The Detachment

by Barry Eisler

  No one said anything, so I went on. “Could be a coincidence, of course. Just a high-profile guest who happened to check in after you arrived but before I did. But still.”

  I paused and considered. As always, I assumed the worst, the worst in this instance meaning that Horton had somehow anticipated us, or followed the others, and had people in place in the hotel even now.

  Put yourself in their shoes. They’d be expecting you to take the stairs, not the elevator. Which, from their perspective, would be perfect. Suppressed weapons, no witnesses, all loose ends disposed of quickly, quietly, cleanly.

  “Here’s how we’re going to play it,” I said. “Treven and I are going to head out into the main corridor first. If those two guys I saw are just someone’s diplomatic security detail, fine, we’ll hold the elevator for Dox and Larison and we’ll all go down together. But if they’re not just security, and we have a problem…”

  I thought for a moment. I wanted Treven alongside, not behind me, so that was good. But…

  I looked at Dox and Larison. “If we have a problem, Treven and I will drop and create a clear field of fire for the two of you. Whatever happens, we’re going to use the elevator. I don’t like the idea of the stairs right now. Everyone okay with this?”

  They all nodded. I checked the peephole again, turned the handle with my jacket sleeve, and opened the door. The three of them moved out past me and I closed the door behind us as softly as I could. Then I moved ahead again.

  I looked at Treven. “You’re too tight,” I said softly.

  He frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean you look tense. Even if those guys are legitimate, they’re watching for trouble. I don’t want to do anything that makes them remember us. And if they’re not legitimate, let’s not do anything to make them feel like we’re clued in. Not until we’re clearing leather and putting rounds in their heads. Okay?”

  He frowned more deeply.

  “Goddamn it,” I said, “it’s not a criticism. Just relax and follow my lead, okay? Relax.”

  We turned the corner into the main corridor. I saw the two bodyguards, same position as before. My heart kicked up a notch.

  “I told him,” I said, remembering a banal sports conversation I’d once overheard. “I told him, ‘What the hell were they thinking, trying to play a zone defense against Kentucky?’ I mean, you don’t play a zone against Kentucky.” I actually had no idea what this even meant, but it must have meant something.

  To his credit, Treven picked up the vibe immediately and ran with it. He laughed and said, “I was saying the same thing. Told them, ‘not unless you want to get your ass kicked, you don’t.’”

  The two bodyguards peeled off from the wall and started moving toward us. Rather, the two not-bodyguards. My heart started hammering harder.

  “Best part?” I said. “Those dipshits were betting. Against someone trying to play a zone against Kentucky! Kentucky, can you believe that?”

  The two not-bodyguards’ hands were empty. But they were wearing suits. There were a lot of possibilities for concealed carry.

  “You know what?” Treven said. “I love people like that. People who bet without thinking. Think they know the odds when they don’t. Means more money for me.”

  We reached the elevator bank. The not-bodyguards were ten meters away. “Excuse me,” the one on the left said, his eyes invisible behind his shades. “We’ll need to see some identification.”

  “Identification?” I said, my tone indicating this was the most absurd sentence anyone had ever uttered. I reached out and pressed the down button with a knuckle.

  I saw movement at the far end of the corridor. Two more guys in suits and shades, rounding the corner. These two holding guns.

  “No problem,” Treven said. He reached down as though for a wallet, instead coming out with a Glock and shooting both of them in their foreheads so instantly that the first guy hadn’t even begun to drop by the time the second had been drilled clean, too. The bam! bam! of the two shots was thunderous in the long corridor. I pulled the Supergrade and dropped to the floor so fast I actually reached it before the two dead guys. Treven was right there next to me, already firing at the two new guys, as was I. There were more shots from behind us, and the two new guys were suddenly jerking like puppets on strings, convulsed from multiple hits.

  The shooting stopped and the corridor was suddenly silent again, the air pungent with the smell of gun smoke. I glanced back and saw Larison and Dox moving smoothly forward, each with his weapon out at eye level and in a two-handed grip. I looked at the two guys farther down the corridor. They were splayed face-up on the carpet, their legs twisted beneath them. I kept the Supergrade on them and came to my feet, staying close to the wall. Treven changed to a kneeling position just below me. The second two downed men were too far away for us to be sure they were dead, and we weren’t taking any chances.

  “Was that relaxed enough?” Treven said mildly, keeping his eyes and the muzzle of the Glock pointed downrange.

  “That was very relaxed,” I said.

  The elevator chimes sounded—the doors on the far left. “Shit,” I said, fighting the urge to approach it tactically with the Supergrade out. If there were more opposition inside, I wanted to be ready. But if it were a bunch of civilians, we’d have major witness problems.

  But they hadn’t known when we’d be leaving the room. And elevators are too unreliable to use tactically. If there were more opposition, they’d be pouring in from the stairwells. Assuming they weren’t deliberately waiting there.

  I walked over, getting the Supergrade back into my waistband and under my jacket just as the doors opened. I glanced inside. Two young Indian men, fresh-faced, navy slacks and starched white shirts. Wearing American Constitution Society badges on lanyards. They were close to the back wall, from which they wouldn’t be able to see the carnage outside.

  “Hi there,” I said, with a friendly wave. I was trying to indicate to Treven, Dox, and Larison that there were civilians in the elevator, and that they should put away the hardware so we could get the hell out of there.

  “Going down?” one of them said to me, in the characteristically sunny accent.

  “Yes,” I said, putting my arm out to block the doors. “Could you just hold the elevator for a second?” I turned toward Dox and Larison and called, “Someone’s being kind enough to hold the elevator for us. Let’s hurry.”

  We were lucky no one had poked a head out into the corridor so far. I supposed most of the rooms were empty at this time of day, but still, we had to beat feet.

  The second Indian guy sniffed. “Do you smell something strange? Smoke, I think. Like something is burning.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “a maintenance man just came through here. He said it was a problem with the ventilation system, nothing to worry about.”

  Dox, Larison, and Treven all collapsed into the elevator and I followed them in. The Indian guys suddenly looked very small. They backed up against the wall but it was still a tight squeeze. I pressed the garage floor button with a knuckle and the doors closed.

  “Thank you,” Dox said, smiling a smile that to my mind looked completely maniacal. “Would have hated to have to wait for the next one.”

  For a moment, no one said anything. There was nothing but the absurd sound of Muzak being pumped through unseen speakers.

  “Are you gentlemen…with the convention?” the first Indian guy said. He was looking at Larison. Obviously, some deep portion of his midbrain was screaming, Danger! But he was a thoroughly modern man, and trapped in an elevator, too, and so rather than running for the hills the way our far more sensible ancestors might have, he was trying to make conversation with an obvious predator, instead.

  “Not exactly,” Larison said.

  The elevator stopped on the fourth floor. The tension inside as we waited for the doors to open was explosive. The Indian guys must have been picking up on it, and I wondered what the hell they thought.

&
nbsp; The doors opened. Two pretty young women in skirts and heels, and both with American Constitution Society badges around their necks, surveyed the crowd inside. “It’s okay,” one of them said. “We’ll wait for the next one.”

  I knew I had maybe a second before Dox shoved the Indian guys against the wall to make room for the ladies. “Thanks,” I said, and hit the close button. The doors slid shut and mercifully, we were moving again.

  “We are supporters of the Constitution, of course,” Dox said. “And we revere that august document. But tragically, we’re not in town long enough to be part of the convention itself. How about you? Sounds like you’ve come some distance to be here.”

  I wanted to throttle him. Was he trying to get these two to remember us?

  “Indeed, all the way from New Delhi,” the second guy said. “We are studying sensible ways to amend our own constitution in India. And we often joke that perhaps you Americans could lend us yours, because you seem no longer to be using it yourselves.”

  The elevator chimed and came to a stop at the lobby level. Treven and I got out and Larison and Dox flattened against one of the walls to make room for the Indian guys.

  “Well, goodbye,” the first one said, as they got out.

  “And have a good day,” the second one added.

  “And you, too,” Dox said. “And thanks for appreciating our Constitution. It’s nice that somebody does.”

  The doors closed. “Jesus,” I said. “Why didn’t you just give them a business card? Or your phone number?”

  He looked hurt. “Just being a good ambassador, man. They came a long way, and for a worthy purpose.”

  “Yeah, and in about a half hour, when they’re being questioned by hotel security and the D.C. Metro Police and JSOC fucking assassins, they’ll remember very clearly the four men who got on their elevator on the ninth floor, the floor where four bodies were discovered riddled with bullet holes, the floor that reeked of gun smoke.”

  A long moment went by. Dox said, “Well, when you put it like that, I guess I can see your point.”

  The elevator chimed again. Garage level. We all reached around to the back of our waistbands and hugged the side walls.

  The doors opened. We looked left, then right. All quiet, and all clear. We headed out toward the far end of the garage, keeping plenty of space between ourselves to make it harder for possible ambushers. We were all hyper alert. My mind was screaming, How the hell did they track you here? But I shoved the thought away. The problem now was how to get out. We could worry about the rest later.

  The garage was full, probably from the convention, and we could have been attacked from any direction as we crossed it. Every parked car, the far side of every load-bearing pillar…everything felt like a potential threat. By the time we had reached the far end, the feeling of a concrete wall at my back was as sweet as a cold glass of water after a trek across the desert.

  Larison looked around. “Your man’s not here.”

  I checked my watch. “Give him a few minutes. Could be traffic, could be anything.”

  “I don’t like it,” Treven said. “If this is another setup, we’re going to be pinned down. Let’s find our own car, hotwire it, and get the hell out of here.”

  “If we have to,” I said. “But unless we’re ready to ram the gate, we’ll need a vehicle with the ticket left inside. That, plus one old enough to hot wire, probably isn’t a huge cross section. And I know we could explain that we lost the ticket, but I’d rather not have that conversation if we can avoid it. Let’s just give him a few minutes.”

  On cue, I heard tires squealing against concrete on the other end of the garage. A silver minivan. Darkened outside windows. Come on, I thought. Kanezaki.

  The van came closer. Kanezaki? I couldn’t tell with the florescent lights against the windshield.

  I could feel the tension building as the van approached. The rest of them were imagining the same thing I was: the side door opening and the four of us getting raked with automatic gunfire.

  The van swung around and pulled up right alongside us. We couldn’t see anything through the darkened windows. None of us had drawn a weapon yet, but if that side door slid open…

  The passenger-side window came down, and an attractive young Asian woman in a halter top, shorts, and a ponytail leaned across. “I’m Tom’s sister,” she said. “How’s the weather?”

  I was so stunned I almost didn’t answer. She’d presented her bona fides, and was now asking me for mine. Was she a spook, too? Did Kanezaki train her? And why was she here anyway, instead of him?

  “It’s…rainy,” I said, guessing this was the right response.

  She nodded. “Get in.”

  The side door slid open. Two little girls in booster seats, their faces and hair an appealing Asian/Caucasian mix, were in the middle row. They looked at the four of us curiously.

  “Are you…where’s Tom?” I said.

  “He got held up. Look, I’m in a little bit of a hurry, okay? Gotta get these guys to play practice by six, and I wasn’t expecting a trip into the city first.”

  “Right.” I looked at the others. From their expressions, I gathered they were finding this as surreal as I was.

  Larison broke the tension. “Come on,” he said to Treven. “Let’s get in back.”

  Somehow, the two of them managed to squeeze into the third row. Dox took the second row middle seat, between the two girls. I got in front.

  She drove around to the booth. There was an automated kiosk where she could have used a credit card, but either she was too savvy for that, or too briefed by Kanezaki. Or too lucky. Whatever it was, she pulled into the lane with an attendant, a bored-looking Latina.

  “I can’t believe this,” she said to the attendant, rolling down the window, “but I pulled into the wrong garage.”

  I kept my eyes straight ahead, and in my peripheral vision saw her hand the attendant a ticket. There was a pause.

  “Okay, no problem,” the attendant said. The gate went up.

  “Thanks,” Tom’s sister said, and we drove out into the hothouse sun.

  “What do I call you?” I said.

  She slipped on a pair of shades and made a right onto L Street. “My name’s Yukie. Most people call me Yuki.”

  I noticed a tattoo on the back of her right shoulder. Two kanji: one for love, the other for war. Love of war? Militancy? It was a neologism, not a real word, the kind of thing favored by otaku—computer geeks—and bosozoku—motorcycle gangs, so I wasn’t sure what it signified.

  “Okay, Yuki. Thank you.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “Where’s your brother?”

  “Hopefully on his way to White Flint Mall in Maryland. That’s where he told me to take you, and if he’s not there, I’ll drop you off and you’ll have to wait for him. I’m sorry, but I’m running late as it is.”

  She made another right, this one onto 15th Street. She used the turning signal well in advance. Either a conscientious driver, or someone who didn’t want to give a cop even the tiniest excuse for stopping the van. Or both.

  “You seemed…very competent back there,” I said. “If you don’t mind my saying.”

  She glanced over at me, then back to the road. “Look, I’m not stupid, okay? If Tom works at the State Department, you guys are the Swedish figure skating team. He’s my brother and I owe him a lot. Let’s just leave it at that.”

  She signaled again and we made a right onto K Street.

  The little girl on the passenger side said, “What’s your name, mister?”

  I glanced back, but she was looking at Dox.

  “Well, my friends call me Dox, little darling. Which is short for unorthodox. You can call me that, too, but only if we’re going to be friends.”

  “We can be friends,” she said, and giggled.

  “All right then,” he said. He reached out and shook her tiny hand with mock formality. “And what shall I call you?”

  “I’m Rina.
”

  “Rina. Well, that is a lovely name. It’s very fine to meet you, Rina.”

  The girl on the other side said, “And I’m Rika.”

  Dox turned and shook her hand, too. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen two such pretty girls. Are you twins?”

  Rika said, “Yes!”

  Rina said, “Are not! I’m six and she’s four.”

  Rika said, “Why can’t we be twins?”

  Rina said, “Tell her, Dox. It’s because twins have to be born at the same time.”

  And it went on from there.

  They were ridiculously cute. I thought of my own son, Koichiro. He’d be about their age now. What had they ever done to anyone? I couldn’t imagine anyone more innocent. And I’d put them in danger.

  “Tom’s a good man,” I said to Yuki, as we made a right onto Connecticut Avenue, heading northwest toward the Maryland border.

  She nodded. “He’s a good brother.”

  “But I don’t think…I don’t think he understood what he might be getting you into. There was a…problem back at the hotel. You’ll probably be seeing it on the news tonight.”

  “Seriously. I don’t want to hear it.”

  “What I mean is, if that garage had any kind of surveillance cameras in position to record license plates, it’s going to be a problem for you. The people who are looking for us are going to want to know what you were doing in that garage.”

  “Then it’s a good thing I changed the plates.”

  “You what?”

  “Look, I wasn’t always the inveterate suburban soccer mom who appears before you today, okay? I told you, I’m not stupid. I borrowed a set of plates from someone on a nice, leafy, non-surveillance camera neighborhood street. And with a little luck, I’ll get to return them before they’re even missed. So after I drop you all off, it’ll be like we never even met.”

  I couldn’t help smiling. “Well, I’ll still be glad we did.”

  She looked at me, sidelong, with a little smile of her own. “Don’t flirt with me, okay? Remember, I am a suburban soccer mom.”

  A phone buzzed. I looked down and saw a unit in the beverage holder, flashing. She picked it up and glanced at it, then handed it to me. “Go ahead,” she said. “It’s Tom.”