by Barry Eisler
She took a deep breath and considered. What was she really going to do about the letter Hamilton had sent to the Rockville mail drop? Maybe nothing. Or maybe she was telling herself she would do nothing because the alternatives were crazy and she didn’t want to acknowledge them. The main thing was, she didn’t have to do anything. She’d tell the director about the FedEx package and pretend, even to herself, that there was nothing else to report. And then she could just . . . wait. Wait and see. Yes, that was it. Wait and see.
She logged out and went to brief the director.
CHAPTER . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . 15
Evie was at the Camden Yards Orioles game with Dash when they met the strange man.
They were sitting in the highest section of the ballpark, overlooking left field—too far to make out the numbers on the various players’ uniforms, though Dash knew all their positions by heart anyway. Dash had explained this was a really important game, because it was against the Orioles’ rivals the Yankees, and because if the Orioles won, it meant they were the division champions. Evie didn’t really care what it all meant, but if Dash was excited, then so was she.
And indeed, it was hard not to get caught up in the fervor of the day. The ballpark was packed and raucous, the cheering crowds throwing up delirious wave after wave after wave, and the score was close all the way to the top of the ninth, when the Yankees had pulled ahead by two runs. Now the Orioles were at bat, with runners on second and third, two outs, and a guy named Manny something at the plate. He had three balls and two strikes, and the entire ballpark was on its collective feet, pumping its fists and chanting his name. Dash was signing to her furiously that Manny was under pressure now, because if he got another strike the game was over and the Orioles would lose. But if he was walked or got a hit, it could set up an actual grand slam, something Dash had never seen before. And if Manny himself hit a home run, it would be a walk-off and the Orioles would have won. His expression was so earnest and his signing so passionate that she could have swooned from love for him. She nodded as he regaled her with statistics and history, understanding only some of it, showing him with her tightly crossed fingers that she knew how important it all was.
The Yankee pitcher shook his head, shook it again, and finally nodded at whatever the catcher had signaled him. The crowd was suddenly quiet, everyone leaning forward, fists clenched, hands held over mouths, the collective focus electrifying, galvanizing. Then the pitcher brought his lead knee up, twisted, and exploded forward, his arm trailing behind his body and then whipping past him like a flail, and the ball rocketed toward the plate and Manny swung, and there was a CRACK! Evie could hear like thunder all the way in the stands, and the ball shot skyward, taking off like a rocket, like a missile, and the crowd screamed, and the ball sailed over the shortstop and the left fielder and it was still ascending, and the crowd’s scream became a roar of ecstasy, and the people around them scrambled onto their seats to get even higher, higher, because the ball was still coming, flying over the first tier, the second, and it was heading right toward them.
A man in front of her shoved the guy to his left and the guy fell, cursing. She watched the ball and her heart leaped—was it really coming straight for Dash? Dash was watching, too, his gloved hand held as high as his arm could stretch. But then she saw that no, the ball was too high, and she wished she could have thrown Dash in the air to catch it. A man actually dove from one of the higher seats to try to get a better position; there was a scream, a scuffle broke out. Someone spilled beer on her from behind and someone else nearly knocked Dash over. He grabbed her arm and they managed to stay on their feet.
She turned, and in the midst of the tumult, she saw a man just behind them, a big, solid-looking man in jeans, a dark flannel shirt, and an Orioles cap, watching the ball descend with a quiet intensity. Someone shoulder-checked the man from the left to try to displace him, but it had no more effect than if the man had been a tree. Someone on his right held up a gloved hand and tried to force himself into the space in front of the man, but the man simply moved forward slightly and the interloper fell back. Then there was a firm smack as the man caught the ball in an enormous, outstretched hand. The force of the impact drove the man’s arm back, but somehow he held on to the ball. Evie, amazed, thought, Ouch! The people behind the man and to his sides all began grabbing at his arm, heedless of the fact that he had clearly caught the ball and it was his, it was over, but the man simply extended his arm beyond their reach and pushed them away left and right with his free hand as easily as if he were brushing off flies. His expression never changed and he was unnervingly calm, even when someone pulled so hard at his shirt that the sleeve tore at the shoulder.
After a few seconds, a semblance of reason seemed to restore itself. The people who had been so frenzied a moment before went back to their seats and returned their focus to the field, where Manny was jogging the bases to the delirious roar of the cheering, stamping crowd.
Evie glanced at Dash to make sure he was all right. Dash was smiling at the man, a bright, generous, innocent smile, and Evie knew it meant Congratulations, you caught the ball. And she loved him for it, because he didn’t have a selfish bone in his body, he was actually happy for this stranger in the Orioles cap, even though just a moment earlier he had so badly wanted that ball for himself.
The man was looking down at Dash with a strange expression—Recognition? Sympathy? Puzzlement? She wasn’t sure. And then the man squatted, extended his arm, and held out the ball to Dash.
Dash’s eyes widened and his mouth dropped open. Then he shook his head as though afraid to believe the man was serious. The man extended his arm further and pointed to Dash with his free hand, then to the ball, indicating, Here, it’s yours. It was the oddest thing—it was as though the man knew Dash was deaf. Well, of course, he must have seen them signing. But it felt like more than that, some deeper level of understanding.
Dash looked to her, his eyes beseeching. She badly wanted to accept the stranger’s kindness, but it was too much—she didn’t know baseball the way Dash did, but that ball was going to be worth a lot on eBay. She shook her head and with a reluctant smile said to the man, “It’s so nice of you, but really, we couldn’t.”
But the man didn’t retract his arm. He simply glanced at Dash and raised his eyebrows, the expression conveying, Are you sure?
Dash looked at her again, his eyes such a torment of longing she couldn’t have said no for all the politeness in the world. She hesitated for a second more, then nodded and said, “Okay.”
Dash was so happy he clenched his fists and jumped up and down. He took the ball reverently from the man’s outstretched hand and said in his slightly slurred voice, “Thank you thank you thank you!”
The man nodded. And then signed, You’re welcome.
Dash was so flabbergasted that for a moment he forgot he was holding the ball and tried to sign back. He hooted and shoved the ball off to Evie, who herself was so surprised she almost dropped it.
You know sign? Dash signed.
Yes, the man signed back. I’m deaf.
So am I!
I know. I saw you signing with your mother. You sign better than she does.
Dash laughed. Yes, I always tell her that.
The man smiled. There was something . . . wistful about it, as though his face was unaccustomed to the expression, as though he distrusted the feeling behind it.
Dash signed, Why did you give me the ball?
You looked like you wanted it.
But don’t you want it, too?
Not as much as you do.
Evie was watching the exchange, dumbfounded. Then, remembering herself, she placed the ball in her bag and signed, Thank you. That was really nice of you.
The man shook his head, as though embarrassed by their gratitude, and stood.
Evie had to admit, she liked his looks. About forty, she guessed. With sandy brown hair and a darker stubble of beard. She stole a glance at hi
s left hand and noted the absence of a ring. There was something intriguing, and appealing, about how calm he’d been while all those people tried to get the ball away from him. She liked his smile—and that odd reluctance, or sadness, she sensed behind it. And of course it was hard not to be blown away by how nice he’d just been to Dash, and by how Dash had responded. She was always nervous about dating because she’d heard so many horror stories about pedophiles using single mothers to get to their children. But everything in life involved some risk, right? And besides, she had ways of checking up on dates most people could only dream about.
Without thinking it through any further and before she lost her nerve, she signed, We were going to get a hot dog on Eutaw Street. Would you like to join us?
It’s nice of you, the man signed, but I don’t want to intrude.
Are you sure? It’s no intrusion.
The man glanced down for a moment, his expression conflicted. She sensed he wanted to accept her invitation, and tried to figure out what could be behind his reluctance. Was he just being polite? Did he sense her attraction, but not share it?
Dash touched the man’s knee, and when the man looked at him, signed, Don’t you like hot dogs?
The man looked momentarily perplexed. Everyone likes hot dogs, he signed.
Then why don’t you come with us?
The man’s hands floated for a moment, seemingly stuck. He looked at Evie as though for help.
Come on, she signed, smiling. Let me buy you a hot dog. Just a small thank-you for being so nice.
CHAPTER . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . 16
Manus went along with the woman and her son, aware he had handled things badly, confused about what to do next. The baseball meant nothing to him; he should have just let it drop. Why had he caught it? He hadn’t thought, he just saw it coming and stuck up his hand. And then giving it to the boy . . . even stupider. It had made people notice him. Worse, it had made the woman and boy notice him. So much so that he was now in the surreal position of being on his way with them to get a hot dog.
But . . . the director wanted him to watch the woman, didn’t he? And he hadn’t specified the degree to which Manus was supposed to be surreptitious about it. He’d mentioned the boy’s deafness as a possible entry route, which meant he didn’t object to some level of interaction, and might even welcome it. Yes, that was all true. Maybe that was why Manus had given the boy the ball.
He tried to convince himself, but he knew better. Because there had been no thought at all behind the decision. Instead, he’d been watching them for hours, and something about the way the woman looked at the boy, and signed with him, and tousled his hair had all made Manus feel . . . something. Something from a long time before, from another little boy’s life, a life so distant he was no longer even aware of its absence. And yet it existed still, stirred to consciousness by this woman and her son.
Or was there more? He didn’t think the woman’s face was what most people would call beautiful, but there was something about her smile, something warm and inviting and genuine, that made him want to look at her. And her body, he had to admit. It had such a . . . ripeness to it. So soft and curvy and full. She was wearing a V-neck cotton sweater, and Manus had to force himself not to glance at the area at the lowest part of the collar, the smooth skin there, the swell of her breasts, the hint of cleavage.
Fortunately, Eutaw Street was adjacent to the ballpark, because the walk over was somewhat awkward. The crowds were thick, which made it hard to watch the woman while she talked and signed. The boy made things more comfortable, darting in and out of the people around them so he could briefly pause, turn to Manus, and sign him all sorts of questions about Manus’s favorite Orioles players. Manus didn’t care about baseball, but it would have been hard to live in the area and not know the names of at least a few of the most famous players. So he mentioned what he knew, and otherwise covered for his ignorance by asking the boy about his own favorites, and how many games he’d been to, and other such nonsense.
Evie ordered them hot dogs at a stand on Eutaw. One of the advantages of being deaf was that you could talk with your mouth full, and Manus carried on his animated conversation with the boy while they munched on foot-longers covered in mustard and relish. The woman spelled out her name—Evelyn, but please call me Evie—and Manus did the same, Marvin.
My name’s Dash, the boy signed. Because I’m fast.
Your parents must have known you were fast early on.
They could tell.
Evie smiled, and Manus had a feeling she’d heard this exchange before.
What do you do, Marvin? she signed.
I’m a contractor.
She glanced at his work boots. Construction?
Yes. And what do you do?
I work at NSA. Computer stuff.
Thousands of people in the area worked at the giant intelligence organization, so the acknowledgment itself was unremarkable. But to add computer stuff was as informative as if Manus had followed the news that he was in construction with a mention of hammers and nails. The redundancy was just an indication that she couldn’t discuss her job beyond the bare fact of her employment. That was fine with Manus. The director hadn’t shared anything specific about the woman’s work, which meant for Manus it wasn’t relevant.
They chatted more, the crowds gradually dissipating, the light fading from the sky. The boy went to a special school in the area. He was on the baseball team, and wanted one day to play shortstop for the Orioles. His signing was voluble, enthusiastic, unselfconscious. He didn’t seem at all afraid of or uncomfortable with Manus, which for Manus was an unfamiliar thing. The woman, too, seemed intrigued by her son’s ease with this stranger, smiling indulgently while the boy regaled him with information about his school and statistics about baseball and complaints about homework. He asked Manus whether he had been born deaf, and Manus told him he had, a lie so long-standing and consistent it now felt like the truth. Not me, the boy told him. I had meningitis. He conveyed it simply as a bit of interesting information, the same way he might have shared the breed of his dog or color of his bike or where his grandparents lived. Manus thought he detected the tiniest wince in the woman’s expression at the mention of the disease, but also pride at how unaffected her son was in the telling of it.
A few times, Manus saw someone looking at him a bit closely, which he didn’t like, and then realized why: they were wondering if this was the guy they’d seen catch the ball on the giant screen behind center field. Probably the cameras had switched to the hitter’s victory lap immediately after, and Manus hadn’t been filmed actually handing the ball to the boy. Otherwise, he would have been getting a lot more attention now, maybe even from news crews. He’d been lucky. He reproached himself again for having done something so impulsive and stupid.
He asked the woman where she had parked, though he already knew, having followed the movements of her cell phone with a portable StingRay tracking device. She told him a parking garage, and he offered to walk them. She seemed pleased by that, which Manus found surprising and somewhat discomfiting.
At their car, she signed, It was nice meeting you, Marvin. I really don’t know how to thank you for what you did for Dash.
It’s nothing.
It most certainly is not nothing, she signed, her hands moving aggressively to contradict him, the sentiment so gentle and the expression of it so fierce that for the second time since he’d begun watching them, he felt something stir inside him, something familiar and yet forgotten. For a moment he only looked at her, unsure of how to respond.
The boy pulled on his sleeve and he looked down. The boy pointed to his mother’s purse, where she had put the ball, and then, his expression solemn to the point of graveness, signed, Can I really keep it?
It’s yours.
But you caught it.
It’s yours now.
The solemn expression persisted for another moment, then dissolved into a grin of pure joy. The
boy leaped forward and hugged Manus tightly, his face pressed against Manus’s belly. Manus looked down at him, stunned, and somehow managed to pat the boy awkwardly on the shoulder. After a moment, the boy stepped back, still grinning.
The woman looked at her son with an expression Manus didn’t understand, something both joyful and aching. Then she signed, Hey good-looking, don’t forget to say it, too.
The boy looked at Manus and signed, Thank you thank you thank you!
Manus signed back a slightly solemn You’re welcome.
Do you have a card, Marvin? the woman signed. It’s just Dash and me, and I’m not very handy. I mean, if you ever do small jobs.
Regardless of what the director might want, it didn’t feel like a good idea. But Manus was concerned it would seem odd if he said no. He hesitated for an instant, then handed her a card. Of course it was all backstopped. He even had Yelp and other job references: work done by a contractor the director had set up with Marvin Manus credentials. And a carpentry cover worked well for him. He was good with all sorts of tools.
She looked at the card, then placed it in her purse. It would be nice to see you again, she signed, smiling. A hot dog doesn’t seem like an adequate thank-you.
He smiled back, a little uncertainly. He didn’t know why it felt like he was doing something illicit. The director wanted him watching the woman. What had he said he wanted to know? The human aspect, the unquantifiable, the ghost in the machine. Well, how could Manus report on any of that from a distance? Getting close to the woman was simply a way to watch her better.
Still, he hoped the director wasn’t going to ask him to do more than just watch.
CHAPTER . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . 17
Anders sat at his desk, waiting for Delgado, trying not to be impatient. It hadn’t been difficult to create some “intel” about a letter bomb en route from Istanbul to Washington, DC. In exchange for the promise of a half dozen M32A1 Multi-Shot Grenade Launchers plus ordnance, his contacts in Turkey simply phoned each other on some prepaid mobile units, using English and words like bomb and explosion and Allahu Akbar, along with a mention of FedEx and Washington, DC. NSA’s AURORAGOLD eavesdropping network flagged the cellular traffic; a Tailored Access Operations team tapped into FedEx’s computer network to track the package; and Thomas Delgado, credentialed as an army Explosive Ordnance Disposal expert, was sent to meet the plane carrying the “letter bomb” when it touched down at Washington Dulles. Discreet calls were placed to corporate officials; instructions conveyed to field personnel; employees directed to offer complete cooperation. Nothing left to chance, and nothing left now but to wait.
