The Detachment

by Barry Eisler

  I kept my eyes closed and concentrated on listening. A moment passed, and I heard a single set of footsteps around the corner of the L. If it was someone else, he might stop at the urinals or the sinks. But the footsteps were moving quickly, deliberately. And they kept coming, past the unoccupied stalls, closer and closer to my position.

  Three seconds, I thought. It won’t matter if someone walks in after that. Just three seconds.

  The footsteps stopped outside the stall door. Someone pulled on the handle. The latch rattled.

  “Hey,” a voice called. “Is someone in there?”

  Shorrock was an intelligence professional. Even frightened and confused, he might be alerted by an incongruity. I had to keep it natural for as long as I could.

  “Yeah, someone’s in here,” I said. “Is this the only stall?”

  “Just hurry, okay? It’s an emergency.”

  If he’d been thinking clearly, he would have claimed to be handicapped, which would have been calculated to make the current, likely un-handicapped occupant feel guilty and accordingly move more quickly. Apparently, he was under stress sufficient to make that kind of calculation impossible. Which meant he would miss other things, too, or catch on only when it was too late.

  I pressed the button on the wall control and the toilet flushed. I wasn’t worried about him recognizing me from one of the restaurants or other venues in which I’d gotten close to him—people don’t usually notice me unless I want them to. But even if he did notice, and wonder, the momentary puzzlement and distraction would work to my advantage.

  I unlatched and opened the door, keeping my left hand to my side and slightly behind me and keeping my body close to my other hand as it pushed the door outward and to the right. Gloves would seem weird enough to possibly induce a rapid response, and I didn’t want him to see them until it no longer mattered.

  “All right,” I said, “it’s all yours.”

  “Thanks,” Shorrock said, shouldering past me. As he did so, I pivoted counterclockwise and popped a palm heel strike into the base of his cranium. Not hard enough to injure his neck or drive him into the marble wall on the other side of the stall, where he could break his nose or lose a tooth. But enough to scramble his circuits for a second at least, which is how long it took me to step inside behind him and latch the door.

  He had stumbled from the palm heel but he didn’t fall, and as he started to turn and try to face me, I threw my left arm around his neck, catching his trachea in the crook of my elbow, caught my right bicep, and planted my right hand firmly on the back of his skull. Hadaka-jime again, as versatile as it is effective. I tightened everything up, clamping his carotids in the walnut-cracker vice formed by my bicep and forearm, burying my face in his back and turtling it between my shoulders. I felt panic course through his body and he tried to twist away, one way, then the other, neither to any avail. I let him shove me into one of the marble walls and hung on, concentrating on maintaining the correct pressure. Unlike the choke I had put on that giant contractor in Tokyo, which was deliberately deep and cutting, this one was calibrated. It was firm enough to occlude the carotid arteries, but not so deep that it would result in bruising. As any judoka can attest, a proper choke isn’t necessarily painful, and doesn’t even have to interfere with breathing. Strangled on the mat by an expert, you might pass out with almost no distress at all.

  I felt him raise a foot to try to stomp my instep, which showed some training, but I easily shifted to avoid the shot. He scrabbled back for my eyes but couldn’t reach them. His twisting and flailing became more frantic. He scratched madly at my hands and arms, but his nails scraped harmlessly against the tape and multiple layers of material. Then, all at once, I felt the tension drain from his torso. His arms dropped limply to his sides and his body sagged against me. I leaned against the wall, breathing evenly, concentrating on the steady pressure. I heard a set of footsteps enter the room, but they stopped at the bend in the L, probably at one of the urinals. It didn’t matter anymore—time was finally on my side. Moments passed, then I heard a toilet flush, the sounds of water running in a sink, paper towels being used and discarded, then footsteps again, this time departing.

  When I was sure Shorrock was beyond recovery, I laid him flat on the floor and quickly went through his pockets. All he was carrying was his room key and the camera I’d placed in his room. He must have refused to turn the latter over when Dox told him he’d have to retrieve the thumb drive from the bathroom. Probably he thought he was maintaining some leverage. It didn’t matter. The main thing was, we had it back now, and wouldn’t have to worry about anyone finding it in his room and raising suspicions. And having his key was useful, too, in case the times of his coming and going might be stored on it. I didn’t expect that anyone would be investigating, but the less evidence, the better. I took a thousand dollars from one of my pockets and put it in one of Shorrock’s. Probably no one would look into his immediate pre-death ATM withdrawal, but if anyone did, it would look strange if the money weren’t on him.

  I examined his fingertips to ensure he hadn’t managed to scrape any skin or hair off me while he was struggling—I hadn’t felt anything, but adrenaline masks pain and it wasn’t impossible that he’d managed to scratch my scalp or pull some hair. I found nothing. I took the sports tape from the blazer pocket and wrapped it sticky side-out around both hands, then methodically patted down the floor under and around Shorrock. The Wynn’s cleaning people must have been pros, because I came up with only a bit of lint and a few strands of pubic and head hair. I had no way of knowing whether any of it came from me, but now it wouldn’t matter. I turned Shorrock over and patted down his back, too, where my face had touched him. A few new hairs, probably his. But again, now a moot point regardless. I unwound the tape carefully over the toilet, balled it up, and pocketed it again. Then I flushed the toilet, eliminating any matter that had fallen into it unseen.

  I was almost done. I paused, taking a moment to think, to double check my progress against a mental checklist. Everything was in order. Just one last thing.

  I undid Shorrock’s belt, pulled his pants and briefs down to his ankles, and wrestled him into a sitting position on the toilet. Then I stepped back, extending an arm to keep him upright as long as possible. When I withdrew my arm, Shorrock slumped forward and to the right, landing face down on the floor next to the toilet. I knew I hadn’t left a mark on his face or otherwise, but even if I had, the minor damage caused by a fall from the toilet would be adequate explanation. As for the death itself, it would look like some sort of cardiac event—a problem in the plumbing, possibly, or perhaps something electrical. There might be an autopsy: he was prominent enough for that, and there was the anomaly and irony of someone so fitness-obsessed perishing from an apparent heart attack. But when they found nothing, a body devoid of evidence of what had happened or why, wise physicians would stroke their chins and opine about the Brugada syndrome and the long QT syndrome, and potential abnormalities in sodium and potassium channels, and lethal arrhythmias hitting with the destructiveness and unpredictability of rogue waves, all in the same solemn tones that were once the exclusive province of monks invoking the mysteries of the will of God.

  I gripped the top of the marble stall divider and listened intently for a moment. Nothing. I pulled myself up, rotated over the edge, and lowered myself to the stall on the other side. I heard someone else come in, so I latched the door and waited, using the extra moment to run through my mental checklist again and ensure I was overlooking nothing. When I heard the latest patron leave, I moved out, pocketing the gloves en route.

  I saw Dox sitting at a slot machine outside, watching the entrance, and dipped my head once to let him know it was done. We would call Larison and Treven from the road, giving ourselves a head start, then reconvene later, far from the Wynn. But I wouldn’t tell either of them I’d eschewed the cyanide. Or Horton, for that matter. I prefer people not to know what I can do with my hands. It makes it easier for me to
do it to them, if it comes to that.

  We’d had some bad luck along the way. A few near misses, or rather, near hits. But it had worked out fine in the end. A perfectly natural-looking death for Shorrock, a clean getaway, an exceptional payday. And maybe, for once, some larger good that would come from all of it. On balance, not a single thing to complain about.

  That in itself should have told me something was seriously wrong.

  Larison and Treven drove through the desert on Interstate 15, the sun rising behind them. Larison had heard from Rain and Dox two hours earlier that the job was done, and they were on their way back to Los Angeles to meet and debrief.

  Rain had been vague about how and when he’d finished Shorrock, and Larison had a feeling that while some of this reticence was due to sensible communications security, Rain also didn’t want to let on that he’d waited to inform Larison and Treven so that he and Dox could get a head start leaving town. Larison understood. He would have done the same. As far as Rain knew, Larison and Treven could be under orders to tie up loose ends by eliminating Rain and Dox once Shorrock was done. They weren’t, though Larison’s actual plans weren’t so far off from what Rain probably suspected. Regardless, it was natural that Rain would be careful. Assassinating the assassins was practically SOP for a job as high-profile as this one.

  Larison had called Hort from a sterile phone while on the road and briefed him. Hort told him to check in when he knew more, but hadn’t asked where he and Treven would be meeting Rain and Dox. Hort would understand that Larison had the same concerns about Hort that Rain had about Larison.

  The car was a gray Ford Taurus rented at LAX, with no navigation system or automated toll payer that someone might use to track them. Treven was driving, nice and easy, not a mile over the speed limit, just a couple of white guys heading back to California after a few days of gambling. Larison looked out the window at the passing brown hills and dusty chaparral and considered how much he ought to tell him. A lot, he decided. There was no other way to properly motivate him. But he had to do it cleverly, and with certain key omissions. Treven’s instincts might be blunted by an excess of infantile patriotism, but he was far from stupid.

  He turned and looked at Treven. “So what has he got on you?”

  Treven glanced at him, then back to the road. “Who?”

  “You know who. Hort.”

  There was a pause. “Why do you think he’s got something on me?”

  “Because Hort has something on everyone. It’s how he works.”

  Treven didn’t answer. Larison said, “You know what he has on me.”

  Treven nodded.

  Larison said, “You know what he told me will happen if I ever release those torture videos?”

  Treven nodded again. “Your friend will be killed.”

  Larison was weirdly grateful that Treven would be so oblique. The man knew perfectly well what Nico was to Larison. For an instant, Larison imagined what it would be like to be able to trust someone with his secret, and then, with a scary, giddy rush, what it would be like not to have to keep it a secret at all.

  He shook off the feeling and said, “He told me they would send contractors to rape Nico’s nieces and nephews and mutilate his parents and sisters and brothers-in-law. Bring down the wrath of God on his entire extended family, every last one of them. And then tell Nico why it had happened, how it had been my fault.”

  There was another pause. Treven said, “Then don’t release the tapes.”

  “Yeah? And what is it you’re not supposed to do? Who’s getting fucked on your side to keep you in line?”

  Treven didn’t answer.

  Thinking he needed to push a little harder, Larison said, “Do I really need to point out that we have similar problems? Which might have similar solutions, if we try to solve them together?”

  “Meaning?”

  “How can I answer that if you won’t tell me what he’s got on you?”

  They drove in silence. A revelation of Larison’s own to build trust, the possibility of working together to create hope, silence to draw Treven out. If the man was going to open up, this would be the time.

  Come on, Larison thought. Talk. Once you start, you’ll keep going.

  He had just begun to think he’d miscalulated when Treven said, “You know that former vice presidential chief of staff you told me about? The one who was tortured to death in his office?”

  Larison smiled. “Ulrich.”

  “Yeah, David Ulrich.”

  Larison’s smile lingered. “I thought you might have been the one who did him.”

  “I wasn’t. But I was in his office shortly before it happened, and I tuned him up pretty hard. Hort says the CIA has security tapes that place me there at the time of his death.”

  “You believe him?”

  “There was no other way for him to know I was there.”

  “Well, then, I’d say you have a real problem on your hands. Unless you don’t mind being Hort’s fuckboy for the rest of your life.”

  “It’s the CIA that has the tapes.”

  “Hort told you that?”

  Treven didn’t answer.

  “Because that’s what he would tell you. You know that, right?”

  Again, no answer.

  “Look,” Larison said. “I’d lay good odds Hort has those tapes himself. He’s not going to tell you that, otherwise you know he’s the one squeezing your nuts. Instead, he positions himself as the guy who’s trying to help you relieve the pressure. It’s the way it’s done.”

  “Yeah. I get it.”

  “And even if it were true the CIA did have the tapes, they don’t give a shit about you, not as long as you don’t get in their business. Get rid of Hort and you don’t have to worry about anyone using those tapes against you, regardless of who’s holding them.”

  “Get rid of him?”

  “Come on. You’re telling me you’ve never considered it? How stupid do you think I am?”

  Treven shook his head. “You don’t need me for that. You can make Hort dead on your own.”

  “But there’s something else I want.”

  There was a pause. Treven said, “The diamonds.”

  “Correct. And that’s not a one-man job. It’ll take two, minimum.”

  “But you’re thinking four would be more like it.”

  Larison smiled. No, Treven wasn’t stupid at all.

  “We’re talking about a hundred million dollars,” Larison said. “Rain and Dox could have a quarter each. So could you. Once we have the diamonds, I’ll take care of Hort gratis.”

  Treven didn’t answer, and Larison couldn’t tell what he was thinking. But he could guess. Twenty-five million and the removal of the man who was blackmailing him? Who wouldn’t jump at the chance?

  “Well?” Larison said. “Are you in?”

  There was a long pause. Larison waited, letting the silence do its work.

  Finally, Treven said, “You’d have to tell me the plan first.”

  Larison smiled. Treven was in. Now all he had to do was dangle the diamonds in front of Rain and Dox, too.

  I called Horton as Dox drove us past Pasadena. There are those who would suggest I’m paranoid, or they would if they were still alive, anyway, but I didn’t want anyone triangulating on the position of our rental car while we were on some deserted stretch of Route 15, with no alternate routes possible and nowhere to run or hide.

  “It’s done,” I told him.

  “I heard,” he said, pleasure in his rich baritone.

  That was pretty fast—Dox and I had left Las Vegas less than four hours earlier. Ordinarily, a body can sit for a long time in a closed restroom stall without anyone noticing anything amiss. Usually it’ll be discovered by a cleaning person, trying to clear and close the bathroom before getting to work. Maybe an early morning crew had found Shorrock. More likely, the bodyguards went looking for him when he didn’t come back from his mysterious solo errand. I realized I should have foreseen they’d fin
d him sooner than normal. But it didn’t really matter.

  “You hear about any problems?” I asked.

  “None at all. Glad to see your reputation is well deserved.”

  “We were lucky.”

  “I doubt it. You used what I gave you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Now, to save you from asking the obvious question, your remuneration has already been distributed per your instructions. You can each confirm receipt.”

  The conversation was so familiar I might have been having déjà vu. It was appalling, how natural it felt to be doing this again. How…normal. As though I’d been forced to use only my weak hand for the last few years, and was at last again able to use my strong one.

  “I’ll tell the others.”

  “Good. And if you’re heading back to the area where we previously met, I’d like to see you again.”

  Alarm bells went off in my head. “Why?”

  “To brief you on the next one.”

  “Why do we have to meet for that?”

  “Because I’m not going to put the details in writing or say them over the phone. Look, under the circumstances, I completely understand your hesitation. So, needless to say, we can meet anywhere or anyway that’s comfortable for you.”

  I didn’t like it. Ordinarily, the probable quality and quantity of the opposition were such that I could implement satisfactory countermeasures. But Horton could bring some exceptionally heavy firepower into play if he wanted to. I imagined a SWAT team, briefed about the presence of Shorrock’s armed-and-dangerous killer, surrounding a restaurant with me inside it.

  “The guy who just left the project isn’t enough?” I said, stalling for time.

  “Not quite. I need two more personnel changes to make sure the project doesn’t get off the ground. If it does, it’s going to cost the company a lot of money. You’ve proven you’re the man for this. Finish the job and there’s a hell of a bonus.”

  I didn’t know if I wanted this. But what did I want?