The Killer Collective

by Barry Eisler

  They both thanked her and headed to the elevator. Once they were alone, Livia said, “Thanks, LT. You tried.”

  Strangeland shook her head. “I don’t like this.”

  “She had a point,” Livia said. “The chief, the mayor . . . they’re all politicians. They’re not going to publicly accuse the Secret Service of covering up a child-pornography ring. Not without a lot more proof than we have.”

  They got on the elevator. Strangeland pressed the “Close” button but didn’t choose a floor. She obviously wanted them to have a moment alone.

  The doors closed. It was just the two of them.

  Strangeland looked at her. “What are the chances of you being able to get that proof?”

  Livia wasn’t sure where she was going with that. “You mean . . . Little?”

  “Yeah, Little. Have you heard anything?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Ah. I wondered if he was the one you were talking to this morning. In the guest room.”

  Shit. That had been Carl. Had the lieutenant overheard? Livia had noted that the house doors were all hollow-core, and she had been careful to keep her voice down.

  “I couldn’t hear what you were saying,” Strangeland went on. “And I wasn’t eavesdropping. The walls of our house are so thin Mia and I use headphones if one of us is watching TV in the living room and the other is trying to sleep. But I heard you talking, and there was something about the tone. Was it someone who could help? I’m not asking you more than that.”

  Livia hesitated, then said, “I think it’s someone who could help, yes. He’s at least going to try.”

  “Good. Now tell me how I can help.”

  Livia wasn’t sure what she meant. “You already have.”

  “I didn’t like the way that went down with the chief. Yeah, her reasons for keeping this quiet were defensible. But put it all together, and what it really adds up to is her protecting her own ass. Going through Bureau channels. Publicizing nothing, not even through an anonymous leak—which she could easily do, given her contacts. And those SWAT guys could be minders as much as bodyguards. If you need room to maneuver, are you going to have it with those guys watching you all the time?”

  “I thought you wanted them to. You just said—”

  “I said what needed to be said to make the chief feel like she’d won. If I’d backed down too easily, it would have made her suspicious. So no, I don’t want you being shadowed by a couple of informers who report to the chief. What I want is for you to be safe. If you need to disappear for a while—like you did in Bangkok last year—to make that happen, then I want you to do it. You’re on administrative leave. Phelps looks set to wrap up his investigation quickly, but if need be I could get him to slow-walk it. Buy you a little time.”

  Livia shook her head, feeling completely bewildered. Bangkok? How much did the lieutenant know? Or suspect?

  “LT . . . I’m not sure what you’re telling me.”

  Strangeland pressed the button for their floor, and the elevator started moving. “Jesus, Livia, are you really going to make me spell this out? I don’t think you’re safe here. I think there’s a target on your back, and a couple of SWAT guys might make it harder to get to you but they’re not going to stop it, either. At least not forever. I think you should get out of town. I’d say lay low, but that’s not your style, and it’s not going to solve the problem. What I want, what I think you need, is for you to work this case. And blow it wide fucking open.”

  chapter

  twenty

  BEN

  Ben waited until the car’s taillights were no longer visible, then cut through the woods, parallel to the road. He didn’t think Hort or Rain would back out on him, but that fucking Larison was capable of anything.

  A quarter mile along, he cut across the silent street and into the woods on the other side. It was hard not to imagine Larison making his case to Hort and Rain, persuading them. Larison gets out of the car, hunkers down in the drainage ditch along the road . . .

  He moved easily through the tree branches, deeper into the woods, going slowly and stopping frequently to look and listen. Jungle warfare was mostly training for him; his actual experience was almost entirely urban. But the training was no-shit, and the darkness of the night forest was a comfort.

  What if they have night-vision?

  And suddenly his comfort was gone.

  They don’t have night-vision. From what they told you, they left Hort’s in a hurry, in Rain and Larison’s rented car. They didn’t have time to gear up, and they weren’t planning to kill you. You’re fine.

  Yeah. He was fine. It was just Larison. That guy always put him on edge.

  After close to two hours, he reached an overlook at the edge of town, from which he could make out his house. He sat with his back to an embankment and watched. It was probably unnecessary, but he wanted the opportunity to assess a little further just in case they had decided to hit him not along the road, but where they knew he was heading.

  The demands of moving tactically now behind him, he realized how pissed he was that these jokers actually thought he was going to help them. And how much of a problem they had potentially created just by asking him.

  The truth was, he hated the gig with OGE. But following the “misunderstanding” about those false-flag attacks across the country a few years earlier, what was he going to do? Yeah, it had all been cleared up after the fact, so at least no one was still trying to kill him or put him in prison over it, but the initial stink and uncertainty had lingered enough so that he was no longer exactly top-secret-clearance material. He was done with the military’s Intelligence Support Activity, or rather, they were done with him. It grieved him—literally, grieved him—but he had to accept it. He wasn’t elite anymore, wasn’t an insider, and that was never going to change.

  But what were his alternatives? His personal life was shit. An ex-wife who wanted nothing to do with him—who’d actually told their daughter that the new man in their house was Ami’s father. A brother, Alex, and okay, they didn’t hate each other anymore, but it wasn’t like they had anything in common, either, and the few times they’d tried to be in touch since Ben had helped him out, it had just been awkward. Their parents were long gone, and their sister, Katie, who had held it all together, had been gone even longer.

  All he’d ever been good at was running and gunning. And if he couldn’t do it with ISA, then he might as well do it with one of the private-sector operations. Of which OGE was the best.

  At least OGE valued him. They had employees from CIA, Delta, DEVGRU . . . but he was the only former ISA, so even within some pretty specialized company, he still had a certain degree of swagger. Though he wondered if the others suspected he was tainted. He told people he’d left for the private sector’s better per diem, but who would ever leave ISA just for a few dollars more? Not him, that was for sure.

  And then Graham had asked him what he knew about this guy John Rain, who the scuttlebutt said had worked with Ben countering those false-flag operations. Is this “natural causes” stuff real? Graham had asked. Or is all that just legend?

  Ben had acknowledged they’d worked together. And that, yeah, the natural-causes stuff was legit. Graham was pleased. He told Ben he had something important for Rain, and it would mean a lot if Ben could put them in touch. This is the kind of thing the future of this company is all about, Graham had said. And I want you to be part of that future.

  But hell, now that he was thinking about it, Graham’s assurances about Ben’s place in the future of the company felt a little slick. Maybe he’d been a sucker for that line of bullshit because he so badly wanted to believe it. Because damn it, what other kind of future did he have?

  So what was he supposed to do now? Tell Graham these idiots had paid him a visit? Tell him about their accusations? If he didn’t, and Graham found out anyway, Ben would look disloyal.

  But if the accusations were true, could acknowledging that Ben knew anything put him at
some kind of risk?

  It was hard to know what to make of it. There were a hundred reasons Graham or whoever might have made a run at Hort and Larison and Rain. It didn’t have to involve downed planes and child-porn rings.

  He thought again about Graham’s You’re the future of this company line. If Ben had believed that because he’d wanted to, could he be running the same kind of deception op on himself about the plane and the rest?

  What if you are? Like you said earlier, what does any of this have to do with you?

  He decided he should just come clean with Graham. Tell him everything, and not take any chances about getting caught concealing something later. Yeah, they showed up at my house. They told me blah, blah, blah. I listened politely and then told them to fuck off.

  It was the safer way to play it. The smart way.

  So why was it making him feel so crappy?

  chapter

  twenty-one

  DOX

  Dox cleared customs at Sea-Tac with nothing more than a backpack and a disarming smile. Just twenty-four hours earlier, he’d gotten the call from Labee. Immediately following which he’d gone online, booked a flight he knew he might not make, jammed some gear in the pack, jumped on the Rebel, and hauled ass out to Denpasar with his hair on fire. He’d been so on autopilot he barely even remembered what he’d thrown in the damn bag. Well, skivvies, naturally, that’s right. A pair of jeans, and some tee shirts. A fleece, thank God, because living in Bali, it was a little hard to imagine how chilly it could get in Seattle. And of course the essential don’t-leave-home-without-it items—in this case, his trusty Emerson Commander folder and the nasty little Fred Perrin La Griffe he wore on a lanyard as backup. As soon as he was done with the ICE people and out in the arrivals area, he ducked into a restroom stall, where he clipped the Commander to the front pocket of his cargo pants and hung the La Griffe around his neck. It would have been nice to have a proper firearm on his person, too, but that was way too much time, paperwork, and scrutiny for international travel, so for the moment a couple of sharp pointy things would have to do.

  Luckily, they wouldn’t have to do for long. After talking to John and Larison from Narita, he’d reached Kanezaki and gotten right to it. “Tom,” he’d said, short for Kanezaki’s nisei given name of Tomohisa, “forgive my uncharacteristic lack of small talk, but I don’t have a lot of time. I’ll be arriving in Seattle in about sixteen hours, and I need a package waiting for me. Ideally a scoped Rangemaster .308 or SR-25, but you know me, I can be flexible. The main thing is, I’d prefer magazine-fed to bolt-action, and don’t need anything particularly heavy caliber because this is all just antipersonnel and I don’t expect to be operating at significant range.”

  There was a pause. Kanezaki said, “Is that all?”

  “Amigo, you know I respect your inveterate urge to act like something’s a bigger deal than it really is so as to extract greater concessions in return. It’s even something I’ve learned from. But I’m telling you, now is not the time. This is a personal matter, and I’m asking you as a friend to help me out without the usual negotiating bullshit. Now, can you get me what I need?”

  Another pause. “I hear you. And I’m telling you straight up that I can’t move that kind of hardware that fast. Not domestically, anyway, and certainly not in sixteen hours. Is there some other way I can help?”

  Dox smiled. He’d meant it when he said he’d learned from Kanezaki’s negotiating style, and one of the things he’d picked up on over the years was that if you started with a huge request, you were much more likely to wind up with whatever it was you were really hoping for. Not that Dox would have objected to a proper rifle—in his experience, gunfights were always more pleasant conducted from far away—but the way he was picturing things, he thought something smaller would probably do nicely.

  “All right,” he said. “Thanks for your candor, and I’m sorry for putting you on the spot. I suppose I could make do with a pistol.”

  “Look, even a pistol—”

  “Ah, that’s what I’m talking about, you’re doing it, but I don’t blame you, I know it’s just a reflex, an unconscious habit I’m here to help you overcome.”

  “It’s not a habit, I’m telling you the—”

  “Tom, just stop. Stop now and listen to me. I told you, I’m asking you as a friend. That’s not something I do lightly, and I wouldn’t expect you to do it lightly, either. Because if you ever need something from me as a friend, I promise, you will never have a better one. And whoever you’re having a problem with will never have a worse enemy. Now, I’ve told you I’m in a jam and you said you can’t get me a rifle and I said fine, all I need is a pistol. But if you tell me you can’t do that, and give me some line of bullshit about oh you want to help and maybe you can get me a slingshot or a spitball straw or whatever, you might as well just tell me I was wrong in thinking we were friends. Comprendez?”

  Another pause. Kanezaki said, “Same model as last time okay?”

  Last time was a Wilson Combat Tactical Supergrade, Dox’s preferred carry. “Same as last time would be more than fine. Plus extra mags and ammo and a bellyband holster. Thank you, Tom. I don’t have time to discuss terms right now, so for now let’s just say I owe you.”

  “You don’t owe me. We’re friends.”

  Dox laughed, a little surprised by that. “Well, now I feel like shit.”

  “Don’t. I never know what’s going on until I’ve pushed a little. If you really need this, it’s done. But I was serious about the rifle. I just can’t, not in such a short time frame.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I believe you.”

  “Is there anything else I can do to help?”

  “I hope so. I’ll tell you what I know about the situation, which, given your lust for knowledge about the skulduggery of your colleagues in the so-called intelligence community, ought to have its own value to you. But if you have any insights, yeah, it could be a big help to me.”

  Unfortunately, Kanezaki had been uncharacteristically bereft of insights. He knew the players—everyone knew Graham and OGE, and in fact it would have been a surprise if Kanezaki himself didn’t resort to their services from time to time—but the Secret Service angle was a black box. Still, when Dox told him about what might really have happened to that airplane, he’d been aghast, and Dox knew from experience that the reaction was genuine. He’d told Dox he’d find out what he could. And that was a lot, because when old Kanezaki put his nose to the dirt, more often than not he would uncover a tasty truffle.

  Dox strolled through the terminal until he found a payphone. Still available in most of your major airports, but definitely an endangered species in the age of cellphones everywhere. Well, smoke ’em if you got ’em, as the saying went. He and Labee would come up with something more secure once they’d had a chance to talk in person.

  The thought gave his heart a little giddyup.

  Hey, you’re out here for the right reasons, aren’t you?

  He paused for a moment, looking around the terminal. All the normal people with their normal problems, hurrying along with their bags to who knew what or where.

  Why was he here?

  He knew he wanted to see her. Under any circumstances, he knew that.

  But even more, he wanted to protect her. Wanted to kill whoever was after her. Wanted her to be safe. Hell, more than safe. As happy and fulfilled and at peace as she could be.

  And if he could help with that, then even if he never saw her again, he’d be okay with it.

  He smiled, knowing it was all true. But he did still just want to see her. The truth of one didn’t nullify the truth of the other.

  He fished some quarters from a pocket and put through the call. Two rings, then: “Hello?”

  “Labee, darlin’. I do believe I’ll never tire of hearing your lovely voice.”

  “Carl?”

  “Who else?”

  “Are you . . . this is a 206 area code.”

  “Well, I told
you I was coming out.”

  “I know, but—”

  “And I was afraid if we talked about it again, you’d just try to shoo me away.”

  “Yeah, I might have.” But he sensed she was smiling.

  “Which is exactly why I came pronto. Have you been living like a fugitive, like we discussed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. But I happen to know that’s more difficult and tiring than the average person realizes—even more than the average badass cop realizes. So I was thinking I could help out.”

  “Did you talk to your friend?”

  “I did. He thinks you should get out of town. I agree.”

  There was a pause, and he thought she was going to protest. But she said, “So do I.”

  “You do? Well, that’s great.”

  “You sound surprised.”

  “Why would I be surprised? It’s not like you’ve ever pushed back when I’ve suggested something.”

  She laughed. Only a little, but with Labee a little was always a lot. “The timing sucks, because I’ve got a big case. Not Child’s Play, something else. And I just hate . . . I hate to drop it. But even my lieutenant thinks I should go. And I’m on administrative leave, so I guess I can.”

  “I’m at the airport now. Why don’t you come meet me and we’ll git?” He wasn’t looking forward to the conversation with Kanezaki: Sorry I didn’t show in Seattle for the gun you worked so hard to get me, can you deliver it to the East Coast instead? But he’d deal with that later.

  “I need to go home first. Get a few things.”

  “Negative, home is the last place you should be going.”

  “I know, but there are some things I’m not going to feel comfortable traveling without.”

  He imagined she was talking about weapons. He was about to argue and tell her they’d take care of all that on the road. But it wouldn’t be a bad idea for her to have a passport. And besides . . .

  “I’ll tell you what,” he said. “Why don’t I just reconnoiter first? If the coast’s clear, you show up, grab your gear, and off we go.”