All the Devils

by Barry Eisler

  She quickly confirmed that none of them made sense. True, the first of the disappearances had occurred ten years earlier, before the three men had the retinues and security details that followed them everywhere today. But even if back then they might have had the latitude to get away with periodically hunting and abducting teenaged girls all over the country, these days they didn’t. Which meant they couldn’t have been responsible for Hannah Cuero, at least not directly.

  Livia wasn’t remotely naïve enough to believe powerful men were incapable of such crimes. If anything, she believed they were especially disposed to them. After all, it was a US senator and his industrialist brother who had been behind her and Nason’s abduction, and everything that had happened after. But it wasn’t motive that was giving her pause here. It was means and opportunity. The Lone brothers had employed a Thai trafficking network to abduct girls for them, and then deliver the custom-ordered victims as specified—for example, to Senator Lone’s soundproofed Bangkok hotel suite.

  The one he died in, she thought, taking a moment to indulge a cherished memory.

  She knew it was possible some similar means and opportunity could be at work with one of the three men she was looking into now. But her gut wasn’t buying it. The point, for whoever was behind these abductions, was the abductions. What came after also, certainly. But if all you wanted was venison, you could buy it. Going into the forest to kill a deer was about something else.

  But someone had checked out that Azrael drone. And according to Kanezaki, that narrowed the list of suspects to these three.

  One of them had a son, though, right? She didn’t follow politics much, but she knew that. Vice President Bradley Michael Kane Jr. and his namesake, Congressman Bradley Michael Kane III.

  Who, now that she was thinking about it, had recently been accused of rape by a woman he’d known in high school. A woman who had then been forced to go into hiding because of death threats.

  Livia searched for news about Congressman Bradley Michael Kane III. Yes, the woman was named Noreen Prentis. A month ago, she had accused the younger Kane, whose nickname was apparently “Boomer,” of raping her at a party while they were in high school. Boomer denied the allegations, and Prentis claimed to be receiving death threats for speaking out—threats corroborated by police. And then she’d disappeared. There had been a flurry of reporting about that, but it had quickly died down. Her family claimed she was missing, but police found nothing. Some people suspected the worst, and blamed Boomer’s unhinged constituents. Boomer’s supporters, enraged about a conspiracy against him, accused the woman of being a publicity seeker and engaging in a stunt. But the consensus seemed to be that she’d panicked, whether because of the spotlight or the death threats or both, that she had gone into hiding, and that her family’s claims that she was missing were intended to bolster the story. Apparently, a Ukrainian journalist named Arkady Babchenko had done something similar, faking his own demise in response to death threats. A few talking heads were citing Babchenko as a kind of precedent.

  Livia’s gut wasn’t buying that. A faked disappearance wasn’t impossible, but it felt far-fetched.

  Still, if something had happened to Noreen Prentis, there was no evidence of foul play. She’d just vanished. Which wasn’t an easy thing to pull off.

  Unless, of course . . . the person or people involved were good at it.

  Because they had a lot of practice.

  She felt a tingle of excitement and tried to ignore it. The trick was to stay clinical. Detached. You had to consciously avoid confirmation bias and other psychological traps. Work the evidence as it presented itself.

  She went to Boomer’s official website and immediately felt her excitement deflate. He’d done six tours with Special Forces in Iraq. Most of the girls in Little’s file had disappeared in the States while Boomer had been off at war. It couldn’t have been him.

  But wait a minute. How much did she really know about overseas military deployments, and about when soldiers rotated back home? No one was deployed to combat for six straight years. What if she could prove Boomer’s stateside rotations had coincided with the disappearances of the girls in Little’s file?

  How could she get that kind of information?

  Her mind immediately served up the answer: Carl.

  She could imagine calling him, explaining the situation, explaining everything . . .

  No. Out of the question. She shoved it all aside.

  Kanezaki, then? No, she had asked too much of him already. She didn’t want to be further in his debt.

  And then she thought of someone else. And was surprised to realize it felt right. Surprised to feel she trusted him.

  At least as much as she trusted anyone.

  She took the satellite phone from the safe, walked to the north windows, and powered up the unit. Then she punched in a number from a coded list and waited for the call to go through. It didn’t matter that it was the middle of the night. The guy she was calling was in Bangkok.

  She got a ring, then another, and then his gravelly voice. “Hello.”

  Fallon. A Kanezaki asset she and Carl had worked with against a transnational trafficking network in Thailand. Also a former marine with some kind of medical training, and an unusually capable guy generally. He had patched her up after she’d damn near died killing Rithisak Sorm, the man behind her and Nason’s abduction.

  “Hey,” she said. “It’s been a while. You recognize my voice?”

  “I think I do,” he said. “This phone is encrypted. Beyond GMR-2. If yours is also, we should be good to go.”

  “It is, and we are. How are you?”

  “Ah, I can’t complain. Interesting times around here. Quite the gang war we seem to have instigated between Thai and Ukrainian traffickers.”

  She’d read about all that online. “Good,” she said.

  “Yeah, it would be nice if they’d all just burn each other up. But no matter what, at least we lit the match. Thanks again for bringing me in on that. I was getting bored. Hell, I guess I am again. Hasn’t been the same around here since you and your crazy friend left town. How’s he doing, anyway?”

  She felt the emotion rolling in, and willed it back. “I think okay.”

  “Oh, you haven’t been in touch.”

  “Not really.”

  “Ah. I thought . . . well, never mind. How are things on your end? Staying out of trouble?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Anything I can do to help?”

  “Maybe. How much do you know about US Special Forces in Iraq?”

  “A bit. What do you want to know?”

  She knew Fallon well enough to understand a bit probably meant You’re talking to an encyclopedia.

  “I’m looking into a Special Forces soldier,” she said. “Deployed to Iraq. Six tours, 2006 to 2013. I want to know how often during that time he would have been stateside.”

  “Depends. Unlike regular forces, who were doing yearlong tours, initially SF was doing six months in, six months out. The six months back at group would cover their home time and vacation, professional career schools, and then a train-up before heading back over. But the pace was too demanding. Guys just burning out and giving up. So now it’s six in, twelve out.”

  “So a guy deployed to Iraq from 2006 to 2013 . . . he would have been back in the States for at least half that time?”

  “Generally speaking, yeah, I’d call that a safe bet.”

  She felt the excitement building, and pushed it away. “That’s helpful,” she said. “What I could use now is something more detailed. If I gave you a name, would you have a way of finding out specifically when he was stateside during those years, and specifically where he was deployed? You said ‘back at group,’ and I’m not sure what that means.”

  “Just back with his unit at their base in the States. And yeah, I think I could help.”

  “Oh, okay, got it. The person I’m looking into is Bradley Kane. The third.”

  There
was a pause. “You mean . . . Congressman Kane.”

  “Yes.”

  “The one who’s running for senator now. Whose father is Vice President Kane.”

  “Yes.”

  Another pause. “Well, I guess it wouldn’t be like you to be going after small fry.”

  “I guess not.”

  “You want to tell me the nature of your interest?”

  “I don’t want . . . it could compromise you.”

  “If I start asking favors of people involving digging up Kane’s military records, I’d say that’s already a touch compromising, wouldn’t you?”

  Shit, she hadn’t thought of that. The mechanics of how he would get the information, if he could, and the trail doing so might create.

  She didn’t see any downside for herself. Or for her investigation. Whoever she was up against already knew about her. And about Little. They wouldn’t know she was looking into Boomer, true, but if Fallon were inclined to spill about that, he already could. Giving him the big picture wouldn’t make any difference.

  And maybe . . . maybe it would be better if someone knew the whole story. Just in case.

  Yeah, just in case.

  She told him.

  He listened intently, interrupting here and there only to ask for clarification. When she was done, he said, “Are you worried?”

  “About what?”

  He grunted a laugh. “Well, I guess that answers my question. About yourself.”

  “A little bit.”

  “A little bit is not enough here.”

  “I know what I’m doing, Fallon.”

  “I think you know why you’re doing it, yes. But listen. The closer you get to this, whatever it is, the more resistance you’re going to run into. From what you’ve told me, they’ve underestimated you so far. I’m guessing that part of the dance is over.”

  “If I can place Boomer Kane in the vicinity of each of those nine disappearances, I can make a case.”

  There was a pause. Fallon said, “Look, you’re the cop, not me. But what you’ve described sounds like a case built on nothing but circumstantial evidence. Otherwise known as a weak case. And as a friend—and I hope you won’t feel I’m presuming in calling myself that—I’d advise you that a circumstantial case against a guy with Boomer Kane’s background and capabilities, with a former admiral and current vice president for a father, who can send experimental fucking assassination drones against you—a circumstantial case against a guy like that sounds a lot like a suicide wish.”

  She gripped the phone tightly. “Someone has to speak for those girls.”

  What she meant was I have to.

  Another pause. He said, “I get that. And . . . I respect it.”

  She remembered how Fallon had reacted when she had told him she and Carl were going after a Thai child rapist, and that they needed Fallon to translate. The way his face had hardened. How he had insisted translation services were going to be the least of it.

  And what he’d done afterward.

  She had to wait a beat before she trusted herself to speak. Then she said, “Thank you.”

  “Can I ask you something?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “The information you need . . . you know Dox could get it for you. And if you need help with more than just the questions . . . well, I’m in, but I’m an old fart. If I were you, Dox is the guy I’d want riding shotgun.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut. “You can’t tell him.”

  “I won’t, if that’s what you want. What I’m saying is, I think you should.”

  “This isn’t about me, do you get that? It’s about those girls. That’s all I need help with. So just . . . look, can you get me what I need?”

  She hadn’t meant to be so short with him. She was asking him a favor, potentially a big one, and he had already told her he was inclined to help. But the notion that she needed protection, a bodyguard, anything like that . . . she couldn’t stand it.

  There was a long pause. He said, “Those kinds of records are centralized. I doubt I can get you the records themselves, but I know a guy who’ll give me the dates and places.”

  She felt a surge of relief. “Good.”

  “But let’s say your hunch is right, and Boomer’s home times line up with the disappearances. What are you going to do at that point?”

  “I’ll figure something out.”

  “Have you thought about the press?”

  She hadn’t, actually. “What do you mean?”

  “If you can place this guy in the vicinity of nine missing girls, and this missing woman, too, Noreen Prentis, that seems like a story, no?”

  She smiled. Fallon knew a lot of things. How newspapers worked apparently wasn’t one of them.

  “It’s an interesting idea,” she said gently. “But it would have the same shortcomings as a prosecution based solely on circumstantial evidence. Especially given the power and prominence of the family involved, there’s no newspaper that would touch it without evidence that would stand up in court. That being the case, court is where I’d rather take it.”

  “Yeah, I guess that makes sense.”

  “Thanks for trying, though.”

  “Well, I wish it had been worth a little more. But let me check in with my guy. He’s on the East Coast and an early riser. Can you leave your phone on?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right. Let me see what I can find. You watch your back, okay?”

  19

  Kane couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “What do you mean, the operator is missing?” he said, gripping the receiver of the secure unit and working to stop himself from shouting. “And why am I only getting this report at nearly oh-five-hundred the following day?”

  “I wanted to be sure I had all the facts,” Gossett said. “I didn’t know what went wrong. And I still don’t. The operator checked in right after visual confirmation of the target. Should have been all over less than five minutes after that. But nothing happened. We can’t raise him, and we’ve lost contact with the drone, too.”

  Kane took a deep breath, knowing nothing productive would be achieved by anger and recriminations. He reminded himself that Gossett was a good man. Loyal. Reliable. He’d worked under Kane in the navy, and had performed discreetly and capably in various projects since leaving the service for OGE five years earlier. Something had gone wrong, which happened, and the sensible thing was to figure out what, rather than trying to blame who.

  But still. Jesus God almighty.

  “I’m . . . not sure what you’re telling me,” Kane said. “Was the drone used? Are the targets still alive?”

  “No reports of deaths or explosions on police channels, so it seems safe to conclude the drone hasn’t been used.”

  “But you lost track of it.”

  “That could mean a number of things. One is that it accomplished its mission, which of course would entail a loss of the tracking signal. Two is that it was placed in a Faraday container. Three is that someone removed the battery. Again, given the lack of police activity, I think we’re talking about either two or three.”

  Kane shook his head in disbelief. Was this woman supernatural? The two men in Campo were competent, but all right, they underestimated what they were up against, and tied their own hands by attempting a more difficult capture mission rather than a straightforward kill. But this . . . this should never have happened. Half the point of the drone was about deploying something the target would never see coming and would have no way to stop. Had Lone, or Lone and Little both, absconded with the drone? If so, the operator was certainly dead. But then what had they done with the body?

  “You said the operator checked in after visual confirmation,” Kane said. “Whose confirmation?”

  “His own.”

  Kane tamped down the anger again. “Why would you have the operator personally confirm? If the operator can see the target, the target can also see the operator. Which defeats the whole standoff advantage the drone is inten
ded to create.”

  “Agreed, sir. But the operator insisted. He used to pilot drones out of Creech, and had some issues with faulty intel leading to collateral damage. Since then, he’s insisted on personal visual confirmation. It’s never been a problem before.”

  Kane wanted to shout, You mean you’ve always been lucky before.

  No. Fix the problem, not the blame.

  “Besides which,” Gossett went on, “again, he checked in after the confirmation. Whatever happened, happened after.”

  “Yes,” Kane said, knowing he should drop it but too angry to resist, “but probably because the target spotted him during the confirmation phase and got off the X. Maybe even set up a counter-ambush. Damn it, Gossett, not that I’m any kind of fan of the army, but this is right out of the Ranger Handbook: ‘If an enemy is following your rear, circle back and attack along the same path.’”

  “You told me the targets were law enforcement, not military.”

  “I told you the woman, at least, is obviously formidable. What about force protection? Was anyone doing any kind of overwatch of the operator?”

  “Sir, you specifically told me—and I quote—you wanted ‘the smallest possible footprint.’ A dozen operators would have been a dozen points of vulnerability. A dozen potential leaks.”

  “What about the team you used for surveillance of the man?”

  “Their knowledge didn’t extend beyond the surveillance. Again, sir, respectfully, this was in keeping with the mission parameters you yourself laid out.”

  Kane blew out a long breath. Gossett had a point. Of course, the notion of a dozen was an exaggeration. Two additional operators—hell, even one—might have made the difference. All Gossett had to do was double-purpose the surveillance team he’d put on Little. It would have been a small additional risk for a significant potential gain.

  On the other hand, it was equally true that Kane could have laid all that out in advance. But he hadn’t. Because he had believed the drone was a sure thing, and that anything but the smallest possible team would involve unnecessary risks.

  “You’re right,” Kane said. “I’m sorry if it sounded as though I was . . . leveling recriminations. I’m just trying to understand what went wrong. And what our liabilities might be, if any.”