by Barry Eisler
Without thinking, Manus signed, Hamilton is alive.
She blinked. What? How do you know?
He didn’t want her to know of his role in what had happened to Hamilton. He wondered why he’d told her. But he couldn’t take it back now.
I saw him. In Turkey. He was hurt, but . . . he was alive when I saw him.
But all the networks said he was dead.
Maybe he is, but not in that drone strike. He was in Turkey when it happened.
Where is he now?
Manus hesitated, then signed, I don’t know.
She stared at him for a moment. What are you not telling me?
Nothing.
Marvin, if he’s alive, he might be my only hope.
Why?
Just tell me. Do you know anything about where he is?
Manus shook his head.
She put her hands on his face and looked in his eyes. “Please,” she said. “Help me.”
Her hands were warm and her face was beautiful. Manus was afraid she would hate him if she learned what he’d done, what he was. But it would be worse if something happened to her. Or to Dash. He closed his eyes and put his hands over hers so he could remember what it felt like when she touched him.
After a moment, he took his hands away. If he’s alive, I think he’s somewhere near Lake Tuz.
How do you know this?
I just do.
How?
I saw him there.
How?
He felt anger well up inside him. It doesn’t matter!
She recoiled as though he had hit her. He held up his hands palms out in apology, then signed, I’m sorry.
She shook her head. Why won’t you tell me?
He flexed his fingers, searching for words. I don’t . . . want you to know.
Because I won’t like it?
He looked down. Because you won’t like me.
She touched his knee. When he looked up, she signed, I do like you.
You wouldn’t if you knew.
Knew what?
He hesitated, then signed, You and Dash are good.
She gave him a faint smile. Well, Dash is, anyway.
No. You are, too. I see how you are with him. You’re good.
I guess with Dash I am, yes.
I’m not good.
Because you’ve done bad things?
He nodded.
Did you do something bad to Hamilton?
He nodded again, unable to look at her.
She rested a hand on his knee. After a moment, he raised his eyes. She was looking at him with a gentleness and understanding he knew he didn’t deserve, and never expected to have. It hurt like a stab wound. But . . . he so wanted to believe what he saw in her eyes could be true.
Whatever you did, she signed, he’s still alive.
I think he is. I didn’t do anything to him. But he was in bad shape. Some people hurt him.
What people?
It doesn’t matter. They’re gone. They can’t hurt anyone anymore. And I don’t know anything else. Not really. The men who hurt him are dead. He could have taken money from them, and the keys to their van.
Where would he go?
Manus imagined Hamilton, scared, hurt, disoriented. He gets out of that dress they’d put him in, and changes into the work clothes in the back of the van. He goes out and finds the bodies. He’s terrified, horrified. But his survival instincts are strong, and he subdues his urge to vomit at the sight of all that gore. He forces himself to go through the dead men’s pockets. He finds money, he finds the van keys. He drives off. He sees some tourists at one of the concession stands by the lake. He asks directions. He buys a map. And then . . .
He’s a city guy, I could tell. He wouldn’t know how to survive outdoors. Or how to get across a border. He might look for a youth hostel. But . . . the way he was hurt, he wouldn’t want to share a room or bathroom. Or have to talk to a bunch of backpackers. Plus his face has been on television. Not so likely that he would be recognized, but the more people who see him, the more the risk. So I think . . . a hotel like this one. The kind that doesn’t require credit cards. A place where he could bring in some food and pull the drapes and cry and hide and heal.
Where?
There’s not much around Lake Tuz, so my guess is he would head to Ankara. Closer than anything else and he’d have the most options there.
Her eyes were excited, her expression intense. What day and time did you see him? Be precise.
The day before I built Dash his loft. Noon, local time.
He could see her calculating the elapsed time. All right, she signed, it’s morning there now. He would have been holed up for . . . four nights. Wherever he went, do you think he could still be there?
He was traumatized. If he found a safe place, I think he’d be afraid to move. Until his money was close to running out. What are you thinking?
She pressed her fingertips against her forehead in concentration. What I was saying before we took this room—about the way NSA could comb through hotel reservation systems? I can do that. Hamilton isn’t as tactical as you, and he doesn’t know as much as I do about NSA capabilities. Plus he wouldn’t want to draw any more attention to himself than necessary. He wouldn’t ask anyone to not register him in a computer system.
He nodded, impressed. That makes sense.
If I could access something called XKeyscore, there’s a chance I could locate him. The kind of hotel you’re describing . . . it couldn’t be more than, what, a dozen, two dozen? I just need the one that checked in someone with an American name for cash within, say, six hours after you last saw him. But they probably revoked my account privileges.
Why?
Are you joking? I’m supposed to be dead by now, remember? Abducted and raped.
The comment stung, but Manus tried to ignore it in favor of what was relevant. He reminded himself she was just an analyst. That she wasn’t used to thinking operationally.
But that’s the point, he signed. If your death was supposed to look like a random thing, they wouldn’t want to do anything out of the ordinary at work like directing some sysadmin to revoke your privileges.
She looked at him, a glimmer of hope in her eyes. That’s true. She paused as though considering, then added, All right, I need a laptop.
They’ll trace the access back to the hotel.
Not if I use Tor.
But your search parameters will be logged. If they’re monitoring your work searches and you find Hamilton, you’ll lead them straight to him.
I’ll warn him. Anyway, I’m going to have to take that chance. If he’ll just tell me the passphrase, I can decrypt the drive and expose what’s on it. There won’t be anything for the director to cover up anymore.
Hamilton won’t trust you.
She smacked her palms down on the edge of the tub. Well, do you have any better ideas?
As it happened, he did. Give the drive to the director. Promise to never say anything.
No! I know you think you know him, and can trust him. But you don’t and you can’t. He’s not a good person, Marvin. He’s sick and power-mad and terrified of being found out. He would never, ever trust me to keep my mouth shut. He’d say he would, and then he’d have me removed the first chance he could.
Manus felt something cold come over him. I’d tell him if that happened, I would kill him.
For a moment, she looked frightened. Then her expression softened and she touched his knee. Then he would kill you, too. You must know that.
Manus didn’t answer. He could feel his mind trying to believe what it wanted, trying to push away logic and evidence. He felt so alone. It was like that first night in the juvenile facility. Everything he thought he knew and could count on, ripped away. No one he could rely on. Everyone an enemy, everyone trying to hurt him.
I need to get on the Internet, she signed.
Manus didn’t like her plan. It was risky for Hamilton, and more important, it felt risky for them. But she’
d been adamant about not trusting the director. And despite his reluctance to agree, he knew she might be right.
The guy who checked me in had a laptop, he signed. He might let me borrow it. Or more like rent it. How long would you need it?
If I’m lucky, ten minutes. But no more than a few hours.
Manus hesitated, then signed, Double-lock the door behind me. I’ll knock when I come back. One knock, on the window. If someone knocks on the door or more than once, it’s not me.
She nodded. They got up and walked to the door. Manus checked through the window and went out.
The old guy he’d negotiated with earlier was still there, the air still perfumed by bourbon. The guy was looking at his laptop, and closed it when Manus came in.
“Everything all right with the room?”
Manus nodded. “My wife didn’t bring her laptop. Could we borrow yours? Just a little while, a few hours at most. I’d pay you, of course.”
“Well, shoot, you don’t have to pay me, but . . . how much?”
Manus noted that the bottle of Four Roses was a couple of inches lower than it had been earlier. He shrugged. “Another fifty?”
The man raised his eyebrows, and Manus realized he’d offered too much. “A work thing,” he said quickly. “If she doesn’t take care of it right away, we might as well kiss our little vacation good-bye. We can access the Internet from the room, right?”
“Sure, free Wi-Fi in every room. A few hours, you say?”
Manus nodded.
“Say, you’re not fixing to make off with my laptop, are you? I mean, it’s nothing new, but it’s worth more than fifty bucks.”
“How about a security deposit?”
The man rubbed his chin. “Ah, forget about the deposit. Give me an even hundred and it’s yours for the night.”
Manus pulled two fifties from his pocket and placed them on the counter. The man looked like he might salivate.
“All right, we got ourselves a deal. Give me just a minute, I need to take care of a few things.”
The man opened the laptop and worked the trackpad. Manus assumed he was deleting records of visits to porn sites. Which was actually good. It suggested they kept no central records of anyone’s browsing history.
He took the laptop back to the room and knocked once on the glass. Evie let him in and they went back to the bathroom. It took her only a minute to download the Tor browser. A minute more, and she signed excitedly, You were right. They didn’t revoke my privileges. I’m in.
She hunched forward and worked the keyboard. Manus couldn’t see what she was doing, but he had an idea. Accessing NSA’s full take on worldwide hotel reservation systems. Screening out every hotel that was located outside a 150-mile radius from Lake Tuz. Screening out every transaction that occurred more than eight hours after Manus had seen Hamilton. Screening out every credit card transaction. Screening out everyone who had checked in with a passport. And leaving only . . .
I think I’ve got him, she signed. The Sunaa Hotel, central Ankara. Registered as Bill Moore. No other hits.
Manus nodded, trying to share her excitement. But what he felt instead was dread. He had never been afraid of a fight. But he preferred to avoid fights he thought were unwinnable. Or worse, unsurvivable. They’d been lucky to get this far. He was afraid she was going to push things until their luck ran out.
He stood. You see if you can reach him, he signed. I’m going to keep watch.
CHAPTER . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . 41
In less than five minutes, Evie had signed up for a secure VoIP account, using one of Manus’s prepaid cards to pay for the access. She called the Sunaa and asked to be connected to Bill Moore. There was a pause, then an intermittent buzz as the call was put through. She waited, her heart pounding, trying not to hope. Would he be there? Would he answer? Did she even have the right person? She might have made a mistake. It could have been a coincidence—
“Hello?” A male voice, American accented, the tone uncertain, almost tremulous. It had to be him. It had to be.
“Ryan,” she said, “I’m a friend. Please, don’t hang up.”
There was a pause. He said, “I . . . who is this?”
There was a little latency on the line, but nothing too terrible. This was going to work. It was going to be okay.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, suddenly fighting tears. “I didn’t know any of this was going to happen. I was just doing my job. I’m sorry.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The fear in his voice had worsened. Get it together, girl, she thought. Don’t freak him out. Help him. Help him help you.
“I’m sorry,” she said again. “I’m just scared. I’ve learned some things I wasn’t supposed to, about your meetings in Turkey, about the thumb drives you mailed. I have one of them. Earlier tonight I was abducted and barely got away. And now my little boy and I are on the run. I don’t know anyone else who can help us.”
There was another pause. Then: “What do you mean, you have one of the thumb drives?”
“You sent two. One by FedEx, I’m guessing to your news organization. The other by ordinary mail, to a mail drop in Rockville. The first one would have been intercepted. But I have the other.”
“Who are you?”
She blew out a deep breath, feeling like what came next had a fifty-fifty chance of blowing up the whole thing. But if it didn’t, if they could get past this point, maybe her plan could work.
“I’m an NSA analyst,” she said. “But I’m not your enemy, I swear. They’re trying to kill me, too.”
“NSA? Oh, my God. You can’t be fucking serious.”
“Look, what can I offer as bona fides?”
“How do you know about any of this? How did you know—”
“—where to find you?”
He didn’t answer. She imagined his terror at confirming his identity. But he must have realized they were already past that.
“That’s a long story,” she said. “The gist of it is, no one else is looking because everyone else thinks you’re dead. In a drone strike.”
Another pause. “They really think that? It’s not just some official bullshit?”
“You know about it?”
“There’s a TV in the room.”
He was reluctant, of course he was, but he was talking. Probably because he was scared and desperate, but why didn’t matter. What mattered was that she keep him going.
“No,” she said, “it’s not some official bullshit. At least as far as I know. They launched that strike because they thought you were there. They want you dead.”
“Who is ‘they’?”
“The director of NSA. He knows about your meeting with Perkins.”
“Where’s Perkins now? Can you get a message to him?”
She realized Perkins’s accident hadn’t made the international news. Of course not. His status was covert, and besides, it was just a car accident.
“Perkins is dead. A car accident in Ankara, the same day he met you in Istanbul. Except, not an accident. I’m pretty sure that was the director, too.”
“Oh, Jesus. Oh, fuck.”
“Listen. Whatever’s on that thumb drive, it’s so explosive the director of the National Security Agency has practically lost his mind over it. He kidnapped you, he killed Perkins, now he’s trying to kill me. And that bombing in DC? A false flag. An excuse to bomb the jihadist camp where the director believed you were being held.”
“How—”
“It doesn’t matter how. I don’t know what to do other than publish whatever’s on the drive, right? Take away the director’s ability to cover it up with murder? His reason for wanting you and me dead? Doesn’t that make sense?”
“Of course, it makes perfect sense. But how?”
“I told you, I have the second thumb drive. But you encrypted it. Give me your passphrase and I’ll decrypt it. And from there, I don’t know, you’re the journalist . . . I’ll get
it to your editor, or something.”
“Stop right there. The fact that I’m still on the phone with you means that okay, I must at least halfway believe what you’re telling me. But there is no way in the world I’m giving you the passphrase. For all I know, you’re just some NSA operative trying to get into the thumb drive so you can ascertain how bad the damage is. And there’s a CIA team outside my door, waiting to grab me the moment you’ve confirmed the passphrase is accurate.”
She fought the urge to scream. All she needed was for this idiot to tell her the damned passphrase, and she could save all of them.
Think, Evie. He’s scared. You have to be the calm one. So think. Think.
“Ryan, think about it. If there were a team, they could grab you right now. Why would I want the passphrase if I didn’t have the thumb drive? And if I do have the thumb drive, that team could make you tell them the passphrase. If you tried to lie, they’d know because what you gave them wouldn’t decrypt the drive. They’d torture you until you told them the truth.”
“Forgive me, but you sound just a little too knowledgeable about how these things work for me to feel comfortable.”
“Yeah?” she said, feeling her calm slipping. “You know where my knowledge comes from? From being hit over the head earlier this evening and held by some NSA contractor who enjoys his work just a little too much. I hid the thumb drive, and he explained how they were going to find it. By crushing my fingers and burning my lips off and torturing my little boy right in front of me until whatever I told him checked out with his people. So yeah, I’m kind of an expert now on what the CIA would be doing if they were really right outside your door!”
She squeezed her eyes shut and gritted her teeth, furious with herself for losing control. But God, that fucking Delgado, the terror she felt . . . it was all right there, just behind everything she was trying to focus on, bubbling like some horrible cauldron constantly on the verge of boiling over.