by Barry Eisler
“It is indeed. So no need for you to burn the midnight oil. I think on this one, the glory will go to the FBI.”
She watched him stroll away. God, that was creepy. The way he’d appeared like some kind of apparition. But maybe it had been good. An opportunity to assess him. And to assure him she’d found nothing.
Haystack, though. She hated that metaphor. How was piling more and more hay on a stack going to help anyone find a needle? What was needed was the equivalent of metal detectors, or magnets, or something. Which was what she’d always tried to do, to find elegant solutions, automated systems for cutting to the signal, not ways of adding ever more noise. And she’d been good at it. She had been. If it hadn’t been for her, no one would ever even have known about Perkins and Hamilton, until it had been too late. It wouldn’t be her problem now. She wouldn’t be faced with . . . with whatever she was faced with.
Which was what, exactly?
Something. Something big and dangerous and involving the director. But beyond that, she didn’t know. She was just scared, and felt like she wasn’t thinking as clearly as she needed to.
It’s okay. You told him you didn’t find anything, right?
Right. And besides, how sure could she really be that the bombing had been an inside job? Yes, the director had the means. And, she supposed, the opportunity. But what would be the motive? Something with Hamilton, maybe wasn’t exactly a motive that would stand up in court, or even to logic.
You told him you didn’t find anything. And you’re not going to tell him. It’s okay. Nothing’s going to happen.
She almost believed it. And at the moment, almost felt like enough.
CHAPTER . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . 25
Traffic was light on the way from work that evening, many people having stayed home when the news of the bombing had broken that morning. Police cars were all over, though, along with huge black armored police vehicles procured from the military, many of them with gun turrets on top. Helicopters were everywhere, too, and beyond them, she suspected, lurking unseen, surveillance drones, and maybe armed ones, too. She had to pass through several checkpoints manned by soldiers in army combat uniforms, M16s at the ready. It all would have felt surreal in any event, but combined with what she had seen at work earlier it was dizzying, phantasmagoric, something from an exceptionally bad dream.
She had on the radio—local news about two shootings, a burglary, a fire in Anacostia police suspected was arson—but she was only half listening. She was still thinking about her encounter with the director, wondering if she’d assessed things accurately, wondering if she’d managed to give him what he wanted. And then she heard the announcer say, “And this shocking murder: a homeless man, in Congressional Cemetery, with his throat cut. Police suspect a dispute with another man who was sleeping in the cemetery and are questioning suspects.”
Her hand flew to her mouth. It couldn’t be a coincidence. It had to be him—the man who had stepped behind the truck, and presumably planted the device on it, who had disappeared through the cemetery . . . he had murdered someone there, too. She didn’t know why. A chance encounter? Someone who could identify him, who therefore needed to be silenced?
This was important. An important lead. She had to tell someone. She was afraid, but she had to.
The announcer suddenly stopped and said, “This just in. American forces have attacked a terrorist training camp in Azaz, Syria, in retaliation for this morning’s horrific bombing in downtown DC. We have reports of drones and cruise missiles. The president will be giving an address from the Oval Office in fifteen minutes. Stay with us and hear it live right here.”
The news made her head spin. Hamilton was being held in Syria, right? Of course, he could be anywhere in the country—there was no reason to believe he was in Azaz in particular. Still, it all felt . . . connected. But the connections were so hazy. She could sense, but not see them.
And besides, how could this be the payoff for an inside job, even if the bombing had been an inside job? Okay, maybe someone was trying to draw America into Syria’s civil war, but there were so many other ways to do it. Maybe if someone started floating the idea that the Syrian government had been behind the bombing that morning, she could accept that there was some kind of conspiracy at work here. But until then, attacking a training camp just wasn’t a convincing purpose or motivation.
She was still in the car when the president’s address was carried live on the radio. “As many of you have doubtless already heard,” he said, “earlier this evening, on my command, the defense forces of the United States carried out drone and cruise missile strikes on a terrorist training compound in northern Syria. Within this compound, our intelligence agencies confirmed, were the terrorists who plotted and directed this morning’s barbaric attack on the innocent residents of our nation’s capital. These terrorists—now former terrorists—will never again have an opportunity to carry out their atrocities.
“In addition to our military response to this morning’s tragedy, the FBI has just arrested several suspects here on American soil. We expect information from these suspects will aid us in preventing other plots, and in neutralizing other terrorists.
“As much as we wish it were otherwise, we must recognize that our intelligence, security, and military forces will never be able to prevent every single attack launched against our nation. But let me be clear. As our response today has shown, for anyone who manages such an attack, or who promotes, plans, or participates in one, you will face American justice. And make no mistake, that justice will be swift. It will be certain. And it will be severe. Thank you, and God bless America.”
There was follow-up commentary, but she barely heard it. She didn’t like any of it, didn’t like it at all. But what did it mean? And anyway, what could she do about it?
At home, she made dinner for Dash, then helped him with his homework. Somehow the routine, being in their apartment, spending time with her beautiful boy, served to settle her. Something was going on, that much was clear, but it was all above her pay grade and there was no reason to believe any of it was going to affect her. She had given no one any reason to worry. Or at least, no real reason. She didn’t need to decide tonight. She could figure it out in the morning.
Once Dash was in bed, she took a shower, keeping the phone close in case Marvin texted. But he didn’t. Well, maybe it had been a bit much to hope he’d get in touch right after returning from his trip. She was worried that he was done, that he wouldn’t call her at all. But that was stupid. She had no meaningful data, no way of really knowing.
After her shower, she changed into sweats and poured herself a glass of wine, then sat in the living room with the lights low, just trying to relax and unwind.
She looked at her phone. Maybe she was being stupid, waiting for him to contact her. She hadn’t waited for him to make the first move last time, had she? And he certainly hadn’t minded when she took the initiative.
The hell with it.
She texted him. Hey, how was the trip?
Her phone chimed less than a minute later and her heart leaped. It was fine. Just got back.
She stared at the phone, struggling with herself. It was pathetic, how turned on she was just to be texting with him, at the simple prospect of seeing him. The prospect of everything else.
She blew out a long breath. Still can’t stop thinking about it?
An immediate response: Yes.
She shifted on the couch. Tell me what you’ve been thinking.
There was a long pause. She got worried, then remembered how shy he was.
Do you not want to tell me? she texted.
I want to.
But it’s hard to say out loud?
I think so.
Her heart was pounding. Would you rather show me?
Yes.
Her heart beat harder. Do you want to show me now?
Yes.
She felt herself get wet. How soon?
Half an
hour. Maybe faster.
Good. Hurry.
She finished her wine and stood, surprised at how jittery she felt. She went to the kitchen and put the wineglass in the sink, then started pacing. God, what was she going to do to kill the next thirty minutes?
She peeked in at Dash and was relieved to hear him softly snoring. Then she went to her bedroom and spent a few minutes trying to decide what to wear. The sweats were too casual. But she didn’t want to look like she was trying too hard, either. Something she’d naturally be wearing alone in the house, on the one hand, but that would be sexy, on the other. In the end, she settled on a pair of white lace panties, a matching bra, faded jeans, and an old white tee shirt she rarely used for anything but sleeping. The cotton had thinned so much over the years that her bra and her body would be just visible through it. She smiled, wondering if Marvin would be able to look away as much this time as he had the last. She took two condoms from the drawer where she had hidden the pack and put them in a pocket of the jeans. Don’t know where this might happen, she thought, and a little shiver went through her.
Back in the living room, she tried reading a novel she was enjoying—M. J. Rose’s The Witch of Painted Sorrows—but had to keep paging back because she couldn’t remember the words she had just read. She kept imagining Marvin, coming through the door, his eyes on her face, his hands on her body. Carrying her effortlessly to the couch or her bed and peeling off her clothes and fucking her again like a force of nature.
She went back to the kitchen and turned on the countertop television she liked to watch while preparing meals. More news on CNN about the raid in Syria. She’d had enough of that. She was about to change the channel when the announcer said, “We also have unconfirmed reports that American journalist Ryan Hamilton, kidnapped in Syria by an ISIS splinter group just days ago, has died in the raid.”
Oh my fucking God.
She stared at the screen, her hands over her mouth, only partly comprehending. The White House spokesman was saying something about how the terrorists had used Hamilton as a human shield, how they obviously hoped to milk his death for propaganda value, how this was further proof that the terrorists cared nothing for human life. After all, had they not already threatened to decapitate Hamilton, a threat they had carried out on other captives? Implicit in that, some distant part of her mind was aware, was the argument He was going to die anyway, and horribly. At least we spared him that. And avenged him, as well.
This was it, then. The director’s motive. He had Hamilton kidnapped as a way of concealing his own complicity in the man’s death, and something had gone wrong. The kidnappers hadn’t killed Hamilton as planned, a rescue had been set in motion, the director got scared and created a kind of casus belli in downtown DC to turn a rescue into an attack.
Why?
She didn’t know. She didn’t want to know. All she could surmise was that Perkins had revealed something to Hamilton so explosive the director had both of them killed.
Please, she thought. I don’t know anything. I haven’t done anything. And I won’t. Please.
Immediately a wave of guilt and shame rushed through her. If she hadn’t reported what she’d seen to the director, none of this ever would have happened. Hamilton would be alive. Perkins, too. She had caused this. And all she was worried about was herself.
Not yourself. Dash.
Was it true she hadn’t done anything? She had lied to the director, and not once, but twice. First, by not telling him about the letter Hamilton had mailed from Istanbul. Second, by telling him she’d seen nothing suspicious in connection with the bombing that morning. Sins of omission, true, and difficult to prove, but still. She felt she was boxing herself in, somehow, and into what, she didn’t know.
So wait until morning. Go to him, tell him you kept looking and found something new. He won’t know. Maybe he’ll suspect you were holding back, but he won’t know. And he’ll know you’re loyal now, that you’re not hiding anything.
But would that solve her problems? Or make them worse?
Think, Evie. You’re smart. It’s why they hired you. Now think.
She nodded to herself, beginning to see things more clearly now. Going to the director would be a mistake. He obviously didn’t want her to find anything—she had seen that when she had tested him earlier. So what was she supposed to do, go to him and effectively say, Hey, guess what, I’m the only person in the world who has a lead on your inside job, your false flag operation, the one you ginned up to finish off Hamilton, but don’t worry, I promise not to tell anyone?
She thought of the letter she had seen Hamilton send himself from Istanbul. Could she do something with that? She wasn’t even sure what was inside the envelope. A thumb drive, probably. And probably encrypted.
She thought of Scott Stiles, hanged in his apartment. Of Perkins, killed in a car crash. Of Hamilton, kidnapped the very day Perkins died. How hard would it be for someone to arrange the same for her?
And then she thought of Dash again, and her throat closed up. What would happen to him?
For years she’d been shielding herself from the knowledge of how little backup she had. Sean didn’t want to take care of his deaf son. He couldn’t even sign, had never bothered to learn. The idea of Dash being pulled out of the school he loved, the school he was thriving in, horrified her. Where would he go? Who would he live with? Her father, in the senior-care facility? Half the time he didn’t even recognize his own grandson. And what would happen to her poor father, anyway? What would the facility do with him if there was no one to pay the bills? She thought of Soylent Green and covered her mouth, half wanting to laugh, half to cry.
She had to figure out a way out of this. But she didn’t even know what she was in.
Her phone vibrated and she glanced at it: I’m here.
Marvin. She blew out a few quick breaths. She had to pull herself together.
She turned the lights low and buzzed him in. A minute later, there was a soft knock. She checked through the peephole, then opened the door, closing it behind him.
He didn’t sign. He just stood there, looking at her, and the hunger she saw in his expression, the way his eyes went from her body to her face and back again, made her forget her panic. She pushed him back against the door, took his head in her hands, brought his face to hers, and started kissing him. She felt his tongue in her mouth, his hands on her breasts, and it was good, it was right, it was making everything else go away.
She ran her hand down over his crotch, and when she felt how hard he was it made her moan into his mouth. She undid his belt and started to unbutton his jeans, but before she got them open he spun her around and put her back against the door. He swept the tee shirt up and she lifted her arms over her head so he could get it off. But he left it tangled around her forearms, pushed her wrists up against the door with one hand, and with the other reached around and unclipped her bra. And then he was rubbing his thumb between her legs, and she writhed from the pleasure of it and tried to move her arms but he wouldn’t let her, and then he was kissing her again and still touching her, and the way he was holding her like that and doing what he wanted and not letting her touch him was so hot she couldn’t stand it, and she needed him inside her, needed it to push back everything else, everything that had happened, to make it all unreal. She whispered Please . . . please into his mouth, knowing he couldn’t hear the words but hoping he could feel them. And maybe he did, because he released her arms and pulled off the tee shirt and bra, and she got out a condom just as he pushed her pants down past her knees, her panties coming with them, and she stripped off his shirt while he got off his own pants, and he pushed her back against the door again and slid a finger into her wetness and oh, yes, that was so good, and she struggled to get the condom open and she managed to slide it onto him, and she wrapped her fingers around his cock and squeezed and she felt him shudder, and she guided him forward and he pushed inside her, and it hurt but she was pinned against the door and she couldn’t move
away from it, and he thrust again, thrust hard, and again, and again, and it hurt so good, so good, this was what she needed, God yes, and there was a short set of drawers next to the door, and she lifted one leg and put her foot on top, and he pushed deeper into her and she moaned again, and he put a finger in her mouth and she sucked on it, and then his hands were on her ass, cupping her, gripping her, bringing her into him in time with his thrusts, and she was close, she was so close, and she fucked him back, and then she felt his wet finger slide into her ass and she gasped and she fucked him harder, and she felt his cock swell and jump and then she was coming, and coming, even as he came, too.
When it was done, she lowered her leg to the floor and sagged against him, and he put his arms around her and held her. His touch was gentle but she could feel his strength, and she sensed how conscious he was of it, how careful to hold it back. Except when he couldn’t. And that was such a nice thought.
She looked up and realized what Dash was going to see if he woke to use the bathroom. The thought of him brought it all back, the craziness, the disbelief, the fear, and suddenly she was crying, crying hard. Marvin signed, What is it? But she just shook her head and pulled him close, needing to feel him holding her, needing to get it out.
After a minute, she had it under control again. She nodded toward Dash’s room and signed, We should get dressed.
Marvin just looked at her. Did I hurt you?
The concern in the question, and in his expression, was lovely. She signed, No. The opposite.
Then what?
Let’s get dressed first.
They pulled on their clothes and each used the bathroom. In the kitchen, she asked, Can I get you something to drink?
Just water. Thanks.
She poured them each a glass and they sat at the table.
He looked at her for a moment, then signed, Is everything okay?
She didn’t even know what to say. Probably it was better to say nothing. But even in the midst of whatever she was dealing with, she didn’t want him to think she was crazy. Or so weak that she cried at just anything. Or a sad fuck. Or whatever.
