by Barry Eisler
Why?
I’m not sure. Are you?
No.
Divorced?
No. Never married.
Why not?
He finished his wine and looked into the empty glass. I don’t know. Never met anyone.
She laughed. Me, neither. But I got married anyway.
Manus hesitated, then signed, I like the way you are with your boy. I can tell you’re a good mother.
How?
The way you look at him.
They were quiet again. Manus didn’t feel like he was doing a good job for the director. Worse, he didn’t care.
When he finally glanced up, the woman had finished her wine and was looking at him with a frankness that gave him another adrenaline hit.
Do I make you nervous? she signed.
What? he signed, his heart beating faster. No.
Because I feel like you keep looking away from me.
Flustered, he looked away. Then caught himself and looked back.
Do you want to look at me? she signed.
Manus could feel himself stiffening. He sensed he was losing a game he hadn’t even realized he was playing. He swallowed and tried to think.
Do you? she signed again.
Breathing hard, Manus nodded.
Where?
Manus glanced at the skin above her top button, then back to her eyes.
She touched the spot and raised her eyebrows. Here?
His heart pounding, his head spinning, again Manus nodded.
Still watching him, she closed her fingers around the top button, undid it, and then, with her fingertips, spread the material to each side, exposing the edges of a lacy white bra, the curve of her breasts insanely smooth and full inside it.
Manus couldn’t believe what he was seeing. It was unreal, like something happening to someone else.
She reached across the table and took him gently by the hand, the feeling of her fingers against his intense, almost electric. Manus couldn’t find words. He couldn’t think. All he knew was that he wanted, he needed, to touch her.
She stood, and he allowed her to lead him to a utility room adjacent to the entrance. It was a small space devoted mostly to a washing machine and dryer. The light was on a rheostat. She dimmed it, closed the door, put her hands on Manus’s chest, and eased him back against the door. Manus’s heart was beating combat fast.
He stood there, his hands curled into fists at his sides, wanting, craving her, but at the same time terrified, unsure of what to do. She glanced down, and he could tell from a slight pressure from her hands that she’d seen how hard he was, and the realization was both exciting and horrifying.
She looked up at him again, then took his hands and placed them on her breasts. Manus felt himself moan. He squeezed, careful to be gentle, afraid of how out of control he felt, how confused. Her mouth parted and he could tell she was breathing fast, as fast as he was, and she put her hands over his and she squeezed, too, harder than he had, telling him it was all right, she wanted him to, it was good.
His hands shaking, Manus began to unbutton her shirt. He sensed her watching him but he couldn’t look back. He felt too out of his mind, and he needed to see what he was doing anyway, because suddenly a few shirt buttons seemed to require all his fragmenting concentration. He worked his trembling way down, and when he finally bested the last one, his hands pulled back and floated aimlessly for a moment, trying to say something, ask her something, though he had no idea what.
For a long moment, she just looked at him. Then she reached slowly back with both hands and undid her bra. Manus watched her, his mouth agape, the blood pounding in his head, and then the bra was open and she took his hands and put them under it, and the feel of her breasts, so full and ripe and smooth, was so overwhelming that he could feel tears wanting to well up. She reached for the back of his neck, her palm hot against his skin, and brought his head down. Manus pushed the bra out of the way, closed his mouth over a hard, pink nipple, and sucked. He felt her gasp and he dropped to his knees, his hands and mouth still on her. The shirt fell to the floor beside him, followed a moment later by the bra. He moved to her other breast and she knotted her fingers in his hair and pulled his head closer. He sucked harder, cupping her breasts, squeezing her ass, running his hands along her waist and up her sides, feeling her, wanting her, needing her.
She got on her knees, too, and suddenly he was kissing her, his mouth open, her tongue inside it, and he felt her unbuttoning his shirt and pulling it down over his arms. And then her hands were on his shoulders, his torso, his chest, moving, pressing, and he realized she was exploring his body the way he was hers, and the thought caused a cascade of renewed excitement inside him. She broke the kiss, pushed him back by a shoulder, leaned forward, and closed a mouth over one of his nipples, something no one had ever done to Manus, something he had never even considered, and he was shocked to feel an explosion of pleasure from it. He couldn’t think anymore and didn’t want to, he just needed to be naked, against her, all the way inside her. He pulled her to her feet and fumbled with the button on her pants, but she was faster and got his open first, and pulled them down, his pants and boxers both. Manus stepped out of them and even as he realized what a relief, what a joy it was to be naked, she curled a hand around his cock and squeezed, and the feeling of that obliterated everything else and made his head swim anew. She pulled something from her back pocket and he saw it was a condom, and she opened it and with some difficulty rolled it onto him, and then she pulled off her own pants and her panties and Manus drank in the sight of her body, even smoother, softer than he had imagined, and realizing how much she wanted him was the headiest thing he’d ever known.
He put his hands under her arms and lifted her, carrying her back until her ass bumped against the edge of the washing machine, her feet a few inches off the floor. He held her perched that way for a moment, panting, so engorged it hurt. She curled a hand around his cock again and nodded, and she licked her lips, and she moved him close, and she guided him in.
For a moment, the pleasure was so stunning that Manus didn’t move. He closed his eyes and just felt it, his chest brushing against her breasts, her hands on his back, his cock inside her body. Then she kissed him again and he kissed her back, and then he was moving without even meaning to, he was fucking her and God it was good, and she leaned back and put her elbows on the surface of the machine and slid her hips forward, and Manus lifted her ass and pulled her closer and drove into her, his eyes on her belly, her breasts, her face. She gripped the edge of the machine and pushed back into him in time with his thrusts, her mouth open as though in shock or wonder, and Manus fucked her more deeply, as deeply as he could go, and her mouth opened wider and her eyes squeezed shut and her body shook and Manus could feel her muscles clenching and rippling as he moved back and forth inside her and he realized she was coming, coming because of him, and the thought was obliterated by an explosion of pleasure and he was coming, too, coming inside her and feeling her and watching her and taking her, all of her, her, her, her.
And then the world came back, and she opened her eyes and looked at him, and he could see from the rise and fall of her chest that she was still panting, and he realized so was he. He set her ass gently back on the machine and sagged against her. She crossed her legs around his lower back and held him like that, one hand around his shoulders, the other caressing the back of his head, the fingers running through his hair, her breasts pushing against his chest in time with her decelerating breathing.
When he’d caught his own breath, he pulled back a few inches. She kissed him again, long and tenderly, holding his face in her hands. Then she unwound her legs and gripped the end of the condom as Manus eased back, and when he was out she slid it off and dropped it on the washing machine. Manus put his hands around her waist and lifted her back to the floor.
He stood before her, looking at her body, then her face, shaking his head slowly in amazement. She smiled and glanced at his subsidin
g cock, then signed, I thought you were going to kill me.
He didn’t understand and felt horrified at the thought. What?
She pointed, then signed, You’re big. Very big.
He felt himself redden. Oh.
She laughed. Don’t worry. I liked it.
He hesitated, then signed, I’m glad.
Has it been . . . a long time for you?
He wasn’t sure how to respond. A long time for what?
Since you’ve made love.
He sensed a simple yes would have been the safe answer. Instead, he found himself telling her the truth again.
Never. Not like that.
She raised her eyebrows. You mean on a washing machine?
He shook his head. Just . . . like that.
That’s nice.
It’s true.
So it was good?
Yes. For you?
She laughed again. Could you not tell?
He tried to find words, but nothing came, and his hands drifted aimlessly for a moment. Finally, he managed, Really?
She stroked his cheek and nodded. Yes. It’s been a long time for me.
Why?
I don’t know. I don’t meet that many people. And it’s hard with Dash. There are a lot of creeps out there. But . . . he really likes you. And he has good instincts for people. I think that made me trust you.
Manus looked down, ashamed. She touched his chin gently, and when he looked up, she signed, Am I embarrassing you?
He shook his head.
She smiled. You’re shy, aren’t you?
I’m not sure.
That was just . . . good. So good. I’m sorry if I took advantage of you. I’ve been thinking about it since we met you at the baseball game.
You have?
Why are you surprised? You’re a good-looking guy. And that was so nice, what you did for Dash. At the game. And letting him help you today, too.
He shook his head, her gratitude again making him ashamed.
She touched his cheek. I know I should be a little more coy, but . . . I don’t have time for games. I’d like to see you again. And if that scares you away, or if you’ve already gotten what you wanted, that’s okay, I’d rather know now.
He reached out and touched her face the way she had touched his. And then his hands trailed down her neck, and along her shoulders, and across her breasts. When his fingertips brushed against her nipples, she shivered, and he was instantly hard again.
She glanced down and smiled. I could go get another condom. Or . . . we could do other things.
They wound up doing the other things. For Manus, it was an ongoing revelation.
Anders closed down his monitor, having seen and heard enough. He had of course previously sent a team to black-bag Gallagher’s apartment, a precaution he only wished he had thought to take with Perkins, and naturally had said nothing about it to Manus, who had no need to know. Not that Anders had expected anything like what he had just witnessed. The truth was, he hadn’t realized Manus was even capable of anything like that. Contrary to Remar’s impression, the man was no simple brute, true, but this? Well, maybe he had been watching too many James Bond movies, and had concluded the best way to assess a subject was to take her to bed. Or to a washing machine, as the case may be. Regardless, Anders supposed it was probably all to the good. Gallagher had seemed quite . . . tender with Manus, as well as passionate. If she had developed feelings for the man, and Manus could exploit them, they might well learn more about her state of mind than would otherwise have been possible. He decided it really was a good piece of luck that she had a deaf son. As he had hoped, it was probably part of what had made her open up to Manus in the first place.
For just one moment, he considered the possibility that Manus might actually have developed feelings for Gallagher, but then dismissed the thought. The man was human, yes, and presumably had human physical needs. In fact, Anders knew from spot checks of Manus’s cell phone metadata and geolocation records that from time to time the man availed himself of the services of prostitutes. But actual feelings? Anders tried to imagine it, and couldn’t. The truth was, he had never known anyone who seemed to have less feeling than Manus. It was part of what made Remar so uneasy around him. And of course, it was also part of what made Manus so useful. There was nothing the man couldn’t do, nothing he wouldn’t do, out of loyalty to Anders, the man who had rescued him, raised him, practically created him. What had Remar said? That Manus was like an abused dog, that was it. Devoted to serving his master in whatever his master required.
And that would never change. Anders would never allow it. Because any dog that turned on its master simply needed to be put down.
CHAPTER . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . 22
Anders was in his office at eight o’clock the following morning when he got a call from the Secret Service about an explosion near the White House. He called Remar and told him to have the appropriate units begin scouring recent cell phone activity in the area. Then he called Barbara Stirr, a reliable CNN Pentagon correspondent he regularly used to launder talking points into what people digested as news.
“Barbara,” he said. “General Anders here.”
“General, is this about the explosion? I’m on my way right now. Anything you’d like to share with me on background?”
Anders smiled. He couldn’t remember the last time a reporter had even attempted to ask for something on the record. The understanding was as clear as it was unspoken: You give me the access; I’ll give you the anonymous news reports.
“Nothing formal right now, Barbara, but I can tell you this. Cell phone activity in the area over the last twenty-four hours indicates a jihadist connection.”
“My God. Another ISIS splinter group?”
It was amazing, and gratifying, the longevity of the talking points he fed the press. “Possibly. Or an affiliate, yes.”
“And you were able to identify them by their cell phones?”
That was his opening. “Not as precisely as we’d like. You have to remember, Barbara, people are able to purchase and use cell phones with a great deal of anonymity in this country. By contrast, look at what the government of Pakistan is doing to crack down on terrorism—requiring that everyone who uses a cell phone has registered a fingerprint as a way of denying the terrorists the ability to communicate clandestinely.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Yes, look it up. Very effective program. Well, we do what we can, even with one arm tied behind our back.”
“Anything else you can share?”
“Not at present. But things are moving quickly. I may have more later today.”
“Thank you, sir. And thank you for what you’re doing to keep our country safe.”
He ended the call and turned on CNN, where there was a story about a drone strike in Pakistan—stock footage of a Reaper Unmanned Aerial Vehicle accompanied by a voiceover so neutral it made a weather report sound urgent by comparison. Two minutes later, the drone story was interrupted by a live report—Barbara Stirr, on the street, smoke billowing from the wreckage behind her, sirens wailing in the background and military helicopters circling noisily overhead, the chyron proclaiming dramatically Explosion Near the White House. Anders watched as Stirr got into character, a few area residents doing their bit as extras by standing around with their hands pressed over their mouths in telegenic shock and grief.
“This is Barbara Stirr, CNN Pentagon correspondent, at the scene of an explosion just blocks from the White House. We don’t have reports of casualties yet, though as you can see paramedics are on hand and it’s hard to imagine no one was injured by such a huge blast at morning rush hour. In fact, you can’t help but wonder whether whoever was behind this didn’t time the attack to coincide with rush hour, and administration officials do believe this was the work of ISIS or an affiliated terror group.”
Anders nodded in appreciation of her slight deviation from script—the point about rush hour was
nicely done. In fact, he should have thought of it himself.
The sounds of nearby sirens got louder, then stopped, and the camera swung around to track an Asian woman in a paramedic’s uniform racing toward the scene. “Excuse me,” Stirr called out. “I’m Barbara Stirr, with CNN—can you tell us whether there are casualties?”
The paramedic glanced at Stirr and didn’t even break stride, but for an instant her expression was so pristinely disgusted at the question that Anders couldn’t help but wince. Stirr’s recovery was impressive. She turned to the camera and said, “The paramedics are understandably busy. It looks bad. We’ll all keep hoping for the best and reporting whatever we learn. Barbara Stirr, Pentagon correspondent, CNN.”
Remar came in. He closed the door behind him and strode to Anders’s desk. “Who the hell told Stirr ISIS was behind this?”
Anders leaned back in his chair and patted his stomach. “She said ISIS or an affiliated group.”
“That’s not a difference, Ted. Where’s she getting that?”
“It’s the expected speculation. She could have gotten it anywhere. She could have made it up herself.”
Remar nodded, looking unpersuaded. Anders trusted Remar, of course, trusted him as much as he trusted anyone. But he also sensed there were things Remar . . . might not understand. And that he therefore didn’t need to know.
“The president is convening the National Security Council,” Remar said after a moment. “Situation Room. One hour.”
“Anything from the mobile phone analysis?”
“Yes. Three units in the area, all on watch lists.”
Anders sensed Remar was hoping for some reaction. He saw no need to oblige him. “What else?”
“Several suspicious calls. A mosque in the area. And it looks like one of the units was used to call a prepaid unit attached to the bomb as a detonator. Significant electronic trail to follow. Some pretty sloppy jihadists, I’d say. It’s almost like they want to get caught.”
“Maybe it’s just their way of letting us know it’s them. Some of these groups aren’t exactly publicity shy, Mike.”