to come in. I don’t get a lot of visitors, but there’s some beer in the fridge.”
“I would enjoy that,” Horton said. “And under any other circumstances, I’d gladly accept your hospitality. But right now, I don’t think you want to be seen with us. Which is why we decided not to call and leave any kind of electronic trail. Maybe we could just go for a ride.”
“Rain and Hort can sit in front,” Larison said, anticipating the objection. “You and I can stare at each other suspiciously in back.”
Treven didn’t respond.
Horton said, “Son? I truly do not believe you had anything to do with what happened a short while ago at my house. And I have no desire to put you in an uncomfortable position. But the fact is, your employer seems intent on making me dead. If you have any notions on how I might prevent that, I’d be grateful if you could share them.”
Treven’s eyes shifted from Horton to Larison and then to me. After a moment, he nodded. We got in the car, Treven and Larison waiting until Horton and I were seated and easing in simultaneously just after.
“There’s a little Baptist church a few minutes outside of town,” Treven said. “Set off the road, parking lot in back, no cameras. It’ll be empty. We can talk there.”
I followed his directions, and five minutes later we were sitting at a picnic table behind the church in question, the night quiet but for the crickets in the surrounding woods, the only illumination a single light casting long shadows from the back entrance of the church fifty feet away. The night air was moist and had grown cool enough to turn our breath to vapor.
We took turns finishing briefing Treven on what had happened, and on our theories about why. Something about his body language, along with the fact that he offered no questions, gave me the sense that even if he had nothing to do with the attack at Horton’s house, he wasn’t inclined to help us.
The briefing was followed by a tense silence, and for a long moment the only sound was of the crickets around us. Treven said, “All right. What does any of this have to do with me?”
Yeah, I thought. I hate to be right.
Horton looked at him. “You reached out to me. Asked me to do you a solid—put your boss in touch with Rain here.”
Treven shook his head. “Not a solid. You owed me.”
“Call it what you want,” Horton said. “I did what you asked. And earlier
this evening, it got my house rocketed and nearly got me and these two men killed.”
“Again,” Treven said, “what does any of that have to do with me?”
Larison was looking at Treven intently. Do not go for that gun, I thought. Do not.
But there was no way I could stop him if he did.
“Maybe it has nothing to do with you,” I said, wanting to get some words out to puncture the ominous silence. “At least not directly. But what are the stakes here? What’s really going on? Not king and country. Not geopolitics or national security or anything like that. It’s about a child-pornography ring at the Secret Service. And covering that up.”
Treven shrugged. “You don’t know that. It’s speculation.”
“If you have a more compelling theory,” I said, “I’d like to hear it.”
He shook his head. “I might, if this had anything to do with me.”
“What about the plane?” Larison said.
Treven looked at him. “First of all, the word is, that was ISIS.”
Larison shook his head disgustedly. “Come on, even you’re not stupid enough to believe that line of bullshit.”
Treven laughed. “You think it’s stupid to believe ISIS wants to blow up US planes?”
Larison frowned. “I think it’s stupid to have unquestioning faith in evidence-free governmental claims. Especially when politicians make hay out of them. Have you been listening to that candidate for Bullshitter in Chief, Senator Barkley? He’s humping the ISIS angle to death, and he’s up five points in the polls as a result.”
“Just because a politician is benefiting,” Treven said, “doesn’t mean—”
Larison cut him off. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Treven, you’ve dealt with these people. You know they do false-flags—you were on the wrong end of one, just like I was. But now all of a sudden they say something and you automatically believe it’s true? Why? No, I mean it, you know better, so why? Who are you trying to protect?”
Even in the dim light, I could see Treven’s face darken. “Myself,” he said. “Don’t act like that’s an alien concept for you. And don’t pretend you’ve ever been motivated by anything else yourself.”
