The Detachment

by Barry Eisler

  My mobile buzzed. Larison’s number. I clicked answer. “Yeah.”

  “Gang’s all here,” he said in his gravelly whisper.

  I could hear the sounds of the café around him—music, conversation, laughter. “Good. Sound quality okay?”

  The phones we were carrying were equipped with the latest listening gear—integrated electronic amplifiers. State of the art, as Horton had promised. Not as powerful as a parabolic mic, but a hell of a lot smaller and less obtrusive. Depending on overall acoustics, the user could eavesdrop on a quiet conversation as much as thirty feet away through a pair of ordinary wire-line earbuds, the kind Larison would be wearing right now.

  “Excellent,” he said.

  “Good. Let me know if you find out where we’ll be dining and staying.”

  “I will.”

  “Does it look like just us? Or should we expect extra company?

  “Unless the extra company is cooling its heels outside, it looks like just us.”

  So Finch was traveling without security. Unexpected, given his position, and even more so given the quality of enemy he must have developed through his information-brokering hobbies. Maybe he felt the dirt he had banked made him untouchable. Maybe he felt his side trip to Vienna had been planned discreetly enough to offer adequate protection. It didn’t matter. I’d have Treven make a pass on the motor scooter and Dox on foot to confirm, but for now it seemed like good news for us.

  “All right,” I said. “If you learn anything or need anything, we’re nearby.”

  “Copacetic for now.”

  I clicked off and considered. For the moment, I didn’t want to say anything to Larison, but in my mind his cover was already blown. Even if Finch was relaxed enough to travel without a bodyguard, the way he had planned this trip suggested a degree of security sensitivity—certainly enough for him to log Larison and his danger vibe. Dox had commented on it, too, on our drive west from Las Vegas. “That hombre could make Satan’s neck hairs stand on end,” was how he’d put it. “He’s a reloader for sure.”

  “A reloader?” I’d asked.

  “Yeah, I’d empty the whole magazine into him, then reload and do it again, just to be sure.”

  I agreed with his assessment. If Larison had a weakness, it was that danger aura he put out. Most men who have it just can’t cloak it. And if Finch picked up on it, he’d sure as hell take note if he spotted Larison again later that evening.

  Ten minutes later, Larison buzzed me again. “Good news,” he said. “We’re eating at a place called Expidit. That’s how it sounds, anyway, I don’t know how it’s spelled. Like ‘expedite’ but with ‘it’ at the end, not ‘ite.’”

  “I’ll see what I can find online. What about lodging?”

  “A hotel called the Hollman Bell something. Again, I couldn’t make it out exactly. But that should be enough to work with.”

  “Arrival time?”

  “They’re done with their drinks and waved the waiter off when he asked if they wanted another, so I’d guess soon.”

  “Okay, let me know if they head out. I’m going to try to find the restaurant and hotel.”

  It took me only a minute to locate the Xpedit restaurant and Hollman Beletage Design and Boutique Hotel, both within a half mile of the university. Finch must have chosen the hotel for its proximity, and probably Capps had proposed the restaurant for the same reason.

  I thought for a moment, then called Larison again. “Does our friend have a bag with him?” I asked.

  “No.”

  That meant he’d already checked in at the hotel. It also made it more likely that he and Capps would be on foot the rest of the evening. With no bag to carry, it would be a shame to waste the glorious weather by taking a cab.

  “Okay,” I said, “here’s how I want us to play it. I’ll let the other guys know we’re going to stay nice and loose for the duration. No sense following too closely if we know where things are going to wind up. You stay put when they leave. I don’t want our friend seeing you get up at the same time he does, or to spot you later tonight.”

  I expected some pushback, because no professional likes someone suggesting he’s been made. But Larison surprised me, saying only, “Agreed. Where do you want me?”

  “Give them ten minutes, then head to the hotel. It’s the Hollman Beletage, on Köllnerhofgasse less than a half mile northwest of here. Find it on a map, but don’t look it up directly.”

  “You don’t want a record of multiple Google searches of the restaurant and hotel.”

  “I didn’t use Google, but yes. No sense leaving an electronic paper trail. Not that anyone’s going to be looking.”

  Again he said, “Agreed.”

  “Spend an hour getting to know the area, then let’s talk again. I’ll be doing the same.”

  I clicked off, then called Dox and Treven to pass on the information Larison had given me. I told them to keep a loose eye on the restaurant, and to let me know when Finch and Capps showed up and when they were leaving. For the moment, the restaurant was of secondary interest: a possibility, but probably less promising than the hotel, where he was more likely to be alone. I might change that assessment after reconnoitering both, along with the route in between. The Xpedit restroom might be a possibility. Or, assuming Capps and Finch said their goodnights at the restaurant and she didn’t walk him to the hotel, some dark stretch of sidewalk, or an alley, on the way from one to the other. Whatever I decided, I wanted to avoid, if possible, using the cyanide, which Horton had deposited and we had retrieved at a dead drop at the base of the Mozart statue in the Burggarten, like something straight out of a John le Carré spy novel. I wasn’t entirely sure why I was reluctant. Maybe it was the inherent danger of such a powerful compound. Maybe it was some vestigial security discomfort in doing things the way Horton wanted, the way he expected. Maybe it was a perverse pride in doing the work up close, without tools, in a way almost no one else ever could.

  I checked the restaurant first, and could immediately see it was unlikely to work. It was a large, open, L-shaped room, with enormous windows fronting the sidewalks outside. There was a hostess standing by the door, which meant I couldn’t slip in undetected for an on-site examination now without being remembered later. A hostess also suggested the need for reservations, and while presumably they would take walk-ins on an as-available basis, the place was pretty full. If a table were open, I could put Dox or Treven inside, hopefully somewhere that offered a view of Finch and Capps. Or I could lurk outside, keeping an eye on Capps and Finch through the large windows, then moving quickly inside if Finch got up to use the restroom. But that would almost certainly involve a “Would you mind if I used your restroom?” exchange with the hostess, at exactly the time one of the diners would subsequently turn up dead in said restroom. And if I couldn’t get to Finch, say because another patron was in the restroom at the same time he was, he’d see me, making it harder for me to get close later on.

  I moved on to the hotel, noting with disappointment that there were no good venues on the way, even assuming I could be sure of Finch’s exact route and anticipate him accordingly. But as soon as I reached the hotel, I felt reassured. Call it assassination feng shui: the vibe was just more favorable. The entrance was in the center of an antique, balustraded building that occupied an entire short block. There was no doorman, no bellboy, and no driveway, just a dark, wooden door under an orange awning, flanked on the left by a clothes shop and on the right by a tobacco vendor and a hardware store, all currently closed. Parked cars lined the narrow street alongside the building, creating concealment possibilities around the hotel entrance. I saw not a single pedestrian, and compared to the revelry of the Ringstrasse, this part of the city was practically sepulchral.

  I walked around the block, my footfalls against the stone sidewalk the only sound of any note. There was a restaurant around the corner, and two cafés down the street, but they were small affairs, presumably catering to people in the neighborhood and not a
ttracting crowds from farther away. Everything else was either residential, or closed. I saw no security cameras anywhere, and was grateful that, for the moment, at least, Vienna wasn’t as blanketed with the devices as Tokyo, London, and, increasingly, major American cities.

  I stepped inside the entranceway, ready to provide a story in Japanese-accented broken English about needing a restroom, and was surprised to see that I wasn’t yet in the hotel. The front entrance was shared, it seemed, with an apartment complex. To my right was another dark wooden door, marked with the hotel’s signature orange; ahead of me was a long flight of wide stone stairs leading to a landing and then continuing on around and above it. Between the hotel and the apartment complex, how much foot traffic could be expected here at night? Not a great deal, I suspected, and the later Finch stayed out for dinner, the greater the likelihood that when he arrived at the hotel, we would have the moment alone I needed.

  On the mosaic tiled floor alongside the staircase, I noticed some painting equipment—a tarp, several cans, a ladder, coveralls—and indeed, the corridor smelled of freshly applied oil paint. Nothing worth stealing, so the workmen probably just left it when they quit for the day. I walked over for a closer look, and saw a roll of translucent plastic sheeting the workers must have been using to keep splatter off the tiled floor. I pulled on the deerskin gloves I was carrying, knelt, and unrolled about a foot worth of plastic. It was strong and heavy—about ten mils, I guessed, maybe more—but still flexible. I gripped a corner and tried, unsuccessfully, to drive my thumb through it. I drummed my fingers along the roll and looked around, an idea forming in my mind.

  There was a box cutter on the tarp next to the paint cans. I used it to cut off about a three-foot length of the plastic sheeting, which I laid out on the floor alongside the equipment, and then replaced the roll and the box cutter as I’d found them. I stepped outside, called Larison, and told him what I wanted him to do. Then I called Dox, who confirmed that he and Treven were close by the restaurant and that Finch and Capps were inside.

  “Good,” I told him. “I want you to give them plenty of space. All I need to know is when they leave, whether they’re heading toward the hotel together or whether they say goodnight before, and when our friend is a minute away from the hotel.”

  “You sure he’s going back to the hotel? It’s a nice city and the weather’s good, he might want to go to a club or something.”

  I thought of Finch, whose file photos had revealed a balding, colorless bureaucrat of about fifty—not so different in appearance, in fact, from J. Edgar Hoover, to whom Horton had compared him. “You think our guy is going clubbing?” I asked.

  There was a pause. “Well, not clubbing, maybe. But there are areas of the city where a gentleman who’s so inclined can find women of a certain professional disposition. If we get done in time tonight, I’m fixing to visit one of those areas myself.”

  “I think you might be confusing your own proclivities with those of our friend.”

  “I’m not sure ‘proclivities’ is the word I’d use, but okay, I suppose I see your point.”

  “Look, if he stays out for whatever reason, you just keep watching him. The later he gets back to the hotel, in fact, the better. I just need that one-minute heads-up regardless.”

  I clicked off, then called Treven and told him to coordinate with Dox to watch the restaurant and the route to the hotel. I hoped we could finish this thing tonight. If we couldn’t, our next chance would be in the morning, which would mean watching the hotel entrance all night and trying to do the job in daylight. And every minute you spend in that kind of proximity to a target, you have to remember someone might be targeting you.

  An hour later, Larison and I were strolling the cramped streets of a neighborhood near the hotel, each of us having separately examined the area as thoroughly as we could in the short time available. We compared notes on points of ingress and egress; noted the locations of ATMs, which would be equipped with cameras; and agreed on the overall approach we would employ. All we had to do now was wait.

  “Why go to Washington?” he said at one point. “Forget it. Go after Hort before he comes after you.”

  Horton had told me the third job would be in D.C. The plan was for the four of us to meet up there after Vienna and receive instructions after we’d arrived.

  “How?” I said. “A JSOC colonel? Who knows you’d like nothing more than to take him down and get those diamonds back? What’s your plan?”

  He looked at me. “I know how to get to him. How to get to him where he lives.”

  “How?” I said, intrigued.

  He shook his head. “Not now. When you’re ready. When you look me in the eye and tell me you understand there’s no other way.”

  “Then we’ll have to wait.”

  I watched him. I could see he was frustrated and trying to suppress it.

  “What does your friend Dox think?” he said, after a moment.

  I saw no advantage to confirming a personal attachment. “I don’t know that I’d call him my friend.”

  “Don’t bullshit me. He acts like he doesn’t care about anything other than getting paid and laid, but I can see that’s an act. You know how he looks when we’re all together?”

  “How?”

  “Like a Rottweiler watching out for his master. I wish I had someone like that guarding my back.”

  “I’m not his master.”

  “You know what I mean. Behind the good ol’ boy façade, he just looks loyal. Fiercely loyal. And you don’t show much, but I have a feeling you must have done something to earn that. I can tell you’ve been through the shit together. I just don’t know what kind of shit.”

  I wound up telling him about Hong Kong, and Hilger, and how Dox had walked away from a five-million-dollar payday to save my life, and how I’d killed two innocent people just to buy time to save Dox’s life. I wondered if I was being stupid. But something made me want to tell him. I wasn’t sure what, but I’ve learned to trust my gut.

  When I was done, he said, “So they used Dox to get to you.”

  The question made me uneasy. I wondered if I’d told him too much. But something still told me it would be useful for him to know. I didn’t know why.

  “That’s right,” I said.

  “Is there anyone else like that? Someone you care about? But who couldn’t protect themselves? Who would be…what’s the expression? A hostage to fortune?”

  My mind instantly flashed on my small son, Koichiro, whom I’d seen only twice, as an infant in New York, whose mother would have told him by now his father was dead. Whose mother, indeed, had tried to make it so.

  I didn’t answer. I’d told him enough already. Maybe too much.

  He nodded and said, “Well, whoever that person is, he or she is now a hostage to Hort.”

  I stopped and looked at him, trying to read his expression in the dim light. “Is that what he has on you?”

  He answered the same way I had, by saying nothing.

  It was hard to imagine this stone killer being that attached to anyone else. But I supposed people might say the same about me.

  “Who?” I asked.

  His mouth twisted into something midway between a smile and a grimace. “The particulars don’t really matter, do they?”

  I thought of Koichiro again, then said, “Probably not.”

  We might have moved on at that point, but instead we lingered, caught in that frustrating space between the desire for understanding and the futility of words for achieving it.

  “How do you even know Horton has these diamonds?” I said. I knew he would read the small expression of interest as a weakening, and that it might therefore draw him out.

  It did. He said, “Because he took them from me.”

  He went on to tell me an astonishing story about CIA videos of terror suspects being gruesomely tortured by American interrogators, how the videos were made, who was in them, who stood to be sacrificed as fall guys if the videos ever got ou
t.

  “I read about this a few years ago,” I said. “I wondered why the Agency was admitting to making those tapes, and to destroying them.”

  “Well, now you know. They were missing, not destroyed.”

  “Missing because you took them.”

  He nodded. “The diamonds were a ransom for the tapes’ return. But Hort stole them from me.”

  I almost asked why he hadn’t retaliated by releasing the tapes, but then realized: the hostage. Horton, it seemed, had collected the necessary cards, and then called Larison’s bluff.

  “When I checked up on you?” I said. “My source told me you were dead.”

  He smiled coldly. “Greatly exaggerated.”

  “You staged that?”

  A young couple was heading toward us, walking hand-in-hand, the hard consonants of their German echoing off the close-set buildings and the stone sidewalk. Larison paused. They might not have understood English, but at a minimum they would have recognized it, and why give them a recollection of having passed two American men near where a body would soon be found?

  When they were safely beyond us, Larison said, “As a way of throwing off the animosity I knew I was going to stir up. Hort saw through it.”

  “Still, that’s a hell of a feat that you managed to stay ahead of them at all. You must have had the whole U.S. government hunting for you.”

  “It was…interesting. I had to keep moving. A lot of buses, some hitchhiking. Rarely more than one night in the same town.”

  “Yeah, I’ve done some of that myself. You see any good parts of the country?”

  For a moment, he didn’t answer. His eyes drifted away, and his mouth loosened slightly as though in mild wonderment, or even reverence.

  “I liked The Lost Coast,” he said. “Maybe I’ll get back, someday.”