The God's Eye View

by Barry Eisler

  It took less than ten minutes to get to the hotel. Another ten for a valet to retrieve his car. And then he was off, heading to the office, fighting his fear, the heat blasting and the seat warmer a godsend against his shivering back.

  He made a right on Beştepe and followed it until it became Alparslan Türkeş. The freeway would be crowded, so he went under it, following Bahriye Üçok and then going right onto Mareşal Fevzi Çakmak. He had just passed the Anittepe sports complex when he heard the door locks click. He glanced over, recognizing the sound but not sure what to make of it—had he pressed something by mistake? Maybe some electronic glitch?

  And then, to his astonishment and horror, he felt the gas pedal press itself to the floor under his foot. The engine roared and his head smacked into the headrest as the car shot forward, the speedometer surging to the right.

  He yelped in terror and stomped the brake. Nothing, no resistance. He overtook the car ahead of him and was about to plow into it when the steering wheel twisted left, then right, passing the car and rocketing past two others in front of it. He fought for control but couldn’t move the wheel. Terrified, he glanced at the speedometer and saw the needle surge past 150 kilometers per hour.

  He stomped the brake again. Nothing. The car was still accelerating. He scrabbled at the electronic parking brake, ripping loose a nail and barely feeling it. Nothing.

  Suddenly he understood. Understood everything. For one second, he felt overwhelming sadness, a tidal wave of regret. Then it vanished. He closed his eyes, took his hands off the wheel, and hugged himself. “Aerial,” he whispered. “I love you.”

  Thomas Delgado used a finger to direct the car left, then watched as the screen of his iPad was consumed by the grille of a tractor trailer, the blare of its horn filling his ears through the headphones . . . and then, nothing. No sound. Dead screen.

  He smiled, removed the headphones, and eased back in the desk chair. A good chance a head-on impact like that would have resulted in fire, but Delgado, not the kind of man to leave things to chance, had been sure to attach incendiary devices to the gas tank and alongside the camera he had mounted behind the car’s grille. The camera was the only possible evidence of any sort of foul play—the rest he had accomplished by hacking the car’s Bluetooth-accessible diagnostic system, and from there taking over whatever in the car was microprocessor controlled, otherwise known as everything. The antilock brakes and door locks were integrated with the accident-avoidance system; there was an omnidirectional microphone for hands-free cell phone use; even the steering wheel was controllable through the self-parking system. A lot of the newer models were incorporating front-facing cameras, too, and Hertz was even installing cameras in its vehicle interiors, so soon he’d be able to take full remote control of a car without having to install any of his own hardware.

  He loved this kind of progress. Just a few years before, more often than not, causing an accident meant an exceptionally delicate black-bag job involving replacing the mark’s car with the identical make and model, customized for an exact match: idiosyncratic scratches and other signs of wear; gas level; odometer; swapped personal items; programmed radio stations; faked Vehicle Identification Numbers . . . everything. It took time; it cost money; it required a team rather than an individual. Worst of all, it left evidence, in the form of the additional mechanics that had to be installed to allow the necessary remote control, evidence that could be reliably obscured only through fires so intense they themselves could cause suspicion. But now? Christ, the carmakers were practically doing his job for him.

  He cut the satellite link and shut down the application, then checked his watch. Past noon, but he’d called the front desk and arranged for a late checkout. Door double-locked, Do Not Disturb sign . . . everything was fine.

  Jesus, that fear sound the guy had made had given him a hard-on. He didn’t usually get that from a man, or when he wasn’t working up close and personal, but yeah, that had been a really sweet sound. So . . . pure, or something. And what was the other thing the guy had said? “Ariel, I love you,” that was it. His wife? Didn’t matter.

  Although . . . he could pay a visit to the grieving widow. A little risky, sure, but the thought of it was causing renewed stirrings down south. Hey, I worked with your husband. Such a good man. Wanted to express my condolences. All right if I come in? She’d be all fucked up with grief, not thinking clearly, vulnerable. Wouldn’t realize her mistake until the door was closed and locked behind him and he was pressing her up against the wall with a blade at her throat. And probably so ashamed and traumatized afterward she wouldn’t even report anything.

  Fuck, that was actually pretty hot. He got up and went to the bathroom to jerk off to it.

  CHAPTER . . . . . . . .

  . . . . . . . . 6

  Manus drove steadily along Highway E90, the landscape an undifferentiated series of dry hills and cracked lake beds. It had been raining when he’d set out from Istanbul before dawn, but the sun was high overhead now, harsh, glaring, bleaching the surrounding terrain white as old bones.

  Hamilton had been easy. The hotel room’s lock had opened in just over thirty seconds—longer, ironically, than had the hotel employed the sort of state-of-the-art electronic locks NSA could bypass remotely. Manus had waited until Hamilton came in, concussed him from behind with a single bearlike swat, and injected him with Diazepam. Hamilton had barely struggled, losing consciousness almost immediately. After that, it was easy for Manus to cut off his clothes, zip-tie his wrists, duct-tape his mouth, insert a Diazepam suppository, diaper him, and zip him and his belongings into a wheeled canvas cargo bag Manus knew from Hamilton’s medical records and driver’s license would be more than roomy enough for the man’s five-foot-seven, 130-pound frame.

  He had been told Hamilton was staying at the hotel under a pseudonym and paying cash, so no one would ever even know what had become of the mysterious guest who had left without any word. If by any chance Manus had been picked up by cameras or was seen by any witnesses, the baseball cap, nonprescription eyeglasses, and fake beard would be more than adequate protection. The room safe would be found drilled and opened, true, but it wasn’t likely the hotel would want to advertise that. Manus had taken the passport he had found inside it, but Hamilton had been carrying everything else: wallet, phone, thumb drive. A specialist would examine the phone and the thumb drive. Manus didn’t know what would come of all that, but he knew the director would be happy.

  It was a long drive, and Manus would have preferred the people taking delivery of Hamilton to come to him. They were Turkish, after all; they knew the territory better and could blend in better. But unsurprisingly, they preferred to offload as much risk as possible, and the director seemed all right with that. Which meant Manus was all right, too. He’d packed food and a thermos of coffee, so all he needed to stop for was gas and bathroom breaks. That, and inserting fresh suppositories.

  The first time he pulled over to a deserted spot and opened the trunk, Hamilton struggled and tried desperately to speak through the duct tape. It meant nothing to Manus. He said to Hamilton, “I don’t want to talk to you. But I’ll give you some water. Do you want water?”

  Hamilton nodded his head vigorously. It was hot in the trunk, the interior gamey with the man’s sweat.

  “If you try to talk to me, I’ll refasten the duct tape and you won’t get any water. Do you understand?”

  Hamilton nodded again.

  Manus pulled free the duct tape and let Hamilton have a long drink. Predictably, the moment Manus took the bottle away, Hamilton started begging him to explain what was going on, to listen, to just please listen. Manus refastened the duct tape, pushed Hamilton down, stripped off the diaper, injected him again, inserted a suppository, and then held the man in place until his struggles had faded. The used diaper went into a plastic bag, which also went into the trunk, and he was back on the road, following the GPS nav system, in under three minutes.

  The next time they pulled over,
Manus told him any more talking and he’d get no more water for the rest of the trip. After that, during water breaks Hamilton kept quiet.

  The rendezvous point was a town on the Syrian border called Kilis, which Manus supposed was ironic given Hamilton’s likely fate. But none of that was his concern. His job was to deliver Hamilton, and that was all that mattered to him. If he encountered a problem along the way, he was carrying fifty thousand lira to buy his way out of it. If that wasn’t persuasive, there was the SIG MPX-K machine pistol under a road map on the passenger seat. If all else failed, a panic button on a transmitter would instantly call in the spec ops personnel who were shadowing him, cleared to engage but ignorant of his mission.

  He nodded, the radio blaring Turkish music he didn’t know but the vibrations of which he enjoyed. By the time the nav system indicated he was almost there, the sun was low in the sky. Manus pulled over and hung the SIG from a custom harness at the bottom of the steering wheel. Hard to spot through the window at a distance, instantly accessible if there were a problem. He opened the glove compartment, pulled out the Tanfoglio Force Pro F in nine millimeter, and eased it into the elastic holster in the back of his waistband. Then he double-checked the Cold Steel Espada folder clipped to his front pocket—a monster knife almost seventeen inches long when deployed, destructive as hell but unsuitable for everyday carry except by someone of Manus’s size. Of course, if things got to the point where he was stabbing people rather than shooting them, a lot would have had to go wrong, but it was better to have it and not need it. Finally, he slid the RMJ Tactical Berserker tomahawk from under the seat and placed it across his lap. Then he drove on.

  A half mile later, he reached his destination—an abandoned gas station in the hills outside the city. He turned into the lot. A dusty white van was already parked there, three men with dark mustaches standing alongside it under the long shadow of a sagging portico. They were smoking, and other than the cigarettes, their hands were empty. That was a good sign. The director had told him they knew they were getting only a third of the payment on delivery, so if they didn’t follow the plan, they’d be leaving a lot on the table, and that was good, too. But maybe the upfront money was all they hoped to collect. And he didn’t know what might be concealed under their loose shirts, or whether there were others inside the van. So he watched them carefully, both hands on the wheel where the men could see them, the SIG just a six-inch reach away. They were hard-looking men, and he’d been told they were experienced, so they’d know to keep their hands in sight as he was keeping his. They’d understand he’d read anything else as an attack, and that he’d respond accordingly.

  The man in the center, the tallest of the three, waved. Manus nodded and scanned the area. There was a rectangular concrete structure, paint peeling, graffiti-covered, the windows all blown out. Decent concealment and cover. A lot of scrub to the rear of the structure, but too far off for anyone but a sniper to meaningfully engage.

  He swung around and parked a ways off, not close as they would have been expecting. He was facing the structure, the van between them, the rusting gas pumps behind the van. This way they couldn’t flank him, and if they tried to engage, they’d be stacked up and he’d have a clear field of fire. And the sun was at his back and in their faces, too. A small thing, but he’d make sure it was working to his advantage, not theirs.

  They started walking toward him. He swung open the door and stepped out, staying behind it for cover and letting them see his hands but keeping within reach of the SIG.

  “Hello,” the tall one called out. “You are here for the Kilis Kebabi?”

  It was a little hard to read his lips—English was his second language, and he formed the words differently. And facial hair never made things easier, either. “No,” Manus responded with his half of the bona fides. “For the baklava.”

  “Oh, the baklava is also excellent,” the man said with a big smile, his teeth white against the dark skin and mustache. “You are Miller, yes? You have something for us?”

  Miller was the pseudo the man had been given. Manus stepped to the left, reached slowly into his pocket, and pulled free a thick envelope. He tossed it underhand and the tall man caught it smoothly. With barely a glance, he passed it to the man on his left, who opened it and started counting. Another good sign. If they’d been intent on killing him, they wouldn’t be focused on the money. Not yet.

  Manus reached down and popped the trunk release, took hold of the Berserker, then closed and locked the door. The men’s eyes bulged slightly at the sight of the weapon—over three pounds of black 4140 chrome-moly steel, five inches of razor-sharp cutting edge, and an aggressively curved handle, the kind of axe a Viking or Mongol might have carried to sack a city. The men pulled up short, but no one reached for a weapon.

  “What is this?” the tall man said, eyeing the Berserker as though it was a cobra.

  “A tool,” Manus said. He moved to the trunk, not turning his back, reached inside with one hand, and pulled Hamilton up. He helped the small man get his shaky legs out and onto the ground, then helped him stand.

  The tall man pointed. “He is wearing a diaper?”

  Manus nodded, not really understanding the question. It had been a twelve-hour drive, and Hamilton had been in the trunk. Of course he was wearing a diaper.

  The tall man said something to the others. Manus couldn’t make it out and figured it was Turkish. They all started laughing.

  Manus stripped the duct tape away. “Please,” Hamilton said. “Please tell me where we’re going. Tell me what’s happening.”

  Manus reached into the trunk and took out a water. He uncapped it with his teeth and held the bottle until Hamilton had drained it.

  One of the men was saying something in Turkish, pointing through the window at the SIG. The tall man came over and looked. “Yes, what is that on your steering wheel?” he said.

  A slight breeze picked up and carried the men’s scent to him—sweat and tobacco and garlic. Manus wrinkled his nose and tossed the empty bottle in the trunk. “A tool,” he said. There was a moment of tension, and then the tall man laughed. The other two laughed also.

  Manus smelled shit. He said, “You need to change his diaper.”

  The laughter stopped. The tall man said, “What’s wrong with your voice? You talk funny.”

  Manus said, “You need to change his diaper.”

  The tall man said, “You don’t tell me what to do.”

  Manus looked at Hamilton. “Please,” Hamilton was saying, and Manus realized he’d been saying it all along. “Who are you? Who are these people? What the fuck is happening?”

  Manus looked at the Turks. He didn’t like them. It would have been easy to kill them. But that wasn’t what the director wanted.

  He pulled Hamilton roughly around to the trunk, set the Berserker down inside it, and, keeping the Turks in view, bent Hamilton over and changed the idiot’s diaper. Manus didn’t like the way the Turks watched. Their expressions reminded him of what had happened in the juvenile prison.

  “I don’t know where you’re going,” Manus said when he was finished. “My job was to deliver you.”

  Hamilton’s eyes were wide, desperate. “Look, you’re American, right? Don’t leave me with these guys. Please!”

  Manus didn’t know why he’d said anything. What had been the point? He picked up the Berserker and walked Hamilton to the three men. One of the Turks yanked him over by the arm.

  “We are done, yes?” the tall one said.

  Hamilton looked back at Manus. “Please!” he said again, and Manus realized he should have retaped his mouth.

  The Turks laughed. One of them swatted Hamilton on the ass and squeezed. The other swiveled and shot an uppercut into Hamilton’s liver. Hamilton cried out and crumpled to the ground, moaning and writhing.

  The tall one smiled at Manus. “Are you worried we won’t take good care of him?”

  Manus said nothing. He could have taken the man’s head off with the
Berserker. And dropped the other two with the Force Pro before the blood had finished jetting from the stump. But the director didn’t want that.

  The tall one barked a command in Turkish. One of the others answered, then helped Hamilton to his feet. His sweat had mixed with the dust he had rolled in and it looked like he was covered in mud. The Turks didn’t seem to mind. They were eyeing Hamilton up and down. One of them said something. Manus didn’t know the words, but he knew what they meant.

  “What did he say?” Manus asked, his voice once again surprising him. It didn’t matter what the man had said, so why had he asked?

  “He says you have underpaid us,” the tall one said, looking at Manus. “He says this is not the money we agreed upon.”

  Manus shifted the Berserker to his left hand and placed his right on his hip, inches from the butt of the Force Pro. He realized he was glad the conversation had taken this turn. He also realized he shouldn’t be. It wasn’t what the director wanted.

  “I gave you what I was told to give you,” he said.

  The tall man shook his head. “It isn’t enough.”

  “You mean you’ve changed your mind?”

  A long moment ticked by. The three Turks were tense. Manus knew they were on the verge of going for weapons. He felt his lips stretching into a grin at the prospect, his right hand feeling light, quick, the weight of the Berserker good in his left.

  The grin made the men flinch, an effect Manus was accustomed to. The tall man laughed. “No, of course not. I’m only joking. Don’t Americans like to joke? Aren’t you such a funny people?”

  Manus said nothing. He watched as they bundled Hamilton into the van, opening his door for cover and to regain access to the SIG as they drove off. The last thing he saw was Hamilton looking back at him, his eyes terrified, one of the men leering and holding him close with an arm around his neck.