by Barry Eisler
But we stayed at the bug-out point only briefly. There were sirens everywhere, and Delilah insisted the safest place would be her apartment. I didn’t want to agree—we had made enough trouble for her already—but I knew she was right. Witness accounts were apt to be fragmentary and confused, but we couldn’t count on that. We needed to debrief, and doing it anywhere in public, or in one of our hotel rooms, where we would have to get past a front desk and security cameras, would be risky. So we split up and headed separately to Delilah’s place.
It might have felt strange to be back in her apartment with so much company, but I was too concerned about what had happened at Piano Vache to be much struck by that. What mattered was that it was a quiet building on a quiet street. There were no security cameras, and we had drifted up the staircase one at a time without so much as running into a neighbor.
Horton was being stoic, but I could tell he was shaken. He had trained and molded Treven, mentored and promoted him, and viewed his prodigy with justified pride. But there had also been a complicated paternal dynamic in their relationship, with Horton a manipulative and exploitive father as well as a protective and caring one. He was grappling with grief, of course, but it was grief marred by guilt.
Figuring out how it had happened was easy. Everyone agreed with Delilah’s initial assessment, which was bolstered by the number of operatives who had converged on the bar. With a bench of sixteen, they could have had people at all times on the streets parallel and perpendicular to Treven’s position—a kind of roving mesh. And every time he stopped or turned or doubled back, the mesh could have reconstituted around him. And then, when it became clear he was no longer moving, the mesh began to tighten.
And figuring out what had happened was mostly a matter of stitching together our individual perspectives. The more difficult question was why. I had agreed with Horton’s initial assessment—that it wouldn’t make sense for Treven or anyone else to use the meeting for an ambush because it was unlikely more than one of us would have been there. And as someone whose survival had always depended on an outsized ability to put myself in the shoes of the opposition and predict their next move, I was more than perplexed that I’d gotten it wrong this time. I was spooked.
As it happened, Livia supplied the winning insight. Looking at no one in particular and speaking so softly the rest of us had to lean in to hear better, she said, “I think we got lucky. Well, the rest of us, obviously.”
I shook my head, not sure what she meant. “Sure, but . . .”
“What I mean,” she went on, “is that what happened was almost what was supposed to happen.”
Dox looked at her. “How do you mean?”
She waited a moment, as though still puzzling it out, then said, “I think Horton and Treven were supposed to see the first two, and see them calling for backup. And I think seeing that the opposition had just called for backup was supposed to make Horton and Treven call for their backup, too.”
Everyone was quiet for a moment, processing that. I said, “Because they knew we almost certainly wouldn’t risk a meeting with more than one, or at most two, of us.”
Livia nodded. “Right.”
I was starting to see it. “But they could also be confident that the rest of us would be deployed nearby. And that if we thought we’d miscalculated—and Horton and Treven were in danger—we’d come running.”
Dox said, “That’s why they had so many. It wasn’t just the mesh surveillance. It was also they knew if things went as planned they’d be engaging all of us.”
I was seeing it now. But I’d learned it was better to let other people contribute. I said, “So what went wrong?”
Dox glanced at Larison. “A little something called the angel of death, I’d say.”
“That’s right,” Horton said. “That’s it. Ben and I were supposed to see the first operative talking into his lapel. I wondered about it at the time, but only half-consciously because so many other things were happening and so fast. But you don’t need to dip your head for these mics, they’re already sensitive enough to pick up a damn whisper. We were supposed to see that man calling for backup. And if that alone didn’t get us to call for our own backup, the next two bad guys showing up would have. But they didn’t show up. Thank you for that, Daniel.”
Larison nodded once in acknowledgment.
“There’s something else,” Livia said.
We all looked at her. Everyone was attentive—she was obviously an exceptional tactician—but with Dox it was more than that. It was pride. And pleasure. And devotion.
It was love.
I hoped he was going to be okay. There were depths to Livia, obviously. Dark depths. Lovestruck as he was, I wasn’t sure Dox could see them. Or, even if he could see them, understand what they were.
But one worry at a time.
Livia looked at each of us. “They weren’t that good,” she said. “At least, not all of them.”
Larison nodded, and I knew he’d had the same impression. And now that we were talking about it, I realized I’d been vaguely conscious of the same thing. But I was so relieved that we’d come through a serious ambush with only one loss that emotion was occluding my insight.
“I think you’re right,” I said. “But tell me what you saw.”
She shrugged. “As soon as it wasn’t going the way they’d planned, they panicked. Most of their shooting was spray and pray. It was lucky the civilians coming out of the bar were behind them, or there would have been a lot of casualties. But they weren’t hitting us, either. Now, some of that is because we caught them off guard, with Dox and Larison moving in from the sides while I engaged from above. But I’ve seen gangbangers shoot. And those guys—at least the ones outside the bar, I don’t know about the ones who went in—were amateurs, not pros.”
It occurred to me that Livia, who had dropped four of the attackers, seemed not terribly troubled by it. Most cops might have felt their involvement had crossed a line. Apparently, wherever Livia lived in relation to that line, she was accustomed to both sides of it.
“The ones inside were good,” Horton said. “It’s just that Ben was better.”
“Not quite better enough,” Larison said.
“He was looking to make sure none of the civilians had been hit!” Horton hissed, rising half out of his seat. “About the last thing in the world you would ever give a damn about!”
“Maybe,” Larison said, eyeing him coolly. “Then again, I’m still around to be criticized for it.”
“You’re a goddamn sociopath is what you are,” Horton said, coming to his feet. “And I’ll tell you something else—”
“No,” I said. “That’s enough.”
“He’s not a sociopath,” Dox said quietly, eyeing Larison with a look no one would ever want to be on the wrong end of. “He’s just rude. And callous at the wrong time. And I for one would appreciate it if he would knock it the fuck off.”
There was a tense silence. Horton returned to his seat.
Larison looked at him. “Treven wasn’t my favorite guy,” he said. “But . . . that wasn’t fair. I’m sorry.”
Horton nodded.
Livia, probably recognizing it would be useful to move the conversation along, said, “Delilah, you made the first two as former military or police.”
Delilah nodded. “Of course, I can’t be sure. But the way they were checking out the restaurants . . . there was an air of authority. Like these were men accustomed to clearing rooms, or going into residences to arrest suspects and collect evidence. Criminals look like they’re casing a place. Cops and soldiers look like they think they own it.”
“So a mix,” Horton said. “A few pros, and a lot of amateurs. Why?”
“Graham’s bench might not be that deep out here,” I said. “Maybe he didn’t want to risk his own security detail. And maybe the pros he managed to assemble wanted a few expendable hired guns in the mix. More firepower on their side, and a few pawns to be sacrificed as needed.”
&n
bsp; “They did manage to get two more in while we were engaging the others,” Larison said. “Presumably, those second two would have been pros, because they were trying to help their comrades.” He looked at Horton and added, “Also, they must have been good if they got Treven.”
We were quiet again.
I considered. Horton had already briefed us on what Treven had told him, but we were missing something, and I wanted to recap. I said, “Treven told you the ‘intel’ about the lunch at Le Grand Véfour was a setup.”
Horton nodded. “That’s right.”
“Okay,” I said. “But now it seems the real setup was the meeting itself.”
Horton nodded again. “Agreed.”
“Graham didn’t trust Treven to sell us on the restaurant,” I said. “Or, even if Graham did trust him, he knew we wouldn’t.”
They were all quiet, waiting to see where I was going with this. I wasn’t sure myself. But . . . it felt like something.
“The point is,” I said, “Graham didn’t trust Treven. The things Graham told him, he didn’t care if we knew. Or he wanted us to know.”
We were quiet again. I said, “So . . . what didn’t Treven know? What didn’t he tell you? What was Graham keeping from him, because Graham doesn’t want us to know it?”
Dox said, “You mean like a known unknown?”
I nodded. “I’m hoping we don’t have any unknown unknowns.”
“The hotel,” Horton said. “He didn’t have anything specific on that. Just that Graham liked the bar and did a lot of business in the hotel. But he also warned me not to try anything there because there’s too much security. Now, ordinarily, the more cynical among us”—he glanced at Larison—“might have surmised that Ben was employing some kind of reverse psychology there. But I’d have to say that Ben has now tragically proven his bona fides.”
“Agreed,” I said. “The hotel’s not a dangle. As you say, what Treven offered was just what he knew generally, nothing operational. Beyond which, Treven’s general observation tracks with Kanezaki’s more detailed information.”
“On the other hand,” Dox said, “if Treven was right and the hotel really is that tough to crack, we might now be in a plan-B situation. Especially with Graham on high alert after his failed ambush. But no matter how careful he’s being, I doubt he’ll be able to resist at least a brief look at the beautiful skyline from his fabulous suite. So if one of Horton’s contacts or Kanezaki can get me a rifle, I’m sure I can find an appropriate rooftop of Paris from which to send him our best.”
Delilah said, “Can Kanezaki get us anything more specific about the hotel?”
I looked at her, hoping she could help, feeling guilty at the notion. And worried, as well. She hadn’t engaged at Piano Vache. She hadn’t even been armed. Her cover, and everything it offered, was too important. But anything could have happened there. And the more involved she became, the more likely “anything” would become, too.
“What do you have in mind?” I said.
“We know how much Graham appreciates blondes,” she said. “And we know about the mistress. Dominique Deneuve. Whatever business Graham has in the hotel, according to Kanezaki, she would be part of it, is that correct?”
I nodded.
“Well,” she said, “what would happen if Ms. Deneuve were unable to play her customary role? And Mr. Graham were to meet another blonde, instead?”
“Oh, Delilah,” Dox said. “I think you might be even more devious than you are beautiful.”
Delilah gave Dox a smile, which quickly faded. She looked at me. “There’s just one small complication,” she said.
chapter
forty-three
DELILAH
The following evening, Delilah was in the Hemingway Bar at the Ritz. She preferred the Ritz Bar, which in her opinion was better lit and infinitely more chic, directly across from it. But this was work, and her preferences didn’t matter. What mattered was that for whatever reason, Graham was a devotee of the self-consciously masculine atmosphere of the Hemingway Bar, with its heavy paneling and hunting trophies and eponymous memorabilia all over the walls. And she had to admit that Kent, louche in his perfectly tailored camel-hair jacket and sipping his Gordon’s martini, certainly looked at ease there. But looking at ease was only part of it. He had a role to play, too, and he was playing it just a little too well.
He’d been happy enough when she’d called and asked him to visit her in Paris. “I could be there tomorrow,” he’d said, a hint of lasciviousness present at the edges of his otherwise impeccable British boarding-school accent.
“In fact,” Delilah had said, “that’s when I need you.”
“Need me? Hmm, scratch tomorrow, I’m on my way now.”
“Kent. It’s not like that. It’s professional. A professional favor.”
“Ah. I see. Well, why don’t I help you with the business, whatever it is, and dinner at my hotel afterward?”
She never let him stay with her when he visited, preferring the control—and, she knew, the lesser intimacy—of confining their time to his rented spaces and away from the one she lived in.
“I can’t. I need you for just a few hours, and I can’t see you after that. Not this time. I’m sorry.”
He was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “That’s all right. I’m happy to help. Just don’t apologize, all right? Unless you’re trying to make me feel pathetic.”
She felt a pang of remorse at that. The problem was, she liked Kent. He was intelligent, he had a rakish charm, and, though in some respects he could be self-absorbed, in bed he was anything but. But he had never been more than a convenience for her, while increasingly, for him, Delilah was a priority. And now she was taking advantage of that unstable dynamic, to his detriment.
She didn’t want to tell him more than what was operationally necessary, but she had to be realistic, too. He was a professional; it was possible he would use MI6 to find out if anything was known about what VIPs were staying at the Ritz, in which case he would learn Graham was the target. Or he might recognize Graham without any input from the organization. It was even possible he’d worked with Graham, in which case the op would have been compromised before it even got started.
She’d floated the idea with the team, and they all agreed that to get the theatrics right, they needed a man. Since all of them were known to Graham and his security team, that meant an outsider. Kent, who was both a professional and someone she knew personally, would do nicely. His MI6 affiliations were a risk, and so was briefing him on the identity of the target, but the alternatives were worse.
John, she could tell, had been struggling with the decision. He’d gone along with it because nothing else made sense. But later, when everyone else had curled up on her two couches or on the living-room floor, and she and John were alone in her bedroom, he had asked if this Kent was the man she had told him about, the one she was seeing. She acknowledged he was, to which Rain responded with a silent nod.
“Are you jealous?” she asked.
“What do you think?”
“I can’t tell with you. You hide your feelings too well. Or else you don’t have any.”
“Yes. I’m jealous.”
“Good. It’s been a long time since you appreciated me.”
He shook his head. “No. I’ve always appreciated you. I was just too stupid to show it.”
“Don’t be sweet with me. I haven’t forgiven you yet.”
He smiled. “Do you have any more anger you need to get out?”
She tried not to smile back, but couldn’t stop herself. “Come here, idiot,” she’d said, and they made love again, quietly, so as not to disturb the others.
But now Kent was being petulant, demanding to know where things stood between them, and whether they were going to see each other after this, and a dozen other items she didn’t want to talk or even think about.
Delilah glanced at the entrance. They were sitting beside each other on one of the cushioned benches at t
he back of the bar, with a nice view of both rooms. “I can’t tell if this is part of tonight’s performance,” she said, “or if you mean it.”
“Perhaps it’s both. Perhaps I’m a method actor.”
“Just don’t forget your lines.”
“No need to worry about that. This role you’ve assigned me has come to feel like second nature. And what about you? You look ravishing, and you know it. But is it for my benefit, or for your quarry?”
She had worn a slim-fitting, short-sleeved black lace midi with a scooped back, along with a gold cashmere shawl for the cool evening air. The outfit was keyed to casual with minimal jewelry and makeup: Mansoor & Gore opal-and-gold earrings, a vintage hammered-gold bracelet, a touch of eyeliner and lipstick. The look was still more than she would ordinarily have chosen for a bar, but it was important for Graham to see what she might look like at an elegant dinner. So yes, of course tonight it was for Graham’s benefit, and Kent ought to have known that. She still couldn’t tell how much of what he was doing was real, and how much the role.
A heavyset man in a dark suit walked in, stopped, and scanned the room. He was wearing a wire-line earpiece. Security, obviously, but for whom?
His eyes lingered on Delilah for a moment, then moved on. It was all right. Bodyguards stared at her all the time. They just never saw what they should have.
The guard spoke into a lapel mic. A minute later, Oliver Graham strode in. She hadn’t needed any special research to recognize him; the man was in the news often enough, giving regular interviews about how much more efficiently America could fight its wars if the Pentagon would turn them over to the private sector. He looked fit in a tailored navy blazer with a cinnamon windowpane, and, she couldn’t deny, he was attractive, with a good jaw and cheekbones and sandy hair fading to silver at the temples. He was with another man, older and heavier, who looked more corporate, his jacket of good material but hanging lifelessly off his shoulders.
The bartender saw him and said, “Welcome back, Mr. Graham, always a pleasure to have you here.”
“Colin,” Graham said, walking over and shaking the man’s hand, “good to see you.”