by Barry Eisler
“And if it’s not?”
“Then I make it clear. And you show up, grab your gear, and off we go.”
“Who would you even be looking for?”
“Someone a lot like me, actually, though not as handsome and probably not as competent, either. The main thing is, they don’t know me, and they’ll be looking for you. That’s an easy thing to spot, even for an antediluvian knuckle dragger such as myself.”
“I figured out a while ago that you’re not half as antediluvian as you like people to think.”
He loved that she knew the word. Mostly he liked the dictionary lingo just to mess with people. Tell them their office was noisome, then laugh when they turned down the music or whatever. He’d yet to come up with one that could stump John, but he wasn’t going to give up, either.
Smiling, he said, “Ah, that’s just because you’re a cop. Your average person would never know. But hey, at least you get that I’m a knuckle dragger, antediluvian or not.”
She was quiet then and he knew she was weighing his proposal about scouting out her house. The idea was solid, so her hesitation must have been just the result of her innate stubbornness and general unwillingness to accept help, no matter how sensible or well intended.
So he was pleasantly surprised when she simply said, “Okay. You reconnoiter first.”
Knowing she wouldn’t have accepted the help from just about anyone else made him feel a rush of gratitude and tenderness. He pushed the feeling aside. He needed to focus.
“Good,” he said. “How far is your place from the airport?”
“Maybe a half hour.”
“In Seattle?”
“Yes. Georgetown. South of downtown, north of the airport.”
“All right, then. You give me the address and a thorough description of the overall terrain. I need to pick up a present K. got me, and then I’ll head over straightaway and call you as soon as I’m sure everything is copacetic. You just stay close—but not too close—and be ready to get in and out for your gear when I say so.”
chapter
twenty-two
BEN
Ben,” Oliver Graham called out as he rounded the big office desk in a starched shirt and cowboy boots. “Come on in. And Curtis, you mind bringing us a fresh pot of coffee? Not even nine and I’ve finished the first one.”
“Yes, sir,” Curtis said, the crisp response conditioned, or at any rate comfortable, for a guy Ben knew was a former Marine.
Ben walked into the office. It was done up like some kind of drawing room—plush carpet, overstuffed leather chairs, mahogany everywhere, and a view through one of the giant picture windows of the green ridges of Catawba Mountain to the north. There were a lot of expensive antiques, mostly of Civil War vintage, including a beautifully maintained Thomas Griswold Confederate cavalry officer’s saber, and an 1860 Henry lever-action rifle. The only suggestion that the place was corporate and not a club was the ego wall visitors had to pass on the way to the sitting area, where they couldn’t fail to miss the dozens of framed photos of Graham shoulder to shoulder with grateful-looking princes and potentates.
In fact, it wasn’t just Graham’s office that had the private-men’s-club touch—it was the whole facility. The place was previously a horse farm, and Graham had done nothing to change the vibe since buying it and turning it into OGE’s headquarters. It even still had horses in the stables, one of which, a black Arabian stallion called Charon, Graham rode several mornings a week as part of an eclectic workout routine. The man had grown up riding in Texas and had kept the habit, along with the boots. Those concessions aside, though, everything about him and his surroundings was eastern gentry on steroids. None of it was to Ben’s taste—in fact, he didn’t feel like he had any particular taste—but he supposed that if you were from out of town and wanted to ingratiate yourself, you had to do as the Romans do, and maybe even better.
“Come on now,” Graham said, clapping Ben on the shoulder. “Mi casa tu casa. What’s on your mind? That was a cryptic call this morning.”
“I didn’t want to say too much over the phone.”
“I figured as much. Well, this is as good a place as any for a private conversation. Swept twice a day for bugs by three different teams. What happens at OGE stays at OGE. Other than the good outcomes we leave behind us, anyway. Come on, let’s sit.”
By the time they reached the sitting area, Curtis had overtaken them. He placed a carafe on the coffee table, turned smartly, and headed out. Cups, saucers, and cream and sugar were already waiting.
Graham took the chair facing the room, so Ben settled onto the couch with the stunning views. The sun was over the peaks now, and in the mist from the recent rains, the Blue Ridge Mountains were justifying their name.
“Help yourself,” Graham said. “I’ll try to hold off for a few minutes. It feels a little early yet to start on my second pot.”
Ben poured himself a cup and took a sip. Yeah, Graham was only a little older than Ben, but he’d already made a fortune. And yeah, back in the day he’d been a SEAL, which was something, but his only combat deployments—Haiti and the Balkans—weren’t all that. Besides, Graham had left after only three years, when his father died and Graham took over the old man’s machine-tool company, using his military contacts and some good timing to morph it into what became OGE. But still, Graham was the boss, and Ben needed the gig, so though he didn’t particularly give a shit about the coffee, he remembered to nod appreciatively.
“I got a weird visit last night,” he said. “I thought you should know about it.”
For the next twenty minutes, he briefed Graham on everything that had happened. He knew that at least some of what Hort and company had told him was true—he’d driven past Hort’s place at first light, and it was cordoned off by state troopers. He’d asked what was going on, and one of them told him it had been a fire. Local media was reporting the same—a big fire at local legend Colonel Scott “Hort” Horton’s place, the blaze so severe the volunteer fire department wasn’t allowed to get near it, and the colonel missing and feared dead. But Ben knew what he was smelling—wood smoke, sure, but if it was true there was nothing like the smell of napalm in the morning, there was nothing like the aftermath of a rocket attack, either. On top of which, Ben had stopped by a Coleman Falls diner, where the talk was all about helicopters and explosions, and how the colonel must have fallen afoul of the Russians.
When Ben was done, Graham leaned back and crossed his cowboy boots on an ottoman. He shook his head slowly, as though saddened by the whole thing.
“Well,” he said after a moment, “I’m glad you came to me, Ben. It was the right thing to do. More coffee?”
The man seemed so calm, Ben had no idea what he was thinking. But after a tale like that, and allegations like that, the calm itself felt artificial. Ben hoped he hadn’t said too much. He reminded himself that there were risks in saying too little, too.
“No, thanks,” he said. “I’m good. Anyway, none of this is any of my business unless you want it to be. I just thought you—”
“Let me ask you, Ben, you believe what those three were telling you? I mean, we’re blowing up planes now? And involving ourselves in child-pornography cover-ups?”
The question felt dangerous. “Honestly, sir, that sort of thing feels above my pay grade. And like I said, it’s none of my business.”
Graham nodded. “That is indeed an honest answer. But I hope ‘above my pay grade’ won’t be the case for too much longer. I really do. I’ve told you before, I look at you, and a few others like you, and I see the future of this company.”
Ben nodded. He wanted to believe it was true. But where was Graham going with it?
Graham swung his feet back to the floor, leaned forward, and picked up the carafe. “You sure about that coffee?”
“Maybe just half a cup.”
Graham smiled and filled it all the way, then said, “What the hell” and did the same for his own. He took a sip and made an mmmmm sound. “That�
��s a Peruvian varietal, from Ritual Coffee Roasters in San Francisco. I can’t get enough of their coffee. I have twenty pounds flown in every month, and it’s barely enough for my habit. Say, you’re from California, aren’t you?”
It was weird to hear him mention Ritual. Ben associated it with Sarah, another busted relationship he preferred not to think about.
He nodded. “Yeah.”
“Good place. I trained at Coronado. Say what you will, the hippies roast good coffee.”
Ben waited, sensing the guy was trying to draw him out with the silence, and determined not to fall for it. He’d relayed the facts. Anything else could only create more problems.
“Anyway,” Graham continued, “here’s the thing. Yeah, Hort and I have had our differences over the years. And Rain and I talked, and I wouldn’t say it went well. I would have preferred for everyone to just leave it at that. But if the two of them, and now their buddy Larison, are forming some kind of cabal, well, that’s a different story. And if they’re approaching you now—one of my people—I’d have to call it confirmation that I have a real problem.”
Based on what he’d learned from Hort, Larison, and Rain, Ben didn’t think Graham was lying, exactly. But he wasn’t acknowledging that he’d already tried to have the three of them killed, either.
“Because what am I supposed to do,” Graham went on, “knowing three trained killers are out there gunning for me? Am I supposed to just live with that? I mean, would they? Would you?”
Ben sensed the last question wasn’t rhetorical. “No,” he said.
“Of course you wouldn’t. It would be foolish. It would be suicidal. Because of their own paranoid delusions and projections, they’ve put me in a position I’d rather not be in. But denial . . . well, you know what they say about denial.”
Ben nodded, seeing where this was going now, not wanting to show what he really thought of it. “It has no survival value.”
“Exactly. And when survival becomes a zero-sum game . . . well, what choice have they really left me?”
Ben sipped his coffee. He wasn’t going to offer. Graham would have to ask.
After a moment, Graham said, “What do you think about Paris?”
That wasn’t the question he was expecting. At least, he didn’t think it was. “Paris?”
“The operational environment.”
Ben shrugged, not sure why they were suddenly talking about this. “Depends on the details. But the RG and the other intelligence and security forces are good. And with more latitude than ever after the November 2015 attacks.”
“I’m not thinking about their security forces.”
“What, then?”
“Rain, of course. And Larison. And Hort.”
“I’m sorry, I’m not following. What do they have to do with Paris?”
“Next week, I’ll be there for business development. Meetings, a lot of wining and dining. The French aren’t stupid. They close more armaments deals with Michelin three-star meals and Domaine Leroy Musigny Grand Cru than the Russians do with the world’s most coveted courtesans. Now, I have a great team that travels with me for close protection. All former DSS and, ironically, under the circumstances, Secret Service. They focus on every known pattern. But right now, I want someone who knows to look for more than patterns. I want someone who’s looking for something very specific.”
“Rain and company.”
“That’s right.”
“You think they’re going to come at you in Paris?”
“I’m sure of it. Because you’re going to tell them you’re in charge of my close protection there.”
Ben didn’t respond. He was torn between admiring the cleverness of what Graham seemed to be proposing, and not wanting to be mixed up in this shit at all.
“You catching my drift?” Graham said.
“I think so. You want me to tell these guys I’ve changed my mind. I want to help them. I give them key intel and an inside man. I’ll know what they’re planning, I’ll tell you, you’ll preempt.”
“That’s the idea. Now, assess. Strengths? Weaknesses? Opportunities? Threats?”
Ben looked out at the mountains for a moment and sipped his coffee, trying to ignore the way his stomach seemed to be doing a slow roll.
“It all comes down to whether they buy it. If they smell a setup, they won’t show. Or they’ll factor the setup into their own tactics. If not, though, they’ll walk right into it and never see it coming.”
“Agreed. So what I need, then, is someone who can sell it to them. What’s that old George Burns line? ‘Sincerity—if you can fake that, you’ve got it made.’ Can you do that, Ben? Fake it enough to sell it?”
Ben’s stomach continued on its unpleasant trajectory. “They’ll want to know why. Why the change.”
“And what will you tell them?”
He saw it. He didn’t like it, but he saw it. “That I thought about what they told me. The weight of it. The mistake I’m making.”
“Will that be enough?”
Ben hesitated, then said, “No.”
“Then what else will you tell them?”
He wasn’t sure whether he should say more. Didn’t trust his own reasons.
Fuck it.
“I’ll tell them I realized you’re full of it. That you’re just stringing me along with a slick line of ‘You’re the future of this company’ bullshit.”
“Do you really think that?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Honest again. And I’ll be honest in return. It doesn’t even matter. You know what does matter?”
“No.”
“Loyalty. People who demonstrate their loyalty to me are rewarded. People who don’t are treated differently.”
“That seems reasonable.”
“How did Sonny Barger put it? ‘Treat me well, and I’ll treat you better. Treat me badly, and I’ll treat you worse.’”
Ben was getting tired of Graham’s secondhand aphorisms. He said nothing.
“You’re at a crossroads, Ben. I know how that feels. I’ve been there myself. But a crossroads is also an opportunity. Do you know why?”
“I guess because you can go in a different direction without getting your boots muddy.”
Graham laughed. “Something like that. A wise person once told me, ‘If you want something you’ve never had before, you have to do something you’ve never done before.’ That’s the crossroads I’m talking about.”
Ben nodded.
Graham looked at Ben’s cup. “Warm that up for you?”
“Sure.”
“What did I tell you? This stuff is addictive.”
Graham filled Ben’s cup, then his own. They were both silent for a moment. Ben realized he wasn’t going to ask. The point was that Ben had to offer.
“I’ll call them,” he said.
Graham sipped his coffee. “And can you sell them?”
“Yes.”
“And will you sell them?”
“Yes.”
“Say it.”
I didn’t ask for this, Ben thought. I didn’t want it. You assholes put me in this position. It’s your doing, not mine.
He looked at Graham. “I’ll sell them. They’ll believe me.”
“And what will happen after that?”
Ben nodded, imagining. “They’ll walk right into it.”
chapter
twenty-three
DOX
Dox checked the secure site. No actionable intel from Kanezaki, but good news about the hardware: the package would be delivered at a place called All City Coffee. He checked it out online, and okay, good, it wasn’t far from Labee’s loft. Not for the first time, Dox had to give Kanezaki props for his tradecraft. With all the security and cameras and the like, the airport itself would have been too hot. And depending on where Dox was heading, downtown might have been needlessly far. Something more on the periphery, and characterized by lots of transient coffee lovers, sounded just right, and the online photos and descri
ptions he found made him sure of it. Lots of singletons sitting at a scattering of tables, absorbed by their laptops and minding their own business; nice combination of young and old, men and women, hipsters and working class. Not the kind of place where it would be easy to stand out, or to be noticed or remembered.
He texted Kanezaki from the sat phone to let him know to expect him at—he checked his watch—ten thirty. A minute later, he got the reply: Woman in a headband with a copy of the Seattle Times. Ask her if the place is the only one or if it’s a chain. Response is “This is the one and only.”
Good to go. He went outside and oh yeah, he was glad he’d brought the fleece—the morning was cold, misting, and gray. He didn’t like to admit it, but his blood might have thinned some from all the time in the tropics. And despite some extreme cold-weather training and deployments back in the day, which he’d handled just fine, thank you, he’d take sweating to shivering any day. He pulled on a wool hat he’d bought at the airport—a Seattle Seahawks beanie in the team colors, navy, green, and gray. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t wear something so distinctive when he was operational, but he had a feeling that in these parts, anything Seahawks would blend in just fine.
He got in the taxi line—using Lyft or Uber, you might as well just attach a damn monitor to your ankle—and twenty minutes later, he was standing in front of a Starbucks about a quarter mile from All City. Once upon a time, he would have given the driver his actual destination, because come on, who would remember or care? But he had to admit, working with John all these years had taken his tactics, or call it his paranoia, up a notch. He went inside, used the restroom, and then walked to All City, taking the opportunity to get familiar with the terrain. The area was the definition of mixed use—light industry, small apartment buildings, modest single-family houses, and a handful of stores and restaurants, some of the buildings well kept, some fairly dilapidated, most looking at least a century old or better. It was nice seeing Labee’s neighborhood, and he wasn’t surprised that she preferred to live on the edge of things rather than at the center, keeping the city at a distance the same way she did people.