The God's Eye View

by Barry Eisler

  Manus got in his car and drove off, the SIG across his lap, watchful in case the Turks decided to try to ambush him on his way back to Istanbul. After an hour, the sun long since set, he started to relax.

  He hadn’t liked those men. He knew what they were going to do to Hamilton. He was concerned he’d been happy when it looked like they were going to give him a reason to kill them.

  He shook his head and reminded himself that whatever the director wanted, it was more important.

  The director had said he wanted him to watch that woman, too—the employee the director was worried about. It sounded like an easy enough job, and Manus would be glad to ease the director’s concerns. By watching, if no more than that was required. Or by more than watching. His job was to protect the director. That was all that mattered. It wasn’t his fault what happened to anyone who got in the way of it.

  CHAPTER . . . . . . . .

  . . . . . . . . 7

  Evie left work at five and headed back to the apartment in Columbia. Digne was on the clock for another hour, but Evie always tried to relieve her early when possible. Her time with Dash was precious—it was hard to believe he was already in fourth grade, and she was acutely aware of how fast the time was passing. Soon it would be sports, and girls, and he’d be embarrassed by his mother, and she wouldn’t even see him anymore. Okay, well, not that she wouldn’t see him anymore, but it would be different. He wouldn’t need her the way he did now, he’d be independent, he’d have so many other interests and connections. And of course that was all wonderful, but the time they had together now, the bond they shared, was so special, and when he wasn’t her little boy anymore she didn’t want to ever feel that she’d wasted a minute.

  Dash had been her ex-husband’s idea—the name, not the child. The child had been unexpected, a word she preferred to accident, while she and Sean had been in their fourth year of the graduate computer science program at Cornell and their second year of dating. They’d talked casually about getting married after graduating, and when she told him she was pregnant, they just decided to speed things up a bit. Her mom moved to Ithaca to help with the baby, and they managed.

  For a while, being a father seemed good for Sean. He went out less with his buddies, and, when he did go out, he came home earlier and a little less wasted. She never begrudged him his boys’ nights. He was a gregarious guy with easy good looks and a ready laugh, and his high spirits made him popular with everyone in the program. In fact, she’d been surprised when he’d first asked her out. She’d never thought of herself as especially attractive, and she’d been flattered by his attention. She realized in retrospect that for a while she’d grown dependent on that flattery, on the boost the reflected glory of his looks and popularity provided to her own self-esteem, and that her dependency had come to occlude her own clear judgment.

  They’d both been recruited heavily by NSA—programs like Cornell’s were a magnet for the government—and they were excited about careers there. But less than six months before graduation, they got some bad news: Sean had failed the background test. No, no explanation was ever given, they were told. No, no second chances, either. Evie was still welcome, but Sean was out.

  To his credit, Sean had refused even to consider a change in plans. He’d taken a job teaching math at a high school in Laurel, her mom had gone home to Spokane . . . and again, for a while, they’d managed. She liked her job, and her career was blossoming. But Sean had drifted back to partying. She tried to overlook it because, yes, he was home from teaching and taking care of the baby hours earlier than she was, and okay, he needed to get out of the house, needed a little fun. But the fun was happening more often, and going on until later, and there were mornings Sean was so hungover he had to call in sick. A few times, when she got home for dinner, she could smell that he’d been drinking already. She would mention it, and he would get angry—did she think he had planned on becoming a high school teacher, a househusband, moving to the place where she had a real job and supporting her career? She might have pointed out that salary-wise, she was doing more of the supporting than he was, but she recognized that, too, was a sore spot, and she didn’t push.

  When Dash was three, he’d come home from day care looking under the weather. The next morning, he was worse. There was a fever; light and sound were bothering him; and her normally loving boy was uncharacteristically irritable. Evie was worried, and wanted to take him to the doctor. Sean told her she was being ridiculous, the kid just had the flu. She stayed home with him anyway, and Sean went to work.

  By noon, they were in the emergency room. Dash was having seizures. The doctors drew fluid from his spine. Then they uttered the most terrifying word Evie had ever heard: meningitis.

  For three days, Dash was in and out of consciousness while they treated him with antibiotics. The doctors told them his prognosis was good. Evie thought that was the optimistic way of acknowledging he might very well die. Sean went home at night, but Evie refused to leave Dash’s side. She didn’t sleep or eat or even take her eyes off him. All she did was whisper over and over, Mommy’s here, baby. Mommy’s here. Mommy’s here. Please come back. Please come back. Please come back.

  On the third day, he did. The fever broke, and he was able to eat; he was weak but smiling. They took him home, her beautiful boy.

  Her beautiful deaf boy.

  They didn’t notice it right away. The changes were subtle. He just seemed . . . slower than he had been. Less responsive. More in his own world. She was worried, no, terrified, that the meningitis had affected his brain. Sean, predictably, told her she was overreacting, that Dash was just tired from his ordeal and that he’d bounce back and be fine.

  For a while, she allowed herself to be persuaded. But then she took Dash to a pediatrician. The pediatrician did some tests and referred her to a specialist. The specialist did more tests. And informed her that cognitively, Dash was fine, absolutely nothing to worry about. But that his hearing was gravely impaired, a not-uncommon result of meningitis. It might come back. It might not. But they had to assume the worst and start aggressively intervening right away. They had to make decisions about where Dash should go to school, how they would communicate with him, whether they should consider cochlear implants. It was overwhelming. Sean wanted the implants. Evie was against them. Sean wanted Dash to go to regular school. Evie thought he would do better surrounded by other deaf kids. Sean didn’t want to learn to sign. Evie took to it like a fanatic. In the end, Sean acceded to everything she wanted. But it cost them. Dash’s condition seemed to clarify something she had always sensed but hadn’t wanted to face: that she loved their son more, was more devoted to him, was more willing to sacrifice for him, than Sean was. What happened to Dash affected Sean, yes, but it wasn’t going to define him. She wasn’t built that way. And she didn’t want to be, either.

  She realized her devotion to Dash’s needs was driving Sean away. Or was giving him the excuse he wanted. Though ultimately it was a distinction without a difference. His drinking and his drift from them both worsened, and when they finally separated, it was a relief more than anything else. The divorce was reasonably amicable. When the dust settled, Sean got Dash Monday and Tuesday evenings and alternate weekends. In practice, he saw Dash more like once a month. He had found a girlfriend, a fake blonde named Tina, and apparently Tina wasn’t interested in being a babysitter to a deaf kid. Which suited Evie just fine.

  She remembered something her mother had told her when she was a teenager: “The boy you date is different from the boy you’re engaged to, the boy you’re engaged to is different from the man you marry, the man you marry is different from the father of your children.” She might have added, “And your ex-husband is going to be different than all of them, too.”

  But he wasn’t that bad, actually. Beyond flaking out from time to time when he was supposed to take Dash, he didn’t cause any trouble. He was going to meetings and seemed to have gotten the drinking under control. She had to nag him for support
payments, and more than once she thought about going to court and having his salary garnished, but she just didn’t have the energy. That, and she didn’t want to rock the boat. On paper, he had rights to Dash. In practice, Dash was all hers. She didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize that.

  Eventually, she learned from a friend in personnel that the reason Sean hadn’t gotten into the program was a problem with the polygraph—evidence of deception regarding alcohol and controlled substances. Which, she could see now, made perfect sense. She felt like a fool for not having recognized it earlier. Somehow it made her feel sorry for him. What terrible unhappiness plagued him that he would carry around a secret like that? Even after it had cost him the career he wanted? And though Tina, who had some trampy eye-candy appeal, might have seemed a salve, Evie knew better. Tina hadn’t been at the front of the line when whoever was in charge was handing out brains. Sean looked unhappy, and though they never spoke of it, she knew he regretted how things had turned out and wished he could do it over.

  Which should have given her some satisfaction, she supposed. A feeling of vindication. Victory. Or something.

  Instead, it just made her sad.

  She pulled into the parking lot in front of the senior-care facility where her father stayed and tried to shake off the feeling. She knew there were stories out there ten times worse than hers, a hundred times worse. But still, sometimes it all just seemed so hard. So . . . perilous.

  She got out of the car and looked at the building for a moment. It might have been anything. A low-slung medical center surrounded by a few afterthought shrubs; an office building filled with accountants and actuaries. So plain. So interchangeable. So soulless. Although she supposed if it were in any way lively or distinctive, she’d find it annoyingly false.

  She sighed and went in, past the pretty receptionist, down the antiseptic-smelling corridor. The door to her father’s room was open, and she could see him propped up on the adjustable bed. He was wearing a bathrobe, not regular clothes, and she knew instantly he was having a bad day. She knocked on the jamb to get his attention, and when he looked up at her, the resentment she saw in his eyes made her want to cry.

  “Hey, Dad,” she said with false cheeriness. She walked over and kissed his thinning hair, making sure to not wrinkle her nose at the old-man smell.

  He looked past her into the corridor. “What are you doing here?”

  It was the same time she usually came by. Either he’d forgotten, or he was being passive-aggressive.

  “I snuck out of work a little early. I wanted to say hi.”

  “Where’s Dash?”

  She didn’t bring Dash anymore; it was too upsetting to him when her father didn’t recognize him.

  “He’s at school, Dad.”

  “Pretty late in the day for school.”

  “You know Dash. Baseball practice. I’ll bring him next time, okay?”

  By next time, she reminded herself, her father would forget having asked, so her promise would cause no hurt. She wondered when her own visits would become superfluous. Her father wasn’t that far gone yet, but the doctors had warned her it was mostly a matter of time. Sometimes he talked about her mother as though she were still alive—was she back from the store yet?—that kind of thing. But on the other hand, they’d had a happy marriage. Maybe it was a blessing, the way his wife had crept back from the realm of his memory and into his waking life.

  There was a moment of awkward silence. She searched for a way to break it.

  “It’s sunny out, Dad, you want me to open the curtains?”

  “I like the dark.”

  “You don’t feel like bingo today, with any of your friends?”

  “They’re not my friends.”

  And so on. She stayed only twenty minutes, pausing to kiss him again when she left. That smell was getting worse, wasn’t it? Like the other symptoms. She promised him she’d be back soon, maybe even tomorrow, knowing the promise would be broken, this time not even rationalizing that it didn’t matter because he wouldn’t remember.

  She stopped at the adjacent Safeway and picked up some fried chicken for dinner and ice cream for dessert. Digne often cooked for them, but Safeway fried chicken was Dash’s favorite, and sometimes Evie just liked to surprise him with it. Especially when she’d just come from visiting her father and needed something to make herself happy. She reminded herself the ice cream was for Dash, not for her. And to peel the skin off the chicken. She exercised regularly and was pleased with the results, but no one exercised that much.

  She pulled into her apartment lot and cut the engine, her Prius at home among the Ford Fusions, Honda Accords, and Suburu Outbacks. Practical cars for practical people. People who couldn’t afford to be otherwise. And suddenly she was fighting back tears.

  How had it come to this? The drift and the divorce. Her mother, eaten alive by melanoma that had spread to the lymph nodes. Her father, still recognizing her and appreciating her visits, but slowly sliding into darkness and dementia. And no one else. No one to fall back on if anything really bad ever happened. She looked around at all the empty cars. Did the people who drove them feel as scared and isolated as she did? Did they wonder how they had arrived here, what they were doing, why they bothered, who would miss them if they were gone?

  She thought of Dash, the auburn hair he got from his father, the freckles he got from her, the gap-toothed grin for which she couldn’t afford braces, not right now. Dash would miss her. Wasn’t he waiting for her right now, in their little apartment? She loved the way he always instantly dropped whatever he was doing when she got home and ran over to give her a hug, the way Digne would nod in recognition at the bond they shared. And how he wasn’t embarrassed to hug her even in front of his friends. How could she ever feel sorry for herself, with a son like that?

  She smiled and went inside to see him.

  CHAPTER . . . . . . . .

  . . . . . . . . 8

  The video was posted on YouTube at seven in the morning Washington time—perfectly timed for morning coverage on the major news websites and hysterical follow-on commentary on the evening shows. Hamilton kneeling, dressed in an orange jumpsuit similar to the ones made infamous as the official uniform of prisoners at Guantanamo, his wrists bound behind him, an undifferentiated desert landscape all around. Beside him, a masked jihadist holding a long Bedouin dagger, explaining with calm confidence that soon the man would be beheaded as a lesson to America.

  Anders called Remar into his office the moment the video went live. He knew the White House would be on the line any minute and they didn’t have much time.

  “What the hell is this?” he said, standing behind his desk and gesturing at the monitor. “They were supposed to kill him on camera, not just threaten it.”

  Remar came around, moving crisply in his blue army service uniform, and nodded. “I know. I just saw it.”

  “So what happened?”

  Remar moved respectfully back to the other side of the desk. “I’m guessing they decided to squeeze some extra propaganda value out of the exercise. Milk it a little while longer before collecting their reward.”

  “How much longer?”

  Remar looked at him. He didn’t have to answer. They were both thinking the same thing: Long enough for US Spec Ops to mount some sort of rescue operation?

  Anders looked at the image on his monitor again. “This isn’t good.”

  “You want me to contact Ergenekon? Suggest a completion bonus if the work is finished in the next twenty-four hours?”

  Anders moved out from behind his desk and started pacing. “You could, but it’s as likely they’ll smell blood in the water as it is they’d go for the money. Or maybe they don’t care about the money at all at this point. We don’t even know if whoever is holding Hamilton is really ISIS affiliated. More likely, Ergenekon gave him to some wannabe group willing to spend a little more cash, and the game for them is notoriety. Right now, ISIS is the brand to beat, so these idiots are probably g
oing to milk their new captive for a good long time. They can only kill him once. But they can display him again and again and again.”

  Remar moved to the door and paused, as though ready to leave the moment Anders ordered him into action. “The more they display him, the more intel it’s going to produce.”

  “Correct. And the more likely the president will order a rescue operation.”

  “We could obstruct it. JSOC would need our SIGINT to carry out a rescue.”

  Anders stopped pacing, realizing Remar was missing a crucial change in the way the Pentagon’s Joint Special Operations Command ordinarily had to rely on NSA’s Signals Intelligence.

  “You’re not seeing it,” he said, holding up his hands in a stop gesture. “Any rescue will be carried out from Turkey. Which would have ideally positioned us—if we had a live SUSLA there. But Perkins just died in a car accident, remember?”

  There was a long pause. Remar said, “Jesus.”

  “Jesus has nothing to do with it. Without someone on the ground for liaison, JSOC will have a pretext to use their own operators and their own intel. We won’t have a chance to muddy the waters.”

  “Okay, but this is all assuming the president even orders a rescue.”

  Anders laughed. “His ratings are down. If he could pull off the rescue of an American journalist from an evil jihadist group, it would be a political wet dream. The longer Hamilton is alive and suffering on YouTube, the more the president’s opponents will try to flank him by screeching he’s not being tough enough. Hell, Senator McQueen’s going to be ecstatic over this. The president could order the nuclear destruction of Russia, and McQueen would still be trying to make him out to be some kind of eunuch.”

  “McQueen’s white noise. No one takes him seriously.”