by Barry Eisler
“You don’t understand,” Delilah said. “Al-Jib is a dangerous man, very dangerous. What Lavi does with conventional explosives, Al-Jib is trying to do with nuclear weapons. We’ve been hunting him for a long time and he is exceedingly difficult to track. We can’t let him walk out of here tonight.”
“Look,” I said, “he sounds like he’s another problem child, it’s true. But we’ve got our hands full as it is. Hilger and Manny are the primaries. That’s going to be hard enough to do. Let’s not complicate it by rearranging our priorities in the middle of the proceedings.”
“You don’t understand,” she said again.
“I do understand. These aren’t my decisions to make. Your people hired me to do a job, I’m doing it. If they wanted to hire me to do Al-Jib, too, they should have brought it up sooner and I would have priced it in. And they damn well shouldn’t have turned on me after one little hitch in Manila.”
“Is that what this is about?” she said. “You won’t do this . . . out of spite?”
“I won’t do it because it’s not sensible to do it. We’ve got two targets already. If I put Al-Jib at the head of the line, it reduces the chances that I’ll be able to get to the other two. So let’s just stick to the plan.
“Jeez, partner,” Dox said. “I don’t know.”
“Goddamnit,” I said, “what happened to all that ‘The judge and the executioner, they’re different roles’ shit you were spouting at me the other day?”
“I think I meant that more as a guideline than a rule, man,” he said. “And this feels like, you know, an exigency.”
We were all quiet for a moment. I thought, This is exactly what I’m talking about, we’re arguing about this idiot Al-fucking-Jib instead of monitoring what’s going on in the room. Getting distracted, jeopardizing the whole operation.
“If the opening is there,” I said, “I’ll take him out. But Hilger and Manny are still the priority. Okay?”
There was a pause, then Delilah said, “Okay.”
“Good. Now switch the frequency back. Please.”
We went back to Hilger and company. It sounded like Hilger was making a sales pitch. Something about diversified investments, Asian emerging markets equities, average yields of over twenty-five percent.
“What about your commission?” Al-Jib asked.
“The twenty-five percent yields are after my commission, which is twenty percent.”
“Twenty percent. Is that in keeping with American SEC regulations?”
“Not at all. But then, not much of what I can do is likely to be approved by the SEC.”
Al-Jib laughed. “I have to tell you, your proposal is interesting and I think there is a lot you might be able to do for my people, but I would not have agreed to meet you. Not even with the people who vouched for you. Your former affiliations are too . . . suspect. There are people who believe you are still in the employ of the U.S. government.”
“That impression can be useful in my work. I don’t go out of my way to dispel it.”
“I understand. Still, it can be hard for men to trust each other even when they are from the same village. When they come from such different villages as ours, the suspicions linger, do they not?”
“They do. But I hope the test you devised was adequate to ease your doubts.”
“More than adequate. Killing a U.S. diplomat in Amman . . . there are some things that a U.S. government agent simply cannot do.”
Hilger laughed. “It was a creative solution. I’m glad it worked.”
“You never told me one thing, though. How did you manage to have the Jordanians blame Al Qaeda for the man’s death?”
“That was a case of someone rounding up the ‘usual suspects,’ ” Hilger replied. “When a senior member of USAID is assassinated, someone has to be blamed. Who better than AQ?”
“Yes,” Al-Jib said. “I suppose that’s true.”
They were quiet for a moment. Then Hilger said, “One thing that’s so useful about my ambiguous status with the United States government is that I’m in touch with many, many people who are in a position to do me favors. They’re receiving the same twenty-five percent you will be, and are always looking for an opportunity to invest something more. So tonight, in addition to the logistics of setting up your accounts and transferring funds, I would very much like to talk about what you need that the U.S. government might unwittingly provide. I’d like to help with all that, too.”
“For your usual twenty percent fee?”
“Of course. Everything I do involves personal risk.”
“I don’t begrudge you. I only wanted to confirm. If you can provide what I need, I think we’ll both be satisfied with the arrangement.”
“Tell me, then,” Hilger said. “I’m intrigued.”
There was a moment of quiet, then Al-Jib said, “As you know, Dr. Khan’s organization was chiefly able to provide know-how and machinery to its customers. The missing link in our product lineup was always material.”
“Uranium? Plutonium?”
“Either one is greatly desired.”
“If it’s uranium you need, highly enriched is your best bet. The U.S. National Nuclear Security Administration and the International Atomic Energy Administration are supervising the repatriation of HEU from all over the world right now, and I have extensive contacts in both organizations. You might have heard of the program—the Global Threat Reduction Initiative, a joint operation between the United States and Russia to secure Soviet-era nuclear fuel.”
“Yes, I know of it.”
“Then you probably know that six kilograms of highly enriched uranium was just repatriated from the Czech Republic to Russia. The transfer was secret until it was completed, but I knew about it beforehand. There are others that are being secretly planned even as we speak. HEU is being moved from Bulgaria, Libya, Romania, Serbia, and Uzbekistan. With your background, I don’t think I need to tell you how many opportunities there are en route for a diversion.”
“What will it cost?” Al-Jib asked, and I thought, Nice sales pitch. The guy’s ready to whip out his checkbook.
“A lot,” Hilger said, and they all laughed.
Manny said, “What did I tell you, Ali?”
Al-Jib said, “Yes, it seems we can do business together.”
Manny said, “I’ve been telling you that for what, three years? I’ve made a lot of money with this man and he’s done me a lot of favors.”
Hilger said, “Cheers,” and I heard glasses clinking.
Manny said, “Excuse me for a minute.” I heard a chair sliding back, then their door open and close.
My heart rate started to pick up speed. There was a hiss, then Dox cut in. “Manny’s on his way out,” he said. “Probably going to take a leak.”
“I heard him,” I said. “I’m ready.”
“Delilah and I will stay on this frequency so we can hear you if there’s a problem,” he said. “But I’m done talking unless you need me.”
“All right,” I said. I was a little surprised Delilah hadn’t mentioned the discussion we just overheard as a way of reintroducing the critical importance of killing Al-Jib. I knew she was stubborn and didn’t easily accept the word “no.” But I supposed the compromise I offered had persuaded her.
I rotated my head left, then right, cracking the joints. I squatted down to make sure that, if my knees needed to pop, they would do so now. I twisted my torso left, then right, swung my arms around, and took two short, sharp breaths. Okay.
I looked through the hole facing the bathroom door, thinking, Come on, Manny, come on . . .
But Manny didn’t show. A minute went by, then two. If he was just heading down here from the private dining room, he should have arrived by now. Maybe he didn’t need the bathroom after all. Or maybe he went down to the one on thirteen. I wouldn’t have expected him to bypass the closer facilities, but maybe he didn’t know there was one on this floor. Or maybe he stopped to make a phone call, or to try to chat up a waitress.
Could be anything. The main thing was, he wasn’t coming.
I said into the lapel microphone, “Manny isn’t here yet. He must have gone somewhere else.”
Delilah said, “Shit.”
“Can you take a look?” I asked. “Dox should stay put. It’s not likely, but also not impossible that Manny would recognize him.”
“No problem,” she said.
I heard the door open. I looked through the hole. It wasn’t Manny. But it was still someone interesting. I leaned toward my lapel and whispered to Delilah, “Wait.”
She said, “Understood.”
My new visitor had the dark hair and skin of a Filipino. Inside his cheap suit was a body with the approximate dimensions of a refrigerator. From his size, the way he was dressed, and the way he was scoping the bathroom, I made him as a bodyguard. Manny’s bodyguard.
This was the guy Hilger had insisted wait outside. Manny must have used his cell phone to call him after stepping out of the private dining room. The call, and the elevator ride up, explained Manny’s delay in reaching my position. He really had turned paranoid about public restrooms.
Not without reason.
The bodyguard was heading right toward me, looking at the closet door. He was going to check it.
I put my left foot against the doorjamb, grasped the handle, and leaned back so that the door was supporting about a hundred and fifty pounds of pressure. A moment later, I felt a mild pull from the other side. If we’d been in a real tug-of-war, the guy might have been able to budge me, but he wasn’t trying to force the door, just to confirm that it was locked as the sign advertised. It didn’t move a millimeter. I felt him let go, heard him walking back to the entrance. I heard the bathroom door open, heard him say, “It’s clear.”
I kept my position. Manny might try the door, too.
I heard a new set of footsteps in the room. Manny’s voice: “Thank you. Just wait outside, if you don’t mind.”
The man said, “Of course.”
I heard the door close. Manny’s footsteps, drawing nearer. Then stopping.
He had seen the closet door. He was wondering whether the bodyguard had checked it. Of course he’s checked it, he’d be thinking. He’s a bodyguard. Still, no harm confirming . . .
Sure enough, his footsteps came closer, then stopped again, and I felt another mild tug on the door. Then the pressure eased, and I heard him walking off to my right.
I eased off the pressure I was keeping on the door and looked through the first hole I had made. Manny was using the urinal farthest from me. He was facing the wall, but his peripheral vision would detect motion when I opened the door. I would have to move fast.
I took one quick peek through the other hole to confirm that the bodyguard had indeed walked out. He had. It was just Manny and me, the way it was supposed to be.
It wasn’t like the last time. I thought of nothing that wasn’t operational. Nothing.
I gave him a little time to finish what he was doing. If I didn’t, he’d wind up pissing on the floor, and maybe on me.
He started shaking off. I took two quick, silent breaths. Go.
I swung the door open, took a long step past the door, pivoted, and strode directly toward him.
His head snapped in my direction and his mouth dropped open. His eyes popped wide and his arms started to come up.
Adrenaline constricts the throat. This is why a person, suddenly terrified, finds himself squeaking in a high-pitched voice, or whispering, or unable even to make a sound. Manny, his recent restroom anxieties suddenly realized, had just gotten a massive dose. So although his bodyguard was just outside the door, he remained silent.
He started to turn toward me, but it was already too late. I stepped behind him, jammed my left knee in his lower back, and jerked him toward me by the shoulders. His body folded backward around my knee. I put my foot back on the floor and swept my left arm counterclockwise around his neck so that his face was pressed against my lower rib cage and my forearm was braced against the back of his neck. I took my left wrist in my right hand, shoved his lower body forward against the urinal, and jerked up with my forearm. His spine arched to the limit of its natural give, and for a split second our forward momentum froze. Then his neck broke. The crack was loud, but not quite loud enough for the guard to have heard outside that solid mahogany entrance door. His body went rubbery and I slipped my arms under his to stop him from slumping to the floor.
I dragged him into the closet and closed the door behind us. I patted him down, but he wasn’t armed. Shit.
I thought for a moment. If the bodyguard were right outside the door, and I expected he was, I couldn’t just walk past him. He had checked the bathroom before Manny entered, and it had been empty at the time. Someone new walking out now wouldn’t figure. Anyway, the point wasn’t to get past him, it was to get his gun. If his back was to me, I might manage it despite his size. But if he saw me coming, things might get messy. If there was a commotion, even if I disarmed him and headed directly upstairs for Hilger and Al-Jib, I might already have lost the element of surprise.
I heard the bathroom door open. I checked through the peephole: a middle-aged Chinese man in a business suit. He looked harmless, and the bodyguard must have decided it was all right for him to pass. He went into one of the stalls and closed the door.
Another minute and the bodyguard was going to check up on Manny. I was running out of time.
I left the closet, strode noiselessly over to the second stall, eased its door closed, and got back in the closet. The floor-to-ceiling mahogany stall door would obscure the question of whether someone was actually in there, and, if the guard poked his head in, he would now likely assume Manny was using one of the stalls. I doubted he’d want to disturb his client at such a delicate moment by calling out, but his reticence would last only so long. I might have bought myself a minute or two, but the clock was still ticking.
And then I had an idea.
TWENTY-ONE
DELILAH, ” I whispered.
She answered instantly. “I’m here.”
“Manny’s done. But there’s a bodyguard standing outside the bathroom. I can’t get past him. In another couple of minutes, he’s going to come in and check on Manny. There’s also someone using one of the stalls and I need to buy another couple minutes so he can finish and get the hell out.”
“Tell me what to do,” she said.
“Dox, do you still have that syringe we took off Winters?”
“Got it right here, partner,” he said.
“Give it to Delilah. Delilah, you won’t have any trouble getting close to the guard. Make it look like you’re about to head into the wrong restroom. Then flirt with him, distract him until the guy in the stall leaves. When he does, you nail the guard with the syringe.”
“What’s in it?” she asked.
“Dox, give her the syringe. I’ll explain on the way.”
“Already did, partner. She’s getting up now.”
“It’s a knockout cocktail. All you have to do is palm it and slap him with it. It works like a snakebite.”
“That’s ‘all’ I have to do? Don’t I have to hit a vein or an artery?”
“If we want the drug to work fast, you do.”
“Veins and arteries tend to be pretty small moving targets.”
“Look, just flirt with the guy, okay? Get him so his back is facing the bathroom door. I’ll hit him in the head with whatever I can find in here. But he’s a gorilla, I don’t know if a shot to the head will be enough. Although it should stun him for long enough for you to slap the syringe down on his carotid. If you miss, I’ll figure something else out.”
“All right.”
“He’s probably armed, a shoulder or hip carry. Whatever else happens, we have to disarm him. That’s our best chance with the other two.”
“Okay.”
I clicked on the Surefire and looked around the closet. None of the tools I saw would be helpful. No hammer, no wrench. For a
second, I thought of the knife, then rejected it because of the mess it would make. All right, I would have to use my hands. I started to put the Surefire back in my pocket, then looked at it. Shit, I had almost overlooked something so obvious. I had been thinking of it only as a flashlight, when in fact, gripped tightly in my fist with the hard edge slightly protruding, it would make a serviceable yarawa stick.
I heard the toilet flush, and a moment later the Chinese man emerged from the stall.
I heard Delilah say, “Here we go.” Then, in a tipsy, slightly flirtatious tone, “Excuse me, isn’t that the ladies’ room?”
Her lapel mike picked up the guard saying, “No, miss, this is the men’s room.” She must have been standing close.
“Oh my God, I would have felt so silly if I’d walked in there! You don’t know where the ladies’ room is, do you?”
“I think it’s just around the corner.”
The Chinese guy walked over to the sinks and started examining the various choices among the soaps and lotions.
Can you just wash your hands and get the fuck out? I thought. Better yet, don’t wash them at all. I promise not to tell anyone.
Delilah said, “Are you the doorman or something?”
The man chuckled. Good, she was reeling him in. “No, I’m just waiting for someone.”
The Chinese guy selected one of the soaps and began thoroughly washing his hands. He was taking so long that I was half-tempted to pop out of the closet, break his neck, and drag him inside.
He turned off the sink, picked up one of the towels, and began leisurely drying his hands.
“Oh, you’re here with someone, then,” Delilah said. “Too bad.”
The guard said, “Too bad?”
“Well,” she said, “my date is being a jerk, and . . .” She laughed. “I’m sorry, I think I’ve had too much to drink. I’m not usually like this.”
The guard said, “No, that’s all right. I don’t mind at all.”
The Chinese guy kept rubbing away with the towel.
Come on, buddy, there can’t be a single fucking water molecule left on you. . . .
