by Barry Eisler
I hoped it was the right message. I thought it would engage him the way I wanted, but I couldn’t be sure. It was possible he’d double down: kill Dox, come at me with everything he had, try to finish the game that way.
But I didn’t worry about it. Not really. I was too tired, for one thing. For another, I wasn’t in charge. The iceman was running this show now, and the word worry had never been part of his lexicon. After all, to worry, at a minimum you have to care.
26
HILGER SAT ON THE FLYBRIDGE, flanked by Pancho and Guthrie. They’d made port in Singapore the day before and were docked now in a berth at the Republic of Singapore Yacht Club. It was past one in the morning, though still hot and humid, and the other seventy boats berthed around them were all silent, rising and falling on the harbor swells as though breathing in their sleep.
Demeere had called fifteen minutes earlier, just before noon New York time. He’d spotted Rain at the Mott Street apartment. No surprise there; they’d known Rain was in New York from the bulletin board access, just as they’d known he was in California before that and Paris originally. So far, so good.
Accinelli had shown up five minutes later. Demeere told them Rain had followed Accinelli in, and they all knew that meant the man was as good as dead. Demeere was setting out to intercept Rain, and would take him when he left the apartment. He told them he would check in again right after, and then he clicked off.
That had been fifteen minutes ago, a very long fifteen minutes. Hilger imagined the sequence: Demeere had called just as Rain went in. Rain would be inside for, at most, five minutes. Demeere wouldn’t fuck around when he came out, he’d engage him immediately and be done with it. A one-minute walk back to the van, drive off, call from a few blocks away. It was hard to imagine a way for the whole thing to take more than ten minutes.
Another fifteen minutes went by. No one said a word. Hilger thought about calling Demeere, but didn’t want to risk it. Demeere would have purged his mobile phone before going out. If something had happened to him and Hilger called him now, the call would remain in the log. Not likely anyone could do anything with the number, but Hilger wasn’t going to take the risk. Besides, if Demeere were able to call, he would have already.
Hilger turned to Pancho. “Can you access New York City police band through the satellite?”
Pancho nodded. “It’ll take a little doing, but yeah.”
“All right. Let’s see if we can learn anything that way.”
Pancho disappeared. Guthrie and Hilger remained silent.
Ten minutes later, Pancho returned. From the set of his jaw, Hilger knew even before he spoke.
“They’ve got a killing on Mott Street,” Pancho said. “No ID on the body, they’re calling it a John Doe. But the victim is a Caucasian male. Blond Caucasian, about thirty-five.”
Hilger nodded, betraying no emotion. “How?” he asked, and that would be his only concession to a concern for something non-operational.
“Throat cut,” Pancho said.
Guthrie shook his head. “Goddamn,” he said. “Goddamn.”
Hilger sighed. He never got upset in these situations, never. He’d lost men before, and knew by instinct and training not to indulge his grief until later, when the immediate situation had been dealt with and new plans set in motion. His men had always looked to him for leadership, and leadership meant focusing on the problem, not on your own feelings.
“What do you think Rain’s going to do?” Pancho asked.
“Hard to say,” Hilger said. “But he’ll check in. We’ve still got his friend.”
“You think he did Accinelli before he got to Demeere?”
Hilger nodded. “I’d say so. Monitor the police band, and we’ll know soon enough.”
“What kind of vulnerabilities does this create?” Guthrie asked. “I mean, Demeere was operating sterile, right?”
“No doubt about that,” Hilger said. “And even if someone could attach a name to him, it wouldn’t be a real one. And even if the false name could lead to anything…Rain doesn’t have the kind of resources to do anything with it. And if even if he did, we’re moving around too much for him to pinpoint us. We’ll only be in Singapore for another day, and then we’ll move on. Operationally, we’re okay.”
“If Accinelli’s done,” Pancho said, “we don’t need Rain. If we don’t need Rain, we don’t need Dox. Say the word, and I’ll take us out toward the Riau Islands, weight him, and throw him over the side.”
Guthrie shot Pancho a look that Pancho ignored. Hilger had a reasonably good idea of what the exchange meant.
“No,” he said. “Not yet. I want to hear what Rain has to say first.”
“Are you…are you going to call Demeere’s wife?” Guthrie asked.
Among the four of them, Demeere had been the only one who was married. An American woman, JoAnne Kartchner, who lived with Demeere in Brussels. Hilger had met her once. She had lively eyes and he could see the attraction between her and her husband. Demeere’s work kept him away from home a lot, but Hilger had never known him to be unfaithful.
He wouldn’t say anything now, but before Demeere left for New York, he had given Hilger the number where he could reach JoAnne. “I’m not planning on going anywhere,” he had said, with a small smile. “This is just in case.” Now Hilger wondered whether the man had sensed something, some premonition.
He wondered for a moment whom he would want called on his own behalf, if the worst should happen. Or whom he would want to call himself, if he knew his own end was imminent. No doubt his sister, Susan. She was married and living in New York, a third kid on the way. He visited her and her family every time he was on the East Coast. After all, with their parents gone and no other siblings, there wans’t much other family to stay in touch with, and her two sons, Hilger’s wonderful nephews, were the whole future of the clan. Yeah. If he knew it was all over, if he had time, it would be a comfort if Susan’s was the last voice he heard.
He nodded. “Yeah. I’ll call his wife.”
Nobody moved. The night’s humidity had grown heavier, a pall of wet heat that pressed down on them from above and all sides.
“Demeere was a good man,” Hilger said. “As good and reliable as any I’ve had the privilege to work with. We’re going to miss him. And we’re going to honor his memory by finishing what we started, and what he cared about enough to be part of.”
Pancho and Guthrie nodded. Hilger looked at them, satisfied they were going to be all right.
My God, but Rain was going to pay. And that fucking Dox, too. Between the two of them, they’d cost Hilger dearly. He was so angry just now that he was tempted to let Pancho do as he’d asked, take the boat out to deeper water and dump Dox over to the sharks. He was angry enough to leave the two of them alone for a while first, knowing how Pancho was likely to use the time.
But the operation had to come first, as always. Demeere had been the point man in Amsterdam, and with him gone, someone else would have to go there for the final steps. He didn’t like the idea of sending Pancho; the man was capable, but his forte was muscle, and he lacked Demeere’s finesse. For one second, Hilger wished he had sent Pancho to New York instead of Demeere. It was Pancho’s aura of dangerousness that had persuaded him not to—Rain would have made him too easily. Demeere, he had thought, would have a better chance at surprise. Well, that hadn’t worked out, but there was nothing to be gained from agonizing over it now.
And Guthrie…he was definitely good, definitely reliable. But Hilger hadn’t known him as long as the others, and wasn’t sure he trusted him for something as critical as Amsterdam.
In the end, he might have to go himself. Yeah, that would probably be the best way. Despite everything, the operation was still on track. Best to see it through personally.
For the moment, that meant holding on to Dox for a little while longer.
But only a little.
27
THE LONG FLIGHT TURNED out to be exactly what I needed. T
here was nothing I could do about anything until I was on the ground again, and knowing that, and accepting it, enabled me to unwind for the first time since receiving Hilger’s message in Paris. I fueled up on the first-class dinner, then slept like a dead man for nearly twelve hours after. I woke up feeling reasonably fresh, with less than five hours remaining to Singapore.
I thought about what I would do after landing. I’d stay in the terminal, at least to begin with. If Kanezaki had gotten a fix on Hilger’s position, and depending on when Hilger wanted to do the call, I might have to fly immediately to Jakarta, or Kuala Lumpur, or wherever. I didn’t want to waste time clearing customs twice, or be forced to explain such a rapid back-and-forth to an immigration official, either.
Okay, find an Internet connection in the terminal after we land, access the bulletin boards, see what Hilger…
My thoughts stopped there, snagged on a problem I hadn’t anticipated. If Hilger had a way of knowing where I was accessing the board, and he saw the access in Singapore, or anywhere else in Southeast Asia, he’d know I was coming for him.
Shit. Stupid to have missed something so obvious. There had been a lot going on, and I was tired, but still…
Delilah. I didn’t see an alternative. I could give her the URL, and she could cut and paste Hilger’s message onto the bulletin board she used with me. Or read it over the phone, either way. And then I could dictate the response to her, and she could type it in. Hilger would think I’d gone back to Paris after New York. There were actually some advantages this way. If he thought I was in Paris, it would lull him, get him to lower his guard.
But what if she told her organization? Maybe she wouldn’t, but I couldn’t count on her not to. On the other hand, if they wanted Hilger dead, as she had told me, I supposed there was at least a decent chance they’d stay out of my way. And if they interfered…well, I’d just have to take the risk. I might have turned to Kanezaki, but I didn’t trust him enough to have him filtering my messages from Hilger, not on this. He had an agenda, and saving Dox was only tangentially a part of it. For a dozen reasons, personal as well as professional, I didn’t want to go to her. But there was no one else but Delilah.
As soon as we landed and I was off the plane, I headed to a pay phone in the terminal to call her. It was midnight in Paris, but she was a night owl, and I knew she’d be awake. The only question was whether she was alone. If she was operational, she wasn’t going to answer the phone.
But luck was with me. She picked up right away with a throaty “Allo.”
“Allo,” I said. “C’est moi.”
There was a pause. She said, “Is everything okay?”
“No breakthroughs, but some movement. I…need your help with something. Is that okay?”
“You know it is.”
“All right. Our friend uses a bulletin board to contact me. But he may have a way to check the location from which I’m accessing it. I don’t want him to know where I am now. So I need you to access it for me.”
“That’s nothing. I thought you were going to ask for more.”
“I might. But this is all I need for now. Just for you to access it, cut and paste the message into the bulletin board you and I use, and then cut and paste my response back into the bulletin board I use with him. If we do it this way and he checks as I expect, he’ll think I’m in Paris. That’ll give me an advantage.”
“I understand.”
“You have to go someplace sterile. You don’t want him to be able to trace…”
“Yes, I know that.”
I thought of Kanezaki’s peeved “of course” responses for a second, and some of the comments I’d received from Dox over the years, too.
“Do I…micromanage?” I asked.
“Yes.”
I cleared my throat. “Listen, don’t sugarcoat it. I can handle it straight.”
She laughed. “I’ll leave right now. Give me a half-hour.”
I went to an Internet terminal. After the usual check for spyware, I uploaded the Hilger URL to Delilah. Then I checked the Kanezaki bulletin board. I’d found nothing on it so many times in the last week that I was expecting nothing now.
I was wrong. Kanezaki had hit the jackpot.
The dead man in NYC was named Wim Demeere. He applied for a Vietnamese visa under the name William Detts and traveled to Saigon at the same time as you. Here’s the photo from the visa application.
There was a postage stamp–size photo attached. It was him: the blond man I’d seen in Saigon, then killed in New York.
A James Hillman applied and traveled at the same time. Here’s his photo. Look familiar?
There was a second photo. I recognized it instantly. Hilger.
Here’s the best part. You were right, Dox was trying to tell you about a Marine. The guy’s name is Frank “Pancho” Garza, and Hilger knows him from Iraq. There’s a thirty-foot fishing boat, Ocean Emerald, registered to Garza in Shanghai, berthing privileges at the Shanghai Boat and Yacht Club. Ocean Emerald docked in Jakarta last week, and two days ago made a port call at the Republic of Singapore Yacht Club. As far as I know, it hasn’t left Singapore.
I realized I was gripping the mouse hard and made myself stop. Singapore…damn, they were right here. I didn’t even have to make the short hop to Jakarta, Kuala Lumpur, wherever. It was the best omen I’d felt since this whole thing started.
Now, secondary effects: Jannick had a brother, Henk Jannick, who cleared customs in San Francisco last week, apparently to take care of his brother’s family and help with burial and estate matters. Henk is the head of security at the port at Rotterdam. Henk’s number two is another Dutch national, Joop Boezeman.
Two things about Boezeman. First, presumably he’s in charge of security while Henk Jannick is away. Second, he attended a conference in New York City in September last year: the U.S. Maritime Security Expo. Accinelli was one of the speakers. Demeere was another attendee.
Here’s my take: Boezeman works for Hilger. Whatever Hilger is up to, it involves something in Rotterdam, something that the head of port security there could prevent. But a hit on the security head himself is too difficult, or too high profile, or both. So Hilger kills Henk’s brother in California, forcing Henk to take leave, and in Henk’s absence, the #2 guy, Boezeman, is in charge. Boezeman in charge creates an opening for Hilger to do something. The question is what.
Other questions: Why did Hilger have Accinelli killed? Why were Demeere, Accinelli, and Boezeman at the Maritime Security Expo in New York at the same time?
I know you’re in the air. Call me as soon as you get this. This thing is bigger than just Hilger, I can feel it.
It was what I’d been hoping for. A bunch of disconnected pieces that, with just one additional datapoint, or one fresh perspective, suddenly cohere into meaningful intelligence. But Accinelli, and now Boezeman and the rest…I didn’t care about any of it. Hilger had Dox right here in Singapore. That was all that mattered.
I gave Delilah the half-hour she’d asked for, then accessed our bulletin board. She had pasted in Hilger’s message:
I don’t know what you’re talking about. Good work on Accinelli, but you still have one more to do before Dox walks. I know you’ll want to talk to him. Call me like last time at 08:00 GMT. That’s 24 hours from the time I’m leaving this message.
I smiled. Stimulus, response. By leading with threats and accusations, I’d created an opening for him to deny everything and try to dissuade me. And maybe I’d bought Dox a little time in the process.
I checked the time/date stamp. He’d left the message at 08:00 GMT the previous day. That was four in the afternoon in Singapore, while I’d been in the air. So I had—I looked at my watch—a little over eight hours before the call.
I purged the browser, went to another pay phone, and called Kanezaki.
He picked up right away. “Where are you?”
“Not over the…”
“I’m using a scrambler, it’s okay. Where are you?”
“Perfect, perfect. I was hoping you’d catch the nonstop from Newark. I’m here, too.”
“What are you…”
“You saw the bulletin board, right?”
“Yeah.”
“You were already in the air when I got the information. I had to leave right away—assemble the gear you need, charter a plane…there wasn’t much time.”
“Where are you?”
“Grand Hyatt, Scotts Road and Orchard. Can you meet me here?”
Ordinarily, I would have declined. It’s inherently uncomfortable for me to allow someone else to choose a meeting place. But it made no sense for Kanezaki to try to set me up now. Maybe another time, but not now. I suppressed my paranoia and said, “Yeah. Give me two hours.”
“Room seven-oh-four. I’ll be here.”
I hung up and called Delilah from another phone.
“You get it?” she asked.
“I got it. Thank you.”
“Let me give you another number, a sterile line, scrambled. I need to talk to you, it’s important.”
“You can just put it on the…”
“I’ll put the number on the bulletin board. But I need to talk to you.”
I hung up, checked the bulletin board, and called her back on the sterile line.
“What is it?” I said.
“Do you know where Dox is?”
“I…have a good idea.”
“You said he’s on a boat. How are you going to get him off?”
Why was she asking me this? “How do you think?” I said.
“I think you’re so angry and afraid that you’re planning on going in with both guns blazing.”
I frowned. “That’s not exactly the way I’d put it.”
“Without solid intelligence about the layout, and the numbers and placement of opposition on the boat, you might as well be wearing a blindfold. It’s suicide, for you and Dox. You can’t do this alone.”
“Look, I appreciate the offer, but this is going down today. You’re too far away.”
“I’m not talking about me. I’m talking about Boaz.”