The Chaos Kind

by Barry Eisler

  There was more shouting. Dox started to turn. The two men brought up their pistols—

  Larison capped each of them in the back of the head, the two shots so rapid it sounded like a double tap. The lobby erupted in screaming and Dox and Manus spun and brought up pistols—Dox, the Wilson; Manus, presumably something he took from the guy he’d killed. They saw it was Larison and checked their flanks.

  Dox turned to Manus. “I’ll get the woman. You two git!”

  Larison scanned the lobby. Pandemonium. People stampeding toward the exit. “What if there are—”

  “I’ll handle it. Just go!”

  Dox strode into the restaurant. Larison thought, Fuck that. He caught up to Manus and looked inside. For a second, he thought the place was empty. Then he realized—everyone had taken cover under the tables.

  Dox looked back at him. “Get the van!” he said. “I told you, I got this!”

  Larison scanned the room. He didn’t see any problems but didn’t want to leave. But Dox was right. More important to have the van running and ready to go.

  “Watch his back,” he said to Manus, and he was surprised to realize he trusted Manus to do it. “I’ll be in the van, right outside the entrance.”

  chapter

  thirty-four

  DOX

  Dox glanced around the restaurant. There wasn’t a person to be seen. Everyone was sheltering under the tables, even the waitstaff.

  He thought about calling Hamilton’s name, but with all the shooting and panic she must have been terrified. What was she going to do? Stand up and say, Oh, here I am!

  One of the tables by the windows had a laptop open on it alongside a sheaf of papers. Someone had been working there, obviously. Next to it was a half-eaten salad. Dox thought of the thin woman in the law firm website photo. He hustled over to the table and squatted next to it. There she was, shrunk back against the wall, looking at him fearfully.

  “Sharon Hamilton?” he said, extending his hand. “Come with me if you want to live. Hah, I always wanted to say that. I loved it in those Terminator movies.”

  She shook her head and pressed herself harder against the wall. Well, so much for breaking the ice with humor.

  “My name’s Dox,” he said. “I’m with Alondra Diaz. She’s waiting outside. She was going to come in herself, but there were people here to ambush you and things got a little crazy. Anyway, they can’t harm anyone anymore, but there are others where they came from. You need to trust me, all right?”

  She shook her head again.

  “Ma’am, I’m not here to hurt you. I’m a friend. And with the people you’ve pissed off with those videos, believe me, you need one.”

  She looked at him. He extended his hand further.

  This time, she took it.

  chapter

  thirty-five

  HOBBS

  I don’t care what the media claims,” Hobbs said, his breath fogging in the cold night air. “And the crazies are going to believe whatever they like, facts be damned. I’m just telling you, I spoke with Judge Ricardo personally. No one presented him with an application for Schrader’s release. He didn’t issue a court order. The courts, and the DOJ, had nothing to do with it. The question is, who did?”

  He and Devereaux were strolling on the Mall near the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, their security details paralleling them front and back in the dark. The meeting had been Devereaux’s idea—he said he didn’t trust the secure phones, but Hobbs suspected it was because the man had grown so paranoid he was afraid anything said on the phone might be recorded by the other party. Certainly the same thought had crossed Hobbs’s mind, and more than once.

  “Rispel believes it was the Russians,” Devereaux said. “Or possibly the Chinese.”

  “Do we have actual evidence of that?”

  “No evidence to the contrary.”

  They passed a knot of protesters. Their signs were backlit by the lamps lining the Reflecting Pool, and Hobbs couldn’t read them. But the Deep state protects pedophiles chants were clear enough. He felt vaguely sorry for them. Of course there was a “deep state,” or whatever else people might want to call it—not just in America but in every country. How could a society function without a semipermanent core of experts committed to stable governance? As for “protecting pedophiles,” the fact that these people genuinely believed such a thing was real was proof of the need for a club of pragmatic insiders. No one was trying to protect pedophiles. People were simply trying to protect themselves—and by extension, of course, the country.

  When they were out of earshot, Devereaux said, “What about Hamilton?”

  “No one can reach her. Not even her law firm. Have you tried—”

  “Of course. She was using her cellphone heavily at the Seattle Four Seasons until early afternoon, West Coast time.”

  “My lord. You mean—”

  “Yes,” Devereaux said. “Where there were more killings today. Her cellphone history shows calls to the Federal Detention Center, the Seattle District Court, and her law firm. Presumably she was as stunned as everyone else by her client’s mysterious release and was trying to figure out what the hell was going on.”

  For the thousandth time that day, Hobbs thought, How could this have happened?

  “Any other calls?”

  Devereaux shook his head. “Some incomings from Diaz, and from another number we can’t pin down. But Hamilton is nowhere to be found. And Diaz is also missing.”

  “Can you track the phone?”

  “No. It’s either destroyed or in a Faraday case. I don’t know what the hell to make of this, I really don’t.”

  They walked in silence for a moment. There had to be a way to manage this. There had to be.

  “All right, look,” Hobbs said. “I’m just a lawyer. You’re the director of National Intelligence. You tell me it’s Russia, okay, I’ll go with Russia. But we need something. Even if it’s only to feed the media. Justice is facing a ton of questions, and I can’t keep dodging reporters.”

  Hobbs heard a cellphone buzz. His, or Devereaux’s? He reached into his coat pocket to check and saw Devereaux doing the same.

  There was a text message. Hobbs didn’t recognize the number, but there was a photo attached. For some reason, he felt suddenly queasy. Devereaux was looking intently at his own phone. He must have received a message, too.

  He punched in his passcode and the message opened. It was a photo of an empty room. It looked familiar. He wasn’t sure why.

  Then he realized. It was the guest room in Schrader’s Kiawah Island mansion. The one where Hobbs had . . . where he had . . .

  His heart started pounding and a wave of dizziness washed over him. He fought to conceal the reaction. And then realized that Devereaux was paying him no attention at all. Because the man was so focused on a text message of his own.

  He looked back to his phone. There was something printed below the photo. It said, The next transmission won’t be an empty photo. It will be video! With people in it. And it won’t be released just to you. Live and let live. With a little smiley face at the end.

  No, he thought. Lord, no. It was perfectly horrible. And somehow, the smiley face made it worse.

  Devereaux turned away. Hobbs thought he was trying to shield his expression. But then the man doubled over and vomited.

  For whatever reason, it was comforting to know it wasn’t just him. That his suspicions about Devereaux had been right. And that, for whatever it was worth, Devereaux at least wouldn’t be able to judge him.

  Devereaux stood and wiped his chin. His security detail had closed in, and Devereaux waved them away.

  “I didn’t know,” he said. “I thought . . . they told me she was eighteen.”

  Hobbs knew it was the truth. Because they’d told him the same thing. Or had they? Had he just assumed? It didn’t matter. He was afraid to answer.

  “Don’t be an asshole,” Devereaux said. “I saw your face. You got one, too.”

 
Hobbs was too rattled to deny it.

  “Is the president really part of this?” Devereaux said. “And his predecessor?”

  Hobbs felt a renewed wave of panic. “Of course he is.”

  “Stop lying to me, you grubby little prick.”

  Hobbs realized it didn’t matter anymore. “I had to,” he said. “You wouldn’t have helped me.”

  “I’m helping you now.”

  “I didn’t know before . . . that you had a personal stake in this, too.”

  “You made it all up. The president. Both parties. ‘It isn’t about the players, it’s about the whole game.’”

  “The president isn’t involved. Or his predecessor. As far as I know. But the rest is true. You think you and I are the only ones implicated?”

  They were quiet for a moment. Hobbs said, “What are we going to do?”

  Devereaux spat. “I don’t know.”

  They walked in silence again, past the protesters, past the skeletal trees. Hobbs heard a police siren in the distance, then a helicopter overhead. The chants of the protesters faded behind them. Somehow, the shadows were comforting. He wished he could just keep walking. In the dark. Where no one could see him.

  “I’m thinking,” Devereaux said. “Rispel might have a point. All of this . . . It does have the classic signs of a Russian active-measures campaign. Fake news, disseminated by our adversaries.”

  Hobbs felt a stirring of hope. He didn’t give a damn that it was horseshit. It was the kind of thing the media would eat up and disseminate, and for the moment that was all that mattered. “And if something comes out about the . . . blackmail?”

  “You mean kompromat. Another hallmark of Kremlin active measures.”

  The buzzwords would do the job, all right. Everyone knew the best disinformation campaigns in the world were American ones masquerading as Russian, and the con would never get old. But still.

  “Kompromat,” Hobbs said. “Fine. Maybe we can mitigate. But how do we get back on offense?”

  Devereaux nodded. “I . . . suggested a contractor to Rispel. Someone named Manus. I thought he would be deniable. And disposable. But I think . . . Rispel may have turned him.”

  Hobbs was horrified. How off course had this thing gotten? And how were they going to straighten it back out?

  “What are you telling me?” he said. “Rispel is playing a separate game?”

  “Maybe.”

  Hobbs said nothing. He thought it might be his turn to puke. He breathed deeply for a moment, the cold air calming him somewhat. After a moment, he said, “Then what the hell do we do?”

  Devereaux paused, then nodded as though confirming an internal judgment call. He looked at Hobbs. “Manus has people he cares about. Maybe . . . maybe there’s a way we can get him back onside.”

  chapter

  thirty-six

  EVIE

  Evie was grading tests in her office while she waited for Dash. Cross-country practice wasn’t over yet, but the light outside was already fading. Autumn was always a sad time of year for her—the days so short, and still getting shorter.

  But whenever she was feeling blue, she reminded herself of all there was to be thankful for. And there really was a lot. First was Dash, of course. Her beautiful boy had become a handsome teenager, with athletic gifts he had inherited from his father more than from her, thank God. He was only in eighth grade but had made the high school cross-country team. The coach wanted him for the 101 weight class on the high school team when wrestling season started, too. And while baseball was his favorite, and Evie knew there was a good chance he’d make that team a year early, too, Dash was nervous. She didn’t think that was a bad thing. Of course, after the meningitis, the deafness, and the divorce, she wanted everything to come easily for him. But she knew it was better that he had to work for it, that he didn’t take anything for granted.

  And while teaching high school math at Dash’s school and computer science at Mount St. Mary’s wasn’t as cutting-edge as what she had been doing at NSA, she was relieved to be clear of her former employer. What had happened there, what Anders and his goon, Delgado, had tried to do to her, still gave her occasional nightmares.

  The saving grace, of course, was Marvin.

  She had never thought of herself as particularly bold in bed, but there was something he brought out in her that she loved to indulge. She didn’t know what caused it. She was attracted to him, no doubt—had been since the first time she’d seen him—but the alchemy had more to do with the effect she had on him. There were times he would look at her, and there was something so primally . . . hungry in his eyes, so beyond his control, that it thrilled her, and filled her with a confidence she’d never known with anyone else.

  And he was so good with Dash. So good for him. Watching him teach Dash how to use tools, how to help build their house, had sometimes moved her so much that she’d had to look away and wipe her eyes. And of course Marvin had taught her, too, and she’d helped out, as well. Which was fun and gratifying. But it was nothing compared to watching the two of them together, experiencing the bond they had. And not just for how much it did for Dash. For what it meant to Marvin, too. She knew the horrible things he had done in the past. She was glad he was different now, glad he was done with that part of himself. With everything about that life. These days, he sometimes felt to her like a giant bear who harbored no ill will toward anyone, and wanted no more than to be left alone.

  But God help anyone who might try to hurt his cub. And she had no problem with that. No problem at all.

  Her phone beeped. She glanced at it, expecting a text from Dash. Instead, it was an alert from the camera network she had installed around the house.

  She was surprised. She’d tested the system, of course, but its AI had been trained to ignore her face, Dash’s, and Marvin’s, and it had never picked up anything else.

  She tapped in her passcode. In the dying light, she saw a man in a UPS uniform standing at the gate to the driveway, holding a package, looking at the house. He checked a tablet as though confirming an address. Behind him was the familiar brown truck. It all looked completely normal. Except that the house was owned by a corporate front a lawyer had helped them set up, and she used the school to receive all their mail and packages. You didn’t have to be former NSA to understand that the first rule of privacy was to ruthlessly separate your residence from your mailing address.

  The man looked around. Anyone who might have been watching would think he was just trying to figure out how to get to the house to drop off the package. But it was doubtful anyone was watching. The property was on five acres at the end of a cul-de-sac. There were only two other driveways, each of which led to houses set back as far as theirs. The rest of the area was surrounded by woods.

  Alongside their driveway was a sign declaring LIBERTY TOWNSHIP CRIME WATCH IN EFFECT. The UPS guy put out a hand and leaned against it, as though trying to see through the trees to the house. Then he shrugged, went back to his truck, and drove away.

  Evie realized her heart was beating hard. Something was wrong. She could feel it.

  She panned the camera and zoomed in on the back of the sign. There was something attached to it. She zoomed more and saw it was a small camera, probably with a magnetic mount.

  It all came flooding back. Delgado, the syringe, the back of the van. His hands on her. His smell. The things he said as he—

  He’s dead, she thought, the words mantra-familiar. You shot him. Marvin split his head with that hatchet. He’s dead.

  She closed her eyes and for a moment just breathed. Okay.

  She reversed the footage. There—the truck license plate. If she’d still been at NSA, she could have run it down in thirty seconds. And tracked the truck’s movements, as well. She suddenly felt helpless.

  She thought of Marvin. He’d been gone for days, working on a construction site near Pittsburgh. He didn’t travel often, but there were crews who would bring him in for jobs involving built-in shelving, whic
h was one of his specialties. Some had in return lent a hand when Marvin had built the house. She knew he wasn’t mixed up with the government anymore. She’d never even worried about it.

  Although this time . . . he’d seemed not himself when he left. Stressed, somehow. Distracted. Still, they’d FaceTimed every night since then, and he’d seemed fine. Was he, though? Maybe she’d been trying to convince herself.

  She tried to tell herself it was nothing. Just a coincidence. Marvin was fine, the camera on the sign was just a way for UPS to know when someone was home, so they could come back later and deliver a package that had been sent to the wrong address . . .

  Her heart started pounding again, and she closed her eyes and breathed deeply for a minute, trying to calm down. It had been years. She’d really believed it was done.

  A text message popped up. Dash. Practice is over. Should I come up? Or meet at the car?

  The parking lot was well lit and there would be lots of people there. Parents waiting for their kids. Kids finishing soccer practice, cross-country practice, other after-school activities. But she was suddenly frightened.

  Meet me up here? she texted back.

  Sure. Be there in five.

  She texted back a thumbs-up emoji. Though she felt anything but.

  What were they going to do? She was afraid to go home. She hated to admit it. But she was afraid.

  She FaceTimed Marvin. He didn’t pick up.

  Shit.

  She suddenly wished they had Find My Friends or some other cellphone tracking app enabled. But she knew too much about how exploitable those features were.

  She texted him. Hey. I’m worried about something and I’m afraid to go home. Can you text or FT me right away?

  She tried to tell herself again that everything was fine, that she was being paranoid.

  But she couldn’t convince herself. Couldn’t even come close.

  chapter

  thirty-seven

  MAYA

  Traffic on the GW Parkway was moving at a crawl, and Maya realized she should have taken Chain Bridge to Canal Road. Her fault for not checking Waze first—an embarrassing lapse for a CIA Science & Technology specialist. Usually she left a lot later, when the Parkway was the fastest route. But at rush hour, apparently it was the slowest.