by Barry Eisler
“Dox knows her. He says she saved his life. And I’ve had a chance to observe her up close and under pressure. I haven’t encountered anything inconsistent with what he’s told me, or anything that feels off to me. So again, what am I missing?”
She was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “I’ve made a career out of getting men to trust me. To believe utterly all the things I want them to believe. And now you tell me this woman’s effect on Dox, and the war she’s involved you in. How can I not wonder if the four of you aren’t being as gullible as all the men who were so sure about me?”
I looked at her. “I was sure about you.”
She shook her head. “No, you weren’t. You left. And you were the one man who should have been sure of me. My God, the irony. It’s nauseating.”
“I was sure about you,” I said again.
“Then why did you leave?”
“You wouldn’t give up your job. This life.”
“This life,” she said, her voice rising. “This life that, now that it suits you, you’re trying to drag me back into?”
A few people in the room looked up, then went back to their own conversations.
I looked at her. “I’m sorry.”
She shook her head, her expression incredulous. “You had years to call me and tell me that, John. Years. And even this morning, you could have told me. But you didn’t. All I’ve heard up until this moment, the only reason you’re even here, is because you’re in a jam and you need me to help you out of it. You want all the benefits and none of the responsibilities. And the worst part? You’re so fucking blind, you can’t even see it.”
“No, that’s not—”
“Don’t argue with me when I’m berating you. You think I care what you tell yourself you feel in your heart? What does it matter to me? What matters to me is your actions, John, and your actions are that you gave me an ultimatum, that you left me without looking back, that you’re here today only because you need something from me, and if you’re telling yourself that oh, no, you missed me, you longed for me, that’s why you’re really here, then you’re not just lying to me, you’re lying to yourself, because you can’t face what a selfish, manipulative asshole you really are, and you have to create a pretty fiction to hide from yourself the pathetic, ugly truth.”
I looked around. The people staring went back to their conversations.
“That stings,” I said.
“And why would I care about your feelings?”
“But you know what makes it tolerable?”
She didn’t answer.
“That you’re wrong.”
The waiter came by, probably to check on what all the fuss was. I thought, Well, that’s one way to get a little table service.
“Bring me a glass of Syrah,” Delilah said to him in French. “No, make that a vodka. Belvedere, up, very cold, no garnish.”
“Two,” I said.
He looked at us for a moment as though doubting the wisdom of our order, then nodded and moved off.
She shook her head. “Only an hour, and you’ve driven me to drink.”
“I’ve driven both of us.”
“Yes, it’s you who did that. Do you see how in all these things you make your problems mine?”
I couldn’t tell if she was joking. I decided not.
She looked impatiently at the interior window to the front room, beyond which was the bar. “What if I told you it’s too late for us?” she said.
I looked away, feeling something tighten in my chest. “Then I’d live with that sadness forever. And I’d never stop missing you. And what we had together. And I’d never stop regretting what an idiot I must have been to fuck it up.”
“You’re not going to make me feel guilty about that. You caused it. It’s yours to live with.”
The waiter brought our drinks. Delilah lifted hers and, without bothering with any kind of toast, promptly drained half of it. She closed her eyes and shuddered, a reaction that reminded me—unfortunately, given the fraught moment—of the way she sometimes looked when she came.
I drained half my glass as she had. Three espressos and a vodka, on jet lag and not a lot of sleep. Especially under the circumstances, this was probably a science experiment I didn’t want to conduct. And yet I didn’t care.
I set down my glass and blew out a long breath, the warmth of the vodka blossoming in my gut. “I’m not trying to make you feel guilty,” I said.
She shook her head. “I’m not even in the life anymore, you idiot. Not really. What you said you wanted . . . all you had to do was wait. But you wouldn’t. How can a man who has such patience in his work be so impatient in his personal life?”
“I don’t know,” I told her truthfully.
“But there has to be an answer. Were you just looking for a way out because you were bored?”
“No.”
“Then what? Were you trying to sabotage yourself? Sabotage us?”
“I don’t know. All I can tell you is that . . . all the patience I’ve developed in my work, and my life . . . and all the precision, and logic, and self-control . . . it’s just not there with you. I wish it were, but it isn’t.”
We were quiet for a moment. She finished her vodka, closed her eyes and shuddered again, and said, “What if I told you I’m seeing someone?”
For whatever stupid reason—fear or denial or narcissism—I hadn’t anticipated that. I felt the tightness in my chest again.
“I’d ask if it was serious.”
“And if I told you it is?”
Once upon a time, I would have wanted to kill whoever it was. Literally. Eliminate the threat.
But suddenly, I felt only sad. Of course she was seeing someone. Had I really expected this vital, cosmopolitan, gorgeous woman to be waiting around for whenever I was done sulking?
I finished my vodka. “Then I guess I’d say I deserved it. And . . . I would try to be happy for you.”
We were quiet again.
“Are you?” I said.
“Am I what?”
“Seeing someone.”
“Yes.”
Fuck.
“And . . . is it serious?”
She waited a long time before saying, “Not like you and I were serious.”
The contours of the room had picked up a nice patina. The conversations around us were cocooned in a gentle hum. I realized I was quite buzzed. And maybe it was the vodka, or maybe it was the last thing she had said, or maybe I just didn’t give a shit any longer about circumlocutions or protecting myself or dignity or whatever. I looked in her eyes and said, “Take me to your apartment.”
She shook her head. “Oh my God, the nerve of you.”
“I don’t care. Make love to me. This morning. On your bed. With the light coming through those gauzy curtains. The way we used to.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“I’m too angry at you, for one thing.”
“Take your anger out on me.”
She looked at me, and I could see she wanted to. The warmth in my gut got hotter. I felt a pleasant stirring somewhere south of that.
“This much anger I don’t think you could handle.”
“But you said it yourself. It’s my fault. So it should be my risk.”
She shook her head, her eyes narrow, her nostrils flared. Then she grabbed me by the back of the head and pulled me in and kissed me passionately, even savagely. I kissed her back just as hard, my hands on her face, gripping her tightly, holding her close, determined not to ever let her go again.
She broke the kiss and looked at me. “I hate you,” she said.
“I love you,” I said back.
There was a quiet round of applause around us. I looked up and saw the other patrons smiling and clapping.
I wanted her so much I didn’t even care. “Come on,” I said. I threw down some euros, grabbed her by the hand, and pulled her from behind the table.
Out on the sidewalk, she said, “Wait.
Where are you staying?”
“Around the corner. L’Hôtel.”
“Take me there. My apartment is too far.”
What the hell, I thought. We’ll find something else for Livia and Dox.
chapter
thirty-eight
DELILAH
After they had made love, John passed out almost instantly. “But wake me in an hour, okay?” he’d said, lying on his back while she looked at him from her side. “I have to meet the others.”
She watched as he struggled to keep his eyes open, trying and failing not to feel tender toward him. “You should sleep longer.”
He shook his head. “After the meeting. I don’t know where I’ll stay, though. With five of us, it’s going to be crowded.”
She punched him lightly on the shoulder. “You’re an idiot.”
He was asleep a moment later.
She set an alarm, and for a while, she dozed herself. She felt peaceful. She wasn’t angry at herself for giving in. It had been too good for that, so good that for the moment, she didn’t even care what it meant or what would come after.
You’ll figure it out, she thought. What, did someone tell you it was going to be easy with a man like this? And come on, be honest. You’re not always the easiest person yourself.
She heard a key slide into the door lock. But they’d locked the door from the inside. The person tried again.
Delilah got up, grabbed a robe from the bathroom, and went to the door. She looked through the peephole and saw an attractive Asian woman, midthirties, casual in cargo pants and a flannel shirt over a tee shirt. It had to be this Livia.
“Yes?” Delilah said quietly, wanting to be sure.
“Oh,” the woman said, obviously confused and playing catch-up. “I’m—I can come back.”
Delilah smiled. No question.
She unlocked and opened the door. “It’s okay,” she said softly. “It’s your room. I’m sorry for intruding.” She held out her hand. “I’m Delilah.”
The woman nodded. “Livia,” she said, and they shook. “But it’s really no trouble, I can come back.”
Delilah glanced back. John was still sleeping. Which was extraordinary. He had always been one of the lightest sleepers she had ever known. For him to be out this cold suggested an exceptional level of exhaustion.
And, she supposed, an exceptional level of trust.
“It’s okay,” Delilah said. “He told me to wake him soon anyway. The meeting. Come in, you probably want to freshen up after the trip. I don’t think he’ll be disturbed. I’ve never seen him sleep this deeply.”
“I can just splash some water on my face downstairs,” Livia said. “You two . . . you could probably use some time alone.”
“We’ll have a chance for that later. Come on, I don’t want to feel like I’m keeping you out of your own room. Why don’t you use the bathroom if you like, and I’ll get dressed out here?”
Livia took her bag in with her, and less than ten minutes later opened the door wearing a new tee shirt, her hair wet and combed back. The mirror was fogged from the shower. “Thanks,” she said quietly, stepping out. “It’s all yours if you want it.”
She was pretty, Delilah thought. Not quite beautiful, but that might have been because of the shapeless clothes and the complete lack of makeup. If she’d been working any kind of con on Dox or the others, she wasn’t doing it by playing to her looks, though she probably could have if she’d wanted to. But there was something about her, no doubt. A strength, or an intelligence . . . a quality of intensity. It would be interesting to see how she interacted with the others.
“Thank you,” Delilah said. “I’ll just be a minute. You should stay not too close to the bed in case he wakes.”
“What do you mean?”
Delilah had once made the mistake of waking John by shaking him. His reaction had been instantaneous and violent. He’d pulled back somehow, and hadn’t hurt her, but he’d been horrified by what had happened. He blamed himself, but in fact, Delilah realized afterward that she should have known. With the kind of life John had led, a surprise when he was vulnerable would of course produce an extreme defensive response.
Delilah glanced over to him, then back to Livia. “He can wake badly.”
“Ah,” Livia said, and Delilah had the strange sense that the woman knew exactly what that was like, and what might cause it. Then she added, “Are you coming to the meeting?”
Delilah looked at John again, then gestured that Livia should join her in the bathroom. Livia stepped inside and Delilah closed the door behind them. “Sorry,” she said. “I don’t want to disturb him.”
And I might as well take the opportunity to get to know you a little better, too.
“Of course,” Livia said.
“Anyway, the meeting. Yes, I think I ought to be there.”
Livia nodded. “Rain and Dox speak very highly of you.”
Delilah wiped the mirror with a washcloth. Their lovemaking had been intense, and a few minor touchups to her makeup and hair wouldn’t have hurt. But she didn’t want to do it in front of this woman.
She turned to Livia. “And John of you. He told me this is about a child-pornography ring.”
“And the people trying to cover it up.”
“He said you showed him a video from the site.”
Livia looked at her, a touch of wariness in her eyes. “That’s right.”
“I’d be curious to see it, too.”
“I can show you right now if you like.”
“No, later is fine.”
“Are you sure? It’s easy to lose sight of what’s at stake in these things.”
Was that a challenge? “Yes, it sounds like you’ve done well at keeping everyone focused.”
“I’m just a Seattle cop,” the woman said. “Not a global-intelligence operative. But I always appreciate when people have the balls to say what’s really on their mind. Is it not the same for you?”
Delilah watched her, and couldn’t help feeling a degree of grudging respect. Along with a measure of resentment.
She glanced at the door, behind which was John, presumably still passed out on the bed. “I hope I won’t sound callous in saying this,” she said. “No, actually, I don’t care how I sound. What I care about is that man out there. It’s been a difficult road for us. An improbable one. For a while, I lost him. And now he’s here again, and maybe we have another chance. Maybe. And the first thing I learn is that he might be risking his life in someone else’s battle? Someone I don’t know, who I’ve never heard of? Do you think that makes me happy? Do you think it makes me feel like some sort of ally to you? Grateful to you?”
Livia didn’t respond, and Delilah went on. “I understand there’s a threat,” she said. “To all of you. All right, eliminate the threat, it’s what John does. But don’t complicate the mission. Don’t turn it into something these men have no experience in and no stake in. Don’t turn your own battle into someone else’s.”
Livia remained silent. Her respiration didn’t pick up, her color didn’t change, she didn’t even blink. Again, Delilah felt the grudging respect. Whatever else might be true, this woman was tough.
Finally, she said, “It’s sad you think of child rape as my battle. Not as yours. Not as everyone’s.”
“I meant—”
“I know what you meant. And it’s okay. If the cruelty and depravity traded in on sites like Child’s Play don’t concern you, then they don’t.”
“No. I didn’t say they don’t concern me. I said they’re not my war. There are many things that concern me that I don’t go to war over. And I’ve been at war. A real war. But do you hear me demanding that you join me and fight in it?”
“I’m not talking about geopolitics. I’m talking about children. For me, the war to protect children from predators is a war everyone should fight.”
“No. Not John. He’s fought in enough wars. And almost died in them.”
“Look, you know him better than
I do. But the way you talk about him, it’s like you think I used some Jedi mind trick to cloud his brain. I told him—I told all of them—straight up that for me this wasn’t just about saving my own skin. And if that’s all it was for them, and they didn’t care about the people who were making and trading videos of children being raped and tortured, then I was out. I put my cards on the table. I didn’t manipulate anyone.”
Delilah could have pointed out that in some circumstances, putting your cards on the table could be the most powerful manipulative technique of all. But what would have been the point? The woman was obviously a zealot.
“And one other thing,” Livia said. “Dox, Rain, all of them—they’ve done a lot for me. Dox especially. But it’s not a one-way street. Oliver Graham tried to blow up Rain with a helicopter and rockets before Rain had ever even heard my name.”
“Yes, John pointed that out, too. But it was because Graham wanted you dead. And John wouldn’t go along with it.”
Livia smiled. “Do you think he should have?”
Delilah didn’t respond. She realized the woman had been leading her to this point. She’d anticipated it several moves back and set it up nicely.
“Do you wish he had?” Livia said.
The truth was, there was a part of Delilah that did wish it. But then, she supposed, John would never have contacted her. And they wouldn’t have been presented with this unlikely second chance.
But it wasn’t just that. Wishing John had killed this woman, who seemed innocent of everything except an excess of self-righteousness . . . no. It was one thing to feel the shadow of such a thing. To give over to it completely would be perverse. And irrevocable.
“You must be quite an interrogator,” Delilah said.
“I do all right.”
“Why don’t you show me that video?”
“You don’t have to. Especially if you’re going to claim later that I used it to manipulate you.”
“I’m not going to claim anything. I’m going to help you. It’s not in me to ignore it when John and Dox are at risk.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m not doing it for you.”
“But I stand to benefit.”
“And so do a lot of children, I suppose.”