by Barry Eisler
Leed said, “I have it. Text us the passphrase. Micah and me both. Hurry.”
There were two incoming chimes. The guy named Micah looked at his phone. “Got it.”
Leed tossed him the drive. Micah caught it one-handed. “Go!” she said. Micah turned and raced back to the van.
“We’re sharing it,” Leed said into her phone. “The Guardian, McClatchy, the Nation, ProPublica, Rolling Stone, WikiLeaks. Plus various individuals we trust. Micah’s got a satellite link. He’s decrypting and uploading right now. Everyone’s ready. Everyone has their own passphrase. Can you stay on the phone with me? I want to know everything you learned directly from Perkins. The context. His impressions. The more you can tell me, the faster we’ll get through the documents. And the faster we can publish. They can’t put this genie back in the bottle. Not anymore. Give me a day, and we’re going to get you home.”
“Go,” Evie said to her. “Now.”
Leed looked at Marvin, then at Evie. “Look, why don’t you come with Micah and me? It’ll be safer for you. And we could really use your help to—”
“I’m fine. Just publish what’s on that fucking thumb drive.”
There was a pause, then Leed nodded. “Count on it.” She ran to the van, got in the driver’s side, and roared out of the parking area.
Dash tugged at her arm. Mommy, what’s going on? Who were those people?
Journalists, hon. Helping us.
Is the scavenger hunt over?
She nodded.
Did we win?
She looked at Marvin. Yes. I think we did.
Marvin just stood there, his shoulders slumped, slowly shaking his head.
It’s okay, she signed. I told you. You’re not a bad person.
He let out a long sigh. They won’t ever stop.
She heard tires on the gravel again. She looked up, alarmed. Marvin followed her gaze. A black Suburban came barreling down the road right toward them.
Evie looked at him, not understanding. Did you do this?
But she could see from his expression, his body language, that he hadn’t. He looked to his pickup, and must have decided it was too far to get all three of them there in time. He moved so that he was between Evie and the Suburban, then put a hand on Dash’s shoulder and eased the boy behind him, too. The hand stayed behind his back. Evie could see it was resting on the butt of his gun.
The Suburban stopped ten feet away, pointed straight at them. The doors opened. Four large men in shades got out. They had longish hair and were wearing casual clothes, but they looked fit. Military-serious. They kept behind the doors. Each of them pointed a gun at Marvin.
Dash turned to her, his eyes wide. She shook her head—no questions—and pulled him close.
Remar came out. And then—of course—the director.
“Marvin,” he said. “What would I do without you? My most reliable aide. My most trusted.”
Evie felt gut-punched. Had Marvin been working for the director the whole time? But then why had he positioned himself as though to protect them?
“You’re too late,” she said, surprising herself with her bravado. “The thumb drive’s gone. The Intercept has it. And they’ve already uploaded it to a dozen mirror sites. Everyone’s going to know what you’ve been up to. All your business, all your secrets. Let’s see how you like it.”
Did his face lose a little color? Yeah, she thought maybe it did.
He looked at Marvin. “Marvin, what’s going on? Do you have it?”
Marvin shook his head. “No. It’s gone. She’s telling you the truth.”
The color the director’s face had lost a moment before was nothing. Because suddenly he looked practically bloodless.
Remar walked over and put a hand on the director’s shoulder. “Ted. Listen.”
The director shook off the hand. “How could you?” he said to Marvin. “Betray me? For what? A sweaty little romp? Don’t you think I knew? Yes, even before you told me. I knew.”
There was a long pause. Marvin said, “You only know what you see. You don’t know what I feel.”
“Really. Well, let’s see about that.” He turned to the men behind him. “Take care of them.”
Evie dropped, spun around, and threw her arms around Dash to shield him with her body. But she heard a new voice, a deep Southern baritone: “No. You will not ‘take care of them.’”
She turned and saw a tall black man in a blue army service uniform emerging from the Suburban. She recognized him from television—Vernon Jones, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs.
“What are you talking about?” the director said. “We need to finish this.”
Jones shook his head. “It’s already over. You need to listen to Mike.”
The director looked at Remar. “All right,” he said, massaging his shoulders, “what is going on here?”
Remar shook his head and looked down. “I’m sorry, Ted. It’s time for new management. Long past time, in fact. You must see that.”
The director’s eyes narrowed and his lips thinned. “You scheming son of a bitch.”
Remar nodded. “I guess you can’t know everything after all.”
“After what I’ve done for you? I saved you. I pulled you from the fires of hell, you ungrateful bastard, I promoted you and protected you. Without me, you’d be nothing. You’d be dead, ashes, a cinder!”
“I know. And I’ll never be able to repay you for it. Although God knows I’ve tried. But this is bigger than that, Ted. Bigger than you and me. It can’t keep going like this. The fact that you don’t realize that . . . you’re not fit anymore. I’m sorry.”
“Are you insane? You’re implicated in all of it.”
“No. Not really. God’s Eye was your baby. So were its uses. That audit you had me conduct? There was a lot Perkins could have gotten. But he didn’t have everything. We’ll rebuild. But we’ll be more sensible this time. More discriminating. More discreet. Ted, don’t make this harder than it needs to be. Please.”
“Like hell you’ll rebuild. You think I don’t know? I know everything. Everything!”
Remar looked at Jones.
Jones nodded and said, “Take him.”
Two of the men came forward and grabbed the director by the arms. He started to struggle, but the men barely seemed to notice. “Marvin!” he shouted. “Marvin, stop them!”
Marvin watched, his face as still as stone.
“Keep him in the car for a minute,” Remar said to the men. “I need to talk to these people.”
Jones walked back to the Suburban. The men followed him, dragging the director inside. He was shouting that he was going to burn them, burn them all. Evie was glad that, the way she was holding him, Dash couldn’t see any of it. Still, he was gripping her tightly, obviously badly frightened.
The Suburban’s doors closed, and the director’s shouting was abruptly cut off. Remar walked over. “Marvin. Evie. I apologize for all of this. No one wanted any of it to happen.”
Evie was afraid to respond. She looked up at Marvin, but his expression remained unreadable.
Remar smiled a little sadly. “Let’s face it. The director went too far. He was at sea so long, he lost sight of land. Lost sight of the purpose, you understand?”
“No,” Evie said cautiously, straightening and turning back to him. “Not exactly.”
Dash clung to her leg. He might not have understood all the words, but he’d sure as hell picked up the gist.
Remar nodded. “Well, it doesn’t really matter. I’m a realist, and so is Jones. We’ll make things better. And I can tell you’re a realist, too.”
“What are you telling me?” Evie said. “That you expect me to keep my mouth shut? What difference does it make? The Intercept has the thumb drive.”
“Yes, they do, and they’ll publish what’s on it. We’ll ride it out. We’ve been through storms before.”
“What about Hamilton? And Perkins? And Delgado, planting that bomb? How are you going to spin all that?�
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“Conspiracy theories.”
His confidence was unnerving. It made her want to shake him up, prove him wrong.
“There’s camera footage,” she said warily.
He nodded almost sadly. “You don’t have to worry about that. It’s being taken care of. So there’s no proof of anything. Well, that’s not entirely true. You could corroborate a lot. And if the director were in a position other than facedown in the back of that Suburban, you know how he would handle that possibility. But that’s the old way. It isn’t my way.”
She waited, and he went on.
“It’s true you know things, Evie, that we’d really rather not have publicly aired. And not just Perkins and Hamilton. Things like the director being behind the DC bombing. Of course, if you talk about any of it, it could implicate Manus.”
He looked at Marvin, then back to Evie. “Had you considered that?”
She said nothing. It felt like he was circling her, boxing her in, tying her up. So he could deliver some sort of coup de grace.
“And not just Manus,” he went on. “It could implicate you, as well.”
There it was, then. “In what?”
“In criminal conduct. That camera network? Severe Fourth Amendment violations. Your work has been an integral part of God’s Eye, an integral part of the files we assembled on various influential Americans. Senators. Judges. Those kinds of people. The same files I’m going to use to protect the system now. If your involvement came out—and please believe me when I assure you it would—you’d be investigated by the Justice Department. Could you afford that? Could your boy manage with you doing life in a federal prison, much of it in solitary?”
It was horrible. He had her. He knew exactly what buttons to press.
“Why not come back to work, instead?” he said. “I meant it when I said new management. No more cloak-and-dagger. No more killing. I’m going to run things differently.”
“You think you’re going to be the new director?”
He touched the scar tissue below his eye patch. “I think there’s a chance.”
“You must have something on the president.” She’d meant it to be flip, but the moment it came out, it felt anything but.
“Evie, we have something on everyone. The problem isn’t what we have. The problem is how the director was using it. We’ll fix that, as I said.”
“You call that democracy?”
He sighed. “Let’s not be naïve. We’re not subverting democracy; democracy was subverted a long time ago. I wish it weren’t so, I really do. But you can’t work in this town as long as I have and not see it. Not unless you’re willfully blind. And all right, I may be missing an eye, but I’m not blind.”
He shook his head and looked over at the Suburban, then back to Evie. “Sad as it is, it’s really not complicated. We compete against various interests, mostly corporate interests, and if you look at it realistically, you’ll see we’re the better alternative. The choice here, the choice for realists, isn’t NSA management versus democratic management. It’s NSA management . . . or corporate management. And believe me, you don’t want the corporations running the show all by themselves. We’re not exactly Thomas Jefferson, okay, that ship has sailed, but we’re not complete slaves of mammon, either.”
He turned to Marvin. “I’m sorry about the director, Marvin. If you like, you’ll always have a place with me. I hope you know that. Or, if you prefer, a generous severance. The same goes for you, Evie. I believe in live and let live. For people who believe the same about me.”
Marvin said nothing. Remar looked at him, and Evie thought she saw something pained in his expression. Almost mournful.
“I have a feeling you’d like a moment alone with your former boss, Marvin. Am I correct?”
Marvin looked at the Suburban. “Yes. You’re correct.”
Remar nodded. “Take as much time as you need.” He turned and walked back to the Suburban. “Let him out,” he called.
A rear door opened, and two men dragged the director out and released him. “You think I’m done?” he shouted. “You think I don’t know people? I don’t know things? You can’t do this to me. I know everything. And I’ll spill all of it! I’ll tear this city apart!”
Remar and Jones got back in the Suburban. Their men followed suit.
“Where are you going?” the director shouted. “You’re not done with me! You’ll see!”
The Suburban pulled away. Suddenly the area was very quiet.
Evie squatted and kissed Dash’s cheeks. His eyes were closed. She stroked his hair and he looked at her.
It’s okay, she signed. It’s okay, my beautiful boy.
She saw Marvin, watching them. Tears were running down his face. He turned and looked at the director.
“Marvin,” the director said, his voice unsteady. “I’m so sorry for all this. For all these . . . misunderstandings.”
Marvin turned back to Evie. I need a minute.
It made her uneasy, but she didn’t see that she had much choice. She signed to Dash, Come on, hon. Let’s give Mr. Manus some privacy.
Dash started crying, too. He had sensed the danger, and had been keeping it together. Now that it was past, the tears were flooding through. She expected she would have a similar reaction. But not now. Later, when she could start getting her mind around everything that had happened.
She took Dash’s hand and they walked to the canal. She hoped Marvin wouldn’t be too long. She wanted to get the hell out of there.
CHAPTER . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . 51
Manus walked down to the boat launch. The director was alongside him. Manus could see him gesticulating and knew he was talking, but it was as though he had forgotten Manus couldn’t hear.
Other than the night his mother had died, he thought he’d never been so sad. He felt . . . amputated. Orphaned. Marooned. Like his future had been extinguished by a sudden surge of the darkest parts of his past.
He couldn’t stop crying. He didn’t care if the director could see it. It didn’t matter anymore.
They stopped at the edge of the water. A slight breeze had picked up. It felt good on Manus’s face. He looked out. There was a tunnel under a stone bridge, a tunnel that led to the canal, which led to the Potomac, which led to the Chesapeake Bay . . . all the way to the Atlantic Ocean. He imagined floating through that tunnel, and on and on and on, nothing able to see him or touch him or hurt him. Ever.
The director put a hand on Manus’s shoulder. Manus turned and looked at him.
“. . . and I’m so sorry, Marvin. So sorry. Can you forgive me?”
Manus cried harder.
“It’s all right,” the director said again, rubbing his thighs. “We’ll make it all right. We’ll stop these people. You’ll see.” And then he shocked Manus by putting his arms around him, and cradling Manus’s head against his shoulder.
Manus held him, a huge sob wracking his body, and then another, and another. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d wept like this. Not since his mother. And his grief now was like a bridge to the grief of that earlier time, fusing all the grief, amplifying it, magnifying it. He held the director tighter, his eyes squeezed shut, crying out all the pent-up anguish of a lifetime alone. The director held him, too. And then stiffened. And tried to push him away. Manus squeezed tighter, crying harder. The director squirmed and kicked. Manus doubled over, bending the director back, squeezing as though if he could just squeeze hard enough, he would never lose what he had once had with the director, with his mother, with his long ago vanished life.
He felt a crack deep in the director’s body, and suddenly the director wasn’t squirming anymore, or kicking, or moving at all. His head lolled, and his legs settled, and his arms flopped open as gently as a butterfly’s wings.
Still crying softly, Manus lay him down on his back, then rolled him into the water. He watched as the body began to drift toward the tunnel, the head tilted back slightly, the mouth open in m
ute incomprehension, the eyes staring sightlessly at the clear sky above. Manus wondered whether it would float all the way to the ocean.
He walked back up. Evie and Dash were by the canal. The boy was skimming stones. Evie was coaching him. It made Manus want to cry again, how good she was to the boy, how protective and loving. But he had no more tears inside him.
He walked over. Evie heard him coming and turned. Where’s the director? she signed.
Manus shook his head. There is no director.
She nodded slowly, her eyes frightened, but seeming to understand. He was glad of that. He didn’t want to have to explain.
The breeze shifted, carrying a slightly acrid odor along with it. Hair gel. Floral soap.
Manus glanced around casually, his eyes sweeping across the tree line to their right, upwind from their position. The smell was coming from there.
I have to tell you something, he signed.
Evie and Dash looked at him, their expressions open, questioning.
Manus squatted in front of Dash. Can you promise not to act scared when I tell you?
Dash looked at Evie, then back to Manus. He nodded.
Evie signed, What is it?
Delgado’s here. I smell him. Smile now. Don’t look afraid.
Evie managed a tight smile. Dash signed, Who’s Delgado?
Manus eased his truck keys out and discreetly placed them in Dash’s hand, who pocketed them. He’s a bad man. But he can’t understand sign. So we can talk and he won’t know what we’re saying. You hold these keys until you’re in my truck, okay? Then you give them to your mom.
Dash nodded.
He doesn’t even know we’re talking about him right now. He doesn’t know I know he’s here. And that’s good. That gives me a big advantage.
Dash signed, How?
I’ll explain later. For now, I want us to walk back to the truck. I’ll keep watch while you two get in. I want you to drive off. I’ll make sure you’re safe.
What? Evie signed. No, I’m not going to just leave you with that sick—
I’ll be fine. Just get in the truck. I’ll follow on foot, okay?
Evie didn’t look quite persuaded.