by Barry Eisler
Silence.
And all at once she saw it. Right there in front of them the whole time. So obvious it made her think of that George Orwell line: To see what is in front of one’s nose needs a constant struggle.
“That’s it,” she said out loud. “It has to be.”
Carl was looking at her expectantly. Kanezaki said, “What?”
“What is Sorm?” she said. “What is he most essentially, most fundamentally?”
Kanezaki said, “I don’t follow.”
“Sorm traffics people. Slaves. He’s been doing it for almost forty years. If you want to get in bed with Sorm, it’s not because he can periodically offer you something about Abu Sayyaf or Jemaah Islamiyah or whatever. It’s because he’s one of the world’s worst human traffickers.”
“But why would DIA—”
“God, do you guys really need a cop to tell you to follow the money?”
“I don’t know,” Kanezaki said. “What kind of money are we talking about?”
“Estimates vary, but even the most conservative are staggering. The UN’s International Labour Organization believes that worldwide, modern slavery generates a hundred and fifty billion dollars a year.”
“One hundred fifty billion?”
“Correct. With over twenty million people bought and sold annually. A quarter of them children. If you intelligence-community types ever want to do some real good in the world, you could quit fucking around with people like Sorm and try stopping them, instead.”
Silence.
She went on. “I mean, come on, you guys know better than I do about Air America and heroin, the Contras and cocaine, the Mujahideen and opium . . . if your ‘community’ was willing to help traffic heroin and cocaine and opium, why not something even more lucrative? Something that doesn’t even require poppy or coca fields, that just continually renews itself?”
Silence again.
Kanezaki said, “Give me a second. Just . . .”
He paused, then went on. “This is how they’ve been doing it. You’re right. God, you’re right.”
“Right about what?” Carl said. “Stop killing me with the suspense and just say it.”
“Sorry. It’s . . . L., you’re right, how could I not have seen it? In the last ten years, DIA has swung a half dozen elections in Southeast Asia, Latin America, and Eastern Europe. They’ve become the go-to players for every kind of influence operation. It’s gotten so bad, I have trouble getting people on the National Security Council to even return my calls. They know if they want real juice, no messy budget requests, and results so good that no one dares question how they were achieved or where the money came from . . . that’s all DIA now. And this is where that operational money’s been coming from. Slavery. My God. I just . . . I couldn’t see it. I didn’t want to believe anything like this could be true. I’m having trouble right now.”
“I don’t know,” Livia said. “Maybe you CIA types really do have more scruples than your DIA rivals. I doubt it, but whatever. Regardless, you cut Sorm loose because you didn’t want to get caught associating with a slavery kingpin. And then you projected—you assumed DIA must be worried about the same type of thing. But what if DIA’s worry is a thousand times worse than CIA’s was? What if DIA isn’t worried about getting caught just associating with a slavery kingpin, but about being in business with one?”
Carl looked down and shook his head. “Damn.”
“Tell me, K.,” she said. “If I’m right. If it were to get out. How much of a scandal?”
There was a pause. Kanezaki said, “It would be . . . unprecedented. I can’t even imagine. Prison time for the principals would be the least of it. The whole organization would be dismantled.”
“Ain’t it pretty to think so,” Carl said. “But yeah, there’d be a shit storm for sure.”
“Regardless,” she said. “For DIA, Sorm is a two-edged sword. If he ever turns on them, it’s really bad. So they have to keep him happy.”
“Right,” Carl said. “Which is why when Sorm gets wind of Vann’s investigation and the sealed indictment, and tells Gant to kill a high UN official for him, Gant clicks his heels.”
Livia nodded. “Because DIA cannot possibly take the risk of Sorm being indicted and offering up his relationship with DIA as part of a plea.”
“But then why not just kill Sorm?” Kanezaki asked.
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Livia said. “First, my understanding is that Sorm is a ghost. Very hard to get to. Is that right?”
“Yes,” Kanezaki said. “At least, it was true when we were running him.”
Carl laughed. “I think that’s a charitable view of who was running whom. ‘When you owe the bank a million dollars, it’s your problem. When you owe a billion, the problem is the bank’s.’”
“Anyway,” Livia said, “the point is, Sorm is paranoid. A survivor. Not at all an easy man to get to, even for Dillon and DIA. So even if you decided at some point he’d become more a liability than an asset, you’d have a hard time doing anything about it. And Sorm’s no fool. How could he have survived as long as he has other than by putting himself in the shoes of anyone who looks at him as an investment?”
“Meaning?” Kanezaki said.
“Meaning if you’re Sorm, and you’re paranoid under the best of circumstances that DIA might suddenly look at you and decide to cut their losses, how are you feeling when you learn some federal prosecutor in New York has prepared a sealed grand-jury indictment? What do you think DIA is going to make of that? Of the possibility that if you’re arrested, and extradited, and facing the rest of your life in prison, you might try to plead down your sentence with an explosive story about how you and DIA are business partners in modern slavery?”
“You’d be even more paranoid,” Kanezaki said. “Even more careful.”
Livia nodded. “Correct. We’ve been assuming Sorm went on the run because of Vann’s indictment. Maybe that, too. But more likely—”
“The one he’s really running from,” Kanezaki said, “is DIA.”
“Damn,” Carl said. “So Sorm didn’t want Vann dead just to eliminate the threat from Vann. He also knew it was the only way to eliminate the threat from DIA. Goddamnit, I told him, the damn Dalai Lama, I told him he had to watch his back. Ah, shit.”
“I’m sorry,” Livia said. “But . . . it feels right. And I think there’s one more thing. I’m not sure, but . . .”
She paused to think it through, then went on. “Put yourself in Dillon’s shoes. And we need to, because that’s what he’s been doing with us. You’ve had a great run with Sorm. Made God knows how much money. Created a giant slush fund. Bought secret influence with a dozen governments. Sidelined your CIA rivals on every important project. You’re like an investor who made a killing in a bull market. But that market’s gotten more and more volatile lately. Huge new risks. You feel like you’ve been riding the market down, and what you’re looking for now is a way to get out. Are you going to miss that opportunity?”
Silence.
“I mean, you guys tell me. You know Dillon.”
“If Sorm demanded that Dillon kill Vann,” Kanezaki said, “he’d be relieved when it was done. Reassured. Because why would Dillon take the risk of killing a high UN official when he could have solved his volatility-in-the-markets problem by just killing Sorm himself?”
Carl said, “You’re saying killing Vann was a way for Dillon to prove his bona fides.”
“Maybe,” Kanezaki said. “In fact, probably Dillon would have preferred not to kill Vann at all—with Sorm dead, Vann wouldn’t be a threat, so why take the risk?”
“Yeah,” Carl said, shaking his head. “But he decided to kill Vann anyway, to get close to Sorm. Goddamn.”
“If so,” Kanezaki said, “it means that if Dillon really does want out of this market, now would be a golden chance to do it.”
Carl nodded. “Yeah, and he probably tells Sorm something like ‘Problem solved, now let’s review your operations becau
se you know me, I’m all about efficiency and elegance and killing two birds, and I have some ideas about how we can lower our risks and double our profits. Oh, and make sure to turn off your new burner and all that, because all I want to do is protect you from here on out.’ Sorm smells all that money and thinks he can trust this guy now. So he agrees to meet him.”
Livia looked at him. “Almost there. One more step.”
Carl gave her a wan smile. “Preach it, sister. I could listen to you all day.”
“All right. Cops think motive, means, and opportunity.”
“Okay.”
“You’re Dillon. You want out of the market. There’s your motive. Sorm suddenly trusts you. There’s your opportunity. Now, what are your means? Especially if you’re all about killing two birds with one stone.”
Carl looked at her. For a second, his expression was what she had seen earlier, what she imagined he would look like behind a riflescope.
“His means,” he said, “are you and me.”
“Yes. I think so. It would certainly be elegant.”
“Hey, L.,” Kanezaki said. “Has anyone ever told you you’d make a great intelligence officer?”
“No thanks.”
“He meant it as a compliment,” Carl said.
Kanezaki laughed. “Forget I said it. The main thing is, it makes sense. Dillon wants out of a market that’s come to pose unacceptable risks. He wants to close all accounts—not just Sorm, but also the two of you. What better way, what more elegant way, to do that than to let you ‘figure out’ that Dillon and Sorm will both be at the Night Market, and get you to make a run at them there?”
“Dillon will hang back somehow,” Carl said. “He’ll give us Sorm. And drop us then. That’s the plan, anyway. If he’s going for elegance.”
“You know how I know you’re right?” Kanezaki said.
“Long and fruitful experience with my considered judgment?”
Kanezaki laughed again. “That, too. But also, isn’t that exactly what Gant tried to do in Phnom Penh? Get you to kill the target, and then have you killed right after?”
“I knew I’d seen this show before,” Carl said. “Now let’s just make sure they don’t change the ending in the remake.”
30
It was just past sunset, with pink fading to red in the western sky, when Dox and Labee arrived at the Night Market.
Dox had badly wanted to at least ride past the Sanam Golf Alley parking lot and that junkyard next to the gas station. But he knew he had to avoid routine recon, like what he had done outside the Dalai Lama’s office. Because Dillon knew he knew.
But didn’t know he knew Dillon knew.
So they did something different. Labee took them wide of the market, approaching it from the northwest, then headed east along a narrow, rutted road hemmed in by encroaching vegetation. The road grew rougher and increasingly overgrown, and finally dead-ended past the market at the northeast corner of the golf course. The golf course was set back from the remnants of the road and surrounded by a perimeter of tall, thick foliage. Beyond the foliage was a fence topped by netting, about thirty feet high. Which seemed not to be working as well as expected, because all around on the ground were moldering golf balls.
They dismounted and removed their helmets. Dox raised a shirttail and wiped the sweat from his face. It smelled like jungle back here, and though the din of the market was audible, the insects around them were much louder.
He pushed the bike deep into the foliage, ran the chain through a wheel and the helmets, and walked back to Labee.
“Good to go?”
She nodded.
He checked his watch. “Eight thirty. Plenty of time.”
They pulled on baseball caps—better than nothing against any circling bird drones—and walked west until they’d reached the northeast corner of the market. Dox had been expecting either to have to jump the corrugated fence or to break through it, but they were in luck—beyond the vegetation, he could see a gap in the metal alongside the fence of the golf course.
They pushed through the underbrush, walked right through the gap, and found themselves in a paved lot with lines of bright incandescent lights strung overhead, and dozens of antique cars and trucks displayed beneath them. Scores of people milled around, oohing and aahing at the vehicles, snapping photos, wandering in and out of the long, open-air, brick-and-corrugated-metal buildings to either side, all of which seemed to be set up as some kind of Americana automotive time machine: old gas pumps, vintage signage, and, of course, rows of classic cars and trucks. The area was relatively quiet, but the din—including a drum band, from the sound of it—farther south was unmistakable.
“This is the antiques section,” Labee said. “The least crowded.”
Dox nodded. “Looks just like it did online. Nice to finally be here in the flesh, though.”
They headed south, and the crowds quickly grew denser and noisier. There were food trucks, with tables and chairs set up neatly before them; an old-school barbershop, complete with a revolving striped pole; and every vintage item imaginable, from vinyl records to leather jackets to jukeboxes and gumball machines.
They kept moving, and after a few minutes reached the edge of the main market. Before them were thousands of colorful tents and stalls, countless shoppers and diners and revelers, families with babies in strollers, roving teens, and pensioners probably on the hunt for bargains. The sounds of laughter and conversation were mixed with the throbbing beat of a taiko ensemble, and the air was suffused with a dozen delicious smells: grilled seafood of every kind, roasting meat, fried noodles, coconut pancakes and custard and crepes.
It was Dox’s kind of place, and on any other night he would have been enjoying it. But tonight, even beyond the ordinary operational edge, he couldn’t shake the feeling that they were missing something. A miniature drone overhead. Or Dillon somehow having managed to think one move ahead of them.
Labee looked at him. “What is it?”
“Not sure. But something’s bugging me. Let’s duck into this store here.”
It was one of the brick structures at the perimeter. They went inside and wandered toward the back, surrounded by cluttered collections of retro Japanese anime toys, stuffed animals, Hello Kitty dolls, and Little Bo-Peep dresses that walked a delicate line between adorable and fetishistic.
“Sometimes I can get paranoid about sniper hides,” he told her. “Occupational hazard. Once you’ve been on the right end of a few thousand-yard kills, you start imagining being on the wrong end.”
“You think Dillon’s got a sniper rifle?”
“No, that ain’t it. This isn’t sniper terrain. And I don’t think it would be favorable for one of his microdrones, either—the lighting sucks, the crowds are too dense, and the overall area’s too big. But . . . I don’t know. We’re not making it any harder for him by sticking together, for one thing.”
“You think we should split up?”
“Well, I hate to. Especially because the phones are off. At least for”—he checked his watch—“another fifteen minutes.”
He paused and thought. The phones. The way Kanezaki was going to zero in on Sorm’s and Dillon’s. And he realized what had been nagging at him.
“Hey,” he said. “You think old Dillon might have access to the kind of real-time cell-phone monitoring we’re about to get from Kanezaki? I mean, he would, wouldn’t he?”
She nodded. “Seems like a safe bet.”
“Well, when we turn on our phones, then even if he hasn’t managed to track them yet, won’t some DIA geek-squad guy immediately focus on the phones that just came on in the middle of the Night Market?”
She nodded. “You’re right.”
“I mean, maybe I’m wrong. But if there’s one thing I’m sure of about Dillon, it’s that he is one smooth son of a bitch.”
“But if we can’t use the phones, how will Fallon tell us when Sorm tries to call Leekpai?”
Dox looked at his watch again. “Wel
l, we’d need to get new ones. But I haven’t seen any for sale here. And even if there were, it wouldn’t solve our problem—a brand-new phone getting switched on in the middle of the market. Besides, we don’t have time to activate a new phone.”
A half dozen young girls wandered in, high-school or maybe college age. Dox watched them for a moment and was struck by inspiration. “Hang on,” he said. “I believe I have identified a solution to our conundrum. It’s not perfect. But it won’t be what the bad guys are looking for, I’m sure of that.”
He walked over to the girls. “Pardon me,” he said. “I apologize for the intrusion. Do any of you speak English?”
One of the girls nodded and said in a heavy Thai accent, “I speak English.”
“Wonderful! Young lady, I would like to buy two of your mobile phones.”
“I’m sorry?”
He wondered whether she spoke as well as she had claimed. Or maybe it was just the nature of what he’d said that had thrown her.
“I understand my request is unusual. But I badly need two phones tonight, and I’m happy to pay for the opportunity.” He pulled out a roll of bills. “How about five hundred dollars per phone?” He counted out ten Benjamins. “Or, hell, make it six hundred. I don’t have time to haggle.” He counted out two more.
The girl looked at her friends, then back to him. “You’re serious?”
“Very serious, yes. And here’s another two hundred to prove it. Seven hundred per phone.” He pulled out another two bills.
The girl consulted with her friends again. They spoke among themselves, increasingly excitedly. Then several of them frantically dug into their purses. One pulled out a phone, followed a moment later by her friend.
“I’m sorry, ladies, I believe we have two winners.” He took the phones and handed the girls seven hundred apiece. He looked at the units—both older-model iPhones. A good bargain for everyone.
“Say, these aren’t passcode protected, are they?” Before the translator could interpret, the girls had taken back the phones, unlocked them, and turned off the passcode protection. He looked and saw they were deleting all their texts, which he could understand they might not want a stranger to read. Not that he’d have any interest, or could decipher the Thai anyway. They handed the phones back and he switched the language on each unit to English.
