by Barry Eisler
“Thank you so much,” she said, laying on a heavier-than-normal French accent. “I know this is irregular, but I have come a long way and I would be so grateful for an opportunity to interview Monsieur Grimble.”
The guard shook his head as though confused. “Uh, I’m sorry, I can’t really help with that.”
“Are you sure? Don’t you know him? Or at least see him?”
“Well, yes, sometimes I see him, but . . . who are you?”
“Ah, forgive me. Let me give you a card.” She moved a few items around inside her bag. “Merde. I thought I had one. Just a moment, please.”
John and the rest would know this was their moment. The perimeter of the property was blanketed with cameras. And there was a camera inside each guard booth, too. It was a thoughtful setup: a problem in or outside of one guard booth would be instantly visible in the other. The solution was speed, coordination, and distraction.
She went to the Porsche and leaned far inside, making sure he enjoyed a long and hopefully alluring view. Then she eased out and walked back to the booth, holding a card.
“My name is Laure. Laure Kupfer. I am a freelance writer and photographer, and I hope to place an interview with Monsieur Grimble and a photo shoot of his fabulous taste in Architectural Digest magazine.”
He glanced at the card, but she didn’t proffer it. “I don’t think Mr. Grimble does many interviews, Ms. Kupfer . . .”
“Please, call me Laure. And what is your name?”
The guard hesitated, as though the non-male/ego/narcissist part of his brain recognized he was being manipulated. Delilah had seen the reaction many times in her career, along with the override that almost always immediately followed.
He stepped back from the window. A moment later he came through the door. He was wearing blue pants and a matching windbreaker that identified him as Gorgon Security. An earpiece and lapel-mounted push-to-talk microphone. And a pistol in a belt holster.
“I’m Larry,” he said.
“Ah, our names begin with the same letter.”
He laughed as though she had said something notably witty. She offered her hand and they shook.
“Thank you for coming out, Larry,” she said, for the benefit of the team. “I really appreciate your help.”
If he was attending to the monitors at all, with any luck the guard in the other booth would be focused on the one displaying Delilah. And why not? Guard work was boring. Watching your companion make time with a blonde in a Porsche would be a welcome distraction. Dox would need only a moment to get past the cameras, at which point he’d be at the second guard booth.
“Of course. But, the thing is, Laure, I can’t really help you with this. Mr. Grimble has people who manage his schedule and such.”
“And what do you do?”
“I’m just one of the guards. You know, I watch out for intruders. Trespassers, that kind of thing.”
She cocked an eyebrow. “I hope you don’t think I am one.”
She heard John in the earpiece. “Dox is past the cameras.”
Larry laughed. “No, of course not. I mean, maybe technically. But people stop in front of my post all the time. The mail, deliveries. Not so many journalists, though.”
“I’m right outside the booth,” she heard Dox say quietly. “Say the word and I’ll leap into remarkable action.”
“Now,” Delilah said.
Larry cocked his head at the non sequitur. In the earpiece, she heard Dox say, “Don’t go for your weapon. Don’t go for your mic. Just slowly raise your hands, ’cause I’ll shoot you if you don’t.”
She heard footsteps behind her, moving quickly. Larry looked. His mouth dropped open.
“Do not move or I will kill you,” she heard Larison say.
She glanced back and saw him moving in smoothly, his gun up in a two-handed grip just below his chin, the attached suppressor intimidatingly long. “If you reach for anything,” he continued, “including that push-to-talk button on your shirt, I’ll shoot you in the face. Do you understand?”
Larry blinked. “What the hell is this?”
Larison stopped ten feet out. “It’s an opportunity for you to stay alive.”
She heard John issuing instructions—prone out, facedown, hands behind your back. He and the rest of the team were in the other booth.
Larry’s eyes were wide, and focused completely on the muzzle of the suppresser, which Delilah knew from experience he was currently perceiving as roughly the circumference of the opening of a cannon. She slipped behind him, unfastened his holster, and removed the gun. Larry seemed almost unaware of it.
“Do you want to stay alive, Larry?” Larison said.
“Yes,” Larry said, as Delilah eased the gun into the tote.
“Good,” Larison said. “Then you’ll comply with all my instructions. Can I count on you to do that?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Raise your hands high. Palms forward, fingers splayed.”
Larry complied.
Delilah unclipped Larry’s microphone, pulled out his earpiece, and detached his belt radio. She disconnected the microphone from the radio and placed both in her tote. “Maya, Evie,” she said. “We’re ready for you.”
She tried to insert Larry’s earpiece into her free ear. It was too big. She grimaced and pushed harder. No good. She pulled off the silicone tip and replaced it with a smaller one from her bag. Just right. She couldn’t help but smile. John had made them walk through everything, hitting every assumption with a barrage of What if possibilities. He did micromanage. But on the other hand, he was the one who had asked, What if the guard’s earpiece is too big?
The channel was silent. “No chatter,” she said. “John, your guard didn’t get off a warning.”
“Keep your hands up,” Larison said. “Turn around. Walk back into the booth.”
Larry was breathing hard. “Listen, man. You know what they pay me for this job?”
“I need you neutralized,” Larison said. “I can do that by handcuffing you in the booth, or by shooting you in the head here. Tell me which you prefer, because to me it’s all the same.”
Delilah had to give Larison credit. She’d never known anyone who could deliver a threat more credibly. And it was true—he had voted to shoot the guards, on the simple utilitarian grounds that shooting them would have been safer and faster. Livia and Diaz immediately objected, and their refusal carried the day. Larison had tried to persuade Dox, saying, “The last time we agreed to less-than-lethal, you were an inch away from becoming a human shish kebab. You’re going to risk that again?”
Dox had sighed. “Daniel, it’s the right thing to do. Just a bunch of minimum-wage rent-a-cops, we don’t have a beef with them.”
To which Larison had thrown up his hands and exclaimed, “I am not carrying another umbrella or selfie stick. I’m going to point a gun at people, and if they follow my instructions immediately and to the letter, okay. If they don’t, that’s okay, too. And if that’s not okay, then tell me now, because there’s only so much insanity I can tolerate.”
“It’s okay,” Dox had said. “And I for one wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“You’re all still nuts,” Larison had growled, but the matter was settled.
Larry swallowed. “Handcuff me.”
Larison nodded. “Then turn around and get back in the booth. Now.”
Larry turned and headed toward the booth, hands still in the air. Larison did a quick scan of the area and followed him.
Delilah heard wheels on the stone driveway and looked—Evie, driving the truck, Manus riding shotgun, Dash and Maya in back, Margarita in the horse trailer. Delilah didn’t like the presence of all the civilians, and especially a child. But they might need Evie’s technical skills. And with Rispel and potential ambushes in the mix, Manus wouldn’t leave Evie or Dash, and of course Evie wouldn’t leave Dash, either. Delilah thought back to her one for all and all for one comment to John. That had been in Paris. It seemed fore
ver ago. But it was certainly the truth, and then some.
The four of them got out. “This way,” Delilah said, and they all went into the guard booth.
Unlike the exterior, the inside was modern: fluorescent lights, a refrigerator, a computer on a table. There were no chairs—presumably, guards were expected to stand at their posts—and on the wall adjacent to the window was a row of monitors. On one of them, Delilah could see the inside of the other guard booth. A guard dressed like Larry was on his stomach, wrists handcuffed behind his back, legs in shackles attached to the cuffs, John, Dox, Livia, and Kanezaki standing around him. Dox looked at the camera and waved. “Tell old Larison we’re faster at less-than-lethal than he is.”
“I can hear you fine,” Larison said. “I’d rather be faster at lethal. Larry, on the ground. Facedown. Hands behind your back.”
Again, Larry complied.
Delilah reached into the tote and pulled out a pair of handcuffs and integrated leg irons. She cuffed him, then said, “Bring up your feet.”
“Come on,” Larry said. “I get paid fifteen bucks an hour. I’m not going to try to be a hero, I promise.”
“I believe you,” Delilah said. “Now please, bring up your feet. Before my partner gets impatient.”
Larry complied. Delilah secured the ankle cuffs, and Larry was effectively hog-tied. She quickly examined his wrists and waistband for the remote possibility of a hidden handcuff key. Another of John’s pressure checks. She found nothing.
She looked up and saw Evie signing with Dash. The boy looked troubled. Well, Delilah wasn’t the one who insisted he come.
Maya went to the computer and started in on the keyboard. “Need a password,” she said.
Larison looked at Larry. “Don’t make her ask twice.”
“Username is Kellerman,” Larry said. “Two Ls. Password is RatherBeFishing1139, capital R, capital B, capital F.”
Maya worked the keyboard. “I’m in,” she said.
“John,” Delilah said, watching the monitors. “There are two more. You see them? One closer to us, stationary in front of the teahouse. The other closer to you, walking north directly in front of the main residence.”
“We see them,” John said. “How long for you to engage the one at the teahouse?”
Delilah looked at Maya. Maya said, “Hang on, hang on . . . yes. I’m into the security system. And . . . as of now, the cameras are no longer recording. It’ll take me a little longer to delete and overwrite what they’ve already recorded and to switch the connection to my laptop so we can monitor the perimeter remotely.”
“Don’t forget the landline,” John said.
“Yes,” Maya said, “that’s right after the cameras. And Tom can intercept any cellphone calls with the Stingray.”
“Good,” John said. “Can you open the gate?”
Maya scrolled and clicked the mouse. “Done.”
“Okay,” John said. “Maya and Evie, stay there with Manus and Dash. Delilah, how long?”
“Three hundred meters to the teahouse,” Delilah said. “We’ll need to get back in the car . . . Give us two minutes.”
“Make it three,” John said. “It’ll take us that long to set up a pincer for the one in front of the residence.”
“Roger that,” Larison said, clicking a button on his watch. “Three-minute countdown in three, two, one.”
Delilah and Larison got in the Porsche. She started it up and rolled down the windows. “Tell me when we have ninety seconds remaining,” she said.
Larison nodded and looked at his watch.
Delilah had been able to lull Larry because he encountered her outside the gate, where visitors were by definition authorized. An inside guard would be a different story—he would be instantly suspicious to find someone on the property unannounced. And the teahouse, at the edge of the enormous pond, had no good approach other than the driveway, which beyond the gate was topped with gravel. Not only would the guard see them coming, he would hear them. But he wouldn’t immediately conclude they were there unannounced. Not at all. Because if there was one thing a racing yellow Porsche Cayman GT4 did, it was announce its own arrival.
“Okay,” Larison said. “Go.”
She put it in gear, and they rolled slowly forward, past the gate, and into the compound.
They came to a bend in the tree-lined drive and made a left. Over the soft growl of the engine, Delilah could hear the tires crunching on gravel. Larison had the Glock out, alongside his right thigh. Delilah’s was on her lap.
They crossed a stone bridge that arched above the pond. When they were over the crest, she saw the guard, forty meters ahead, walking away from them just past the teahouse. He must have heard them coming. He turned. He frowned, but Delilah saw no alarm in his expression, only mild confusion.
Fifteen meters. The guard keyed the mic attached to his jacket. Said something. Keyed the mic again.
Ten meters. The guard held up a hand to stop. But his frown still indicated no more than confusion. His free hand was loose at his side, not resting on his gun butt.
She rolled to a stop a few feet in front of him, gripped the Glock with her right hand, put her left arm on the windowsill, and leaned out. “Is everything all right?”
He walked straight to the window and looked inside. And found the muzzles of two Glocks looking back. He froze.
Larison was out of the car instantly, coming around the front, his gun up. “Hands up or die. Your choice.”
The guard chose the first alternative. In the earpiece, Delilah heard a similar transaction taking place with the fourth guard, in front of the residence.
A minute later, the guard was on the ground, wrists and ankles cuffed together behind his back, his gun and commo gear in Delilah’s bag.
“The residence guard is secured,” she heard John say. “Delilah, what’s your status?”
“Same. We’re on our way. We’ll be there in under a minute.”
Larison leaned down and checked the guard for a hidden handcuff key. When he was satisfied, he said, “It would have been easier to kill you. Safer, too. But we didn’t. We’re not going to be here long, and it has nothing to do with you. You understand?”
The guard nodded. “Yes.”
“I doubt there’s a neighbor close enough to hear a bomb go off here, let alone some shouting, but still I want you to promise me you’re not going to make any noise.”
“I promise.”
“You know what I’ll do if you break your promise?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Keep your word and I’ll keep mine.”
They got back in the Porsche and headed toward the main residence. Larison would join the rest of the team there. Delilah would drive Dox back to the teahouse, the highest point on the property and therefore the best spot to provide overwatch. Evie would bring the rest of the team, and Dash, and the horse and the dog, to the residence. They’d get what they needed from Grimble and be gone a few minutes after that.
If everything went according to plan.
chapter
seventy-one
RAIN
Rain paused in front of the main residence, bemused at the number of people around him. Dox was positioned on the roof of the teahouse with the sniper rifle. But that still left nine of them, plus Rain, at the residence: Delilah, Livia, Diaz, Manus, Evie, Dash, Maya, Larison, and Kanezaki. Not to mention the dog and the horse. Though at least the animals had stayed in the trailer. The humans had proven less persuadable.
The residence consisted of four separate buildings, each a beautiful example of the classic minka style: kayabuki-yane thatched roofs; hafu gables; kōshi mado latticed windows, everything perfectly proportioned and obviously incorporating only the finest materials. All of it was built out over the pond, connected by covered walkways, and interspersed with gardens of carefully tended niwaki trees, gravel, and stones set in subtle ishi o tateru koto—“rock arrangement”—patterns. Rain had never seen anything like it outside Kyoto.
But unlike Kyoto, it was devoid of telephone and electric lines, modern architecture, the sounds of traffic, or anything else that would have been out of place in the seventeenth century. There was a cool breeze carrying a slight scent of cypress, and other than the birdsong and the distant sound of the waterfall by the teahouse, the area was soundless. If Rain hadn’t painstakingly built his own restored minka in Kamakura, he might have been envious. As it was, he was surprised at how wistful he suddenly felt. His mind rarely unlocked the box that contained memories of his mother, but it opened now. Kyō nite mo, kyō natsukashiya, she had said to him, holding his hand and quoting the wandering poet Bashō on a visit to the Kiyomizu temple complex in Kyoto when Rain was a boy. Though in Kyoto, I long for Kyoto. His mother had loved her adopted country in a way that, like Rain’s father, it had never really requited. For a moment he wished she could have seen what this gaijin Grimble had built here. He wished he could have shown it to her.
“John?” Kanezaki said. “Grimble’s phone is still in the residence’s main building—the bedroom. What do you think?”
Rain realized they’d been waiting for him. Lost in thought in the middle of an op . . . He was too old for this shit. And too sick of it. Delilah was right, he needed to get out. And stay out. While it was still up to him.
He looked at the various buildings, at the pond sparkling behind them. He had of course tried to imagine Grimble’s movements when they were back at the office, but that was when he’d been looking at schematics rather than the actual terrain.
Midafternoon. Unless Grimble was an exceptionally late sleeper or just enjoyed lounging in bed—which wouldn’t fit the profile of an entrepreneur—he’d be elsewhere now. Out of the bedroom, at least.
A lot of people kept their phones with them, even when moving around inside a house. But a recluse, or near-recluse, obsessed with a hobby, wouldn’t be like that. On top of which, Kanezaki had already confirmed that Grimble didn’t get many calls.
So where would a non-late riser, who didn’t make or get many calls, be if he were on the premises but not near his phone?
“Maya,” Rain said. “I think you were right. He’s got his Battle of Sekigahara setup in the northernmost building, right?”
