by Barry Eisler
He kept pacing. What was he going to do, just sit around, hoping he was wrong, hoping Ben would somehow save the day?
This was crazy. He had to do something. He had to take a chance. He grabbed his cell phone and called Sarah.
He got her voice mail. “Sarah,” he said, “it’s Alex. I’m sorry about this morning. Listen, I just saw Ben and he told me a bunch of things about what’s going on that you need to know. And he’s about to do something really stupid and I need … I need to figure out how to help him. Call me.”
He grabbed the laptop and headed out.
31 SQUEEZED
Ben drove into Palo Alto to reconnoiter. He hadn’t been here in damn near a decade, and even if the layout hadn’t changed, which assuredly it had, he couldn’t trust his recollections. He had looked at the world differently when he was living here, and absorbed different things. Before he’d seen neighborhoods. Now he needed to see terrain.
He walked the grid of streets downtown, observing without any sentimentality the things that had changed and the things that hadn’t. He paid particular attention to alleys and where they led, to which streets were one-way, to the positions of banks and jewelry stores and other places with security cameras. When he felt satisfied with his new familiarity with the tactical layout of the town, he started looking for a suitable place for a meeting. He found it in a restaurant called Coupa Café. It had a patio in front, set back from the sidewalk, sheltered under a portico supported by thick pillars. He stood in front of one of the patio tables and noted that he had a good view of the entrance to the Citibank across the street and two stores down, and that positioning himself behind one of the pillars would offer some cover and concealment from the street. The tables were all taken, but something would open up. If he had to, he’d make the opening himself.
He went inside. The restaurant was a long rectangle, with the window facing the street on one of the short ends, the coffee counter along one long end, and a painted wall opposite. The tables were crammed close together, and even though it was getting into late afternoon, the place was packed. There was a room at the rear, accessible through a large open doorway, only partially visible from the front. He walked back and found what he was looking for: a fire exit, not alarmed, locked from the inside. It led to an alley that connected with other alleys branching out in three directions. If things went south at the front of the restaurant, he could haul ass back here and vanish in the alleys.
He got in line to order a coffee and called Hort from his cell phone.
“I can’t get up there,” he said. “I need you to come down here.”
“What do you mean? Where’s’down here’?”
“Palo Alto.”
“What’s wrong? Are you nervous?”
“I’m always nervous, same as you. I’ll be in the Citibank on Ramona Street in Palo Alto, between University and Hamilton.”
“I see. Lots of cameras and tellers.”
“Something like that. It’ll be comfortable for both of us while we sort this shit out. Is it just you?”
“Just me and a driver.”
“That’s fine. Depending on traffic, should take you forty-five minutes. I’ll be waiting.”
He clicked off and shut down the phone. He stood by the counter and sipped his coffee and waited. When the people behind the pillar started to get up, he went out and took the table for himself. It was a good position. His back was to the wall, he could see up and down the street, he was camouflaged by the people around him, and he had a good view of the Citibank.
He sipped and waited and watched the street. The people walking past all looked like natives: confident, prosperous, oblivious. He felt nothing in common with any of them. He was like an emigrant returning from some faraway country to the land of his youth, only to discover he had forgotten the language, the dress, the customs, the code. He didn’t belong here anymore, if he ever had. He was a stranger to this place, and it was a stranger to him.
A green Hyundai pulled up to the curb across the street in front of the Citibank. The passenger-side door opened. A black man got out and walked inside. Even if he hadn’t seen his face, Ben would have recognized him from the large shaved head, the broad shoulders, the proud stride bordering on a swagger. Hort.
Ben watched the driver. The bone structure was Asian and he looked about Ben’s age, with close-cropped hair and eyes concealed by sunglasses. From minute movements of his head, Ben knew the man was checking his mirrors. Not someone you could sneak up on. Not someone who was just a driver. The backseat seemed empty, but it wouldn’t have been difficult to place one or two men low enough to be invisible through the windows. Still, Ben doubted there was more here than he could see. Atrios had been operating alone. He didn’t think they had immediately deployable reinforcements.
He waited a minute, then called Hort’s cell phone.
Hort picked up immediately. “Where are you?”
“The restaurant. Coupa Café. Across the street.”
“I hope you’re not playing games with me, Ben.”
“Just being cautious, sir. Like you taught me.”
The line went dead. Ben watched him walk out of the Citibank and cross the street, his head moving, his eyes checking the same hot spots Ben would have checked. He saw Ben, gave a slight nod of acknowledgment, and walked over. He pulled a chair around so the two of them were at right angles, but Ben still had the better view of the street. The man’s presence—his command aura—was almost overwhelming. Ben resisted the urge to speak, to explain himself, to ask for understanding.
“What do you want me to say?” Hort said in a low voice. “It was a goat fuck. The question now is, what do I need to do to set your mind at ease?”
“Just tell me everything,” Ben said, amazed at his own temerity. “You’ve always been straight with me.”
Hort nodded. “The first thing you need to understand is, no one knew it was your brother.”
“Come on, Hort. How many Trevens do you know?”
“Until recently, only you. What you need to understand, though, is that I wasn’t the one managing the target list. That was Atrios. All I knew was that he’d determined the mission required the removal of an inventor, a lawyer, and a patent examiner. I didn’t need to know more than that.”
“You didn’t want to know.”
Hort pursed his lips. “Maybe.”
“Tell me the rest.”
Hort glanced around, then leaned forward. “There’s a special access program,” he said, “being run directly out of the National Security Council. Its focus is cyberwarfare.”
“What’s the program called?”
“You don’t need to know what it’s called. You’re not even supposed to know it exists. It’s all sensitive compartmented information and I’m going out on a serious limb reading you into it without authorization.”
“What’s it called, Hort?”
Hort sighed. “You’re going to make me pay for my sins, are you?”
“I just don’t want to feel like you’re holding anything back from me.”
“The program is called Genie.”
“All right. What does Genie do?”
“I don’t know all the particulars. The only reason I know about the program at all is because of the invention your brother was trying to patent.”
“Well, tell me what you do know.”
“Apparently, all patent applications relating to cryptography are subject to a DoD national security review. Your brother’s application for Obsidian received the routine look-over. But something about the invention attracted additional scrutiny. Long story short, the application got kicked upstairs all the way to the White House. And the Genie people in the NSC didn’t like what they saw.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know why not. All I know, all I’m supposed to know, is that if Obsidian were to fall into the wrong hands, it could pose a major threat to the whole U.S. network infrastructure.”
“Okay, then
what?”
“Someone in the White House made a decision. National security required that Obsidian be vacuumed up. All knowledge of it erased. The operation involved two prongs: electronic and real world. NSA was tasked with the electronic. We handle the real world elements.”
“So the inventor, the patent guy … those were your ops?”
“Those were my orders.”
“But Hort, those were … I mean, those guys were Americans.”
“You know how it is, Ben. I don’t make the rules.”
Ben drummed his fingers on the table. “What I’m starting to wonder is whether there are rules. Not for the enemy. For us.”
“I’m not happy about it, either. But the bottom line is, it’s about saving lives. And sometimes saving lives involves collateral damage, you know that. It’s a hell of a decision to have to make, but someone made it. And whether you or I agree with the decision doesn’t matter. Our job is to carry it out.”
“Look, Hort, I know what goes on. But it’s one thing to pick people up, hold them in a navy brig incommunicado as enemy combatants, isolate them, keep them from talking to anyone. But just … executing them? Americans? When did we start doing that?”
Hort blew out a long breath. “I agree, it’s a hell of a situation. No one would want to sign up for it. But we’re not in this because it’s easy. We’re in it because it’s a job that needs to be done.”
“Yeah, but—”
“What are we going to do when one of our enemies gets a hold of something like Obsidian and uses it against us? When they shut down a power grid, or air traffic control? Are we going to apologize to the families of the people who burned to death in those flaming crashes because we could have kept the tools that caused it out of enemy hands, but we were too squeamish?”
They were quiet for a moment. Ben knew he was right, on one level, but …
He thought of Sarah, of what she had said about breaking the law a little.
He shook the thought away. “What about the Russians?” he said. “How do they fit into this?”
“They don’t. That’s just a bad coincidence.”
“What do you mean?”
“We have a communications intercept from their embassy in Ankara. They’re on to you for the Istanbul op. We’re trying to find out how, and how much.”
“What? How could anyone know who did that guy in Istanbul? I didn’t leave behind anything, Hort. I was in and out of there like a ghost.”
“Well, you left five bodies behind. Ghosts don’t do that.”
“There were going to be four bodies regardless.”
“Iranian bodies. A dead FSB Russian is a whole different kind of problem.”
“That still doesn’t tell us how anyone could have pinpointed me for that guy.”
“Like I said, that’s what we’re trying to find out.”
“So who were those guys at the Four Seasons? They weren’t FSB. They weren’t that good.”
“They were Russian mafia, operating out of Brooklyn. They do contract work for the FSB.”
Ben thought about it. What Hort was saying wasn’t impossible. But …
“Look,” Hort said, “I can make it so your brother gets left alone. I need your guarantee—and you will be held accountable for that guarantee—that there are no copies of Obsidian, that no one can use this thing, that your brother will forget any of this ever happened and never say a word to anyone. Guarantee me that, and I can call in some favors with the NSC and make sure your brother is off their radar for good.”
Ben considered. The truth was, this was just what he was hoping for. What, in fact, he was going to propose himself. It could solve everything. Give Hort the backup copy, tell Alex to keep his mouth shut. After all, it wasn’t like Alex was an unknown quantity to them anymore. Alex’s brother was an insider, a brother who could vouch for him.
He wondered for a moment what Sarah would make of that. She’d probably say something about how convenient it was not to be one of the little people, to have a relative in the party or on the politburo.
And what about Sarah? Were they still after her, too? Could Hort call them off?
“What about the girl?” he said. “Sarah Hosseini, the lawyer. Is she part of the op?”
“She worked on the patent, too,” Hort said. “Compared to your brother, she was tertiary, but yeah, now especially there’s a real concern.”
“You can’t get her off the hook?”
Hort laughed. “What do you think, I’m a magician? Sarah’s not even her name. It’s Shaghayegh. Shaghayegh Hosseini. You want me to go to the NSC and tell them not to worry about a woman named Shaghayegh Hosseini who knows all about Obsidian?”
“You mean, you’re going to kill her because of her name?”
“She was a security risk, Ben.”
Ben felt something constrict inside his chest. “What do you mean, ‘was’?”
“We picked her up this morning outside her apartment.”
Ben looked at the table so Hort couldn’t see his eyes. He tried to think. Picked her up. That meant she was still alive, right? If they’d dropped her, if she were already dead, Hort wouldn’t have referred to the means. He would have just said, She’s gone.
Christ, what were they doing to her to get her to talk, though? He could imagine. And he knew what they’d do when they were done.
Shards of fragmented thoughts sliced through his mind.
No, he’s cool.
Okay, then. Later.
NO HE WAS NOT COOL AND YOU KNEW BETTER.
He put his fists to his temples. Think. Think.
But all he could think was that he’d come out here to help Alex, and instead he’d, he’d …
No. This wasn’t going to happen again. He wouldn’t let it happen again.
He looked at Hort. “What are you going to do with her?”
Hort waved a hand dismissively. “Forget about it.”
“I asked you a question,” Ben said, his voice as low as a dog’s growl.
“And I answered it. The only way I can.”
“Where are you holding her?”
“Let it go, son. You’re already on thin ice.”
Ben shook his head. “No,” he said, his voice rising. “No. No. No.”
“Ben, I trained you. We’ve bled in the same mud. We carry the same cost for the things we’ve done. Men like us—”
“Tell me where you’re holding her, Hort. Tell me you’re going to cut her loose.”
A long, silent moment spun out. “Last chance,” Hort said. “Will you vouch for your brother? Can I trust you?”
Ben flexed his hand. The knuckles popped. He’d never felt so boxed in. The feeling of pressure, of being squeezed, was almost physical.
He glanced left. A large man in sunglasses was leaning out from behind one of the pillars, his hand resting just inside a dark jacket, intent on Ben and Hort.
Shit. He glanced right. Another man had sidled up the sidewalk and was watching them with identical posture and focus.
There would be a third man inside the restaurant, or just outside the fire door. Obviously, he had badly underestimated Hort’s manpower situation. And they’d moved on him, by either instinct or design, at the very moment he’d been most distracted by his own inner turmoil.
Part of him was enraged at his own naïveté. He should have seen this coming, but deep down, he’d trusted Hort. Stupid. Hort had always taught him the mission came before the man. Another part of him wanted to laugh. Five armed men a tendon twitch from a gunfight, and the yuppies around them were sipping their lattes and reflecting on the latest Pilates routines without the barest clue.
“How do you want to do this?” Hort said quietly.
Several scenarios played out in Ben’s mind. None of them involved more than a ten percent chance of survival. He might have taken those odds if the only chips he was playing were his. But what would happen to Sarah? And to Alex?
“What are my options?” he said, still glan
cing left and right.
“You have two. You can come with me and we can work this out, or we can leave you here. I really didn’t want it to be this way, Ben.”
Ben drummed his fingers along the table. Going with them was the same as going to a secondary crime scene. How many times had he sworn never to let that happen to him?
He knew he could drop Hort before anyone could stop him. But he’d be dead himself a second later.
We’ll do those steps another time, he thought. When it’s just you and me on the dance floor.
A part of him knew the thought was just bluster. But it was all he had at the moment, and it was enough to get him through.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll come with you.”
32 HEAD-ON
Alex was in his car, driving aimlessly, trying to figure out what to do. He had finally broken down and tried Ben, but there was no answer. He knew he was supposed to stay away from the usual places, and he was okay with that, but he wanted his cell phone on because maybe Ben or Sarah might check in, and he figured that meant he should keep moving in case someone was tracking the signal. But God, he was tired. He wished he could go somewhere, a park bench, anywhere, and just close his eyes for a few minutes.
He wondered what it would be like with Osborne when this whole thing was sorted out. How could he even look at the guy again, after what he’d done?
He thought about what Ben had told him, how they’d taken incriminating photos or video of Osborne in Thailand. Ben seemed pretty confident that it was no more complicated than that, but … could they really have picked Osborne out of all the Sullivan, Greenwald lawyers and identified, and then exploited, his vulnerability? The more he thought about it, the more far-fetched it felt.
He thought of Osborne’s ego case, the photos of all those Valley and Washington players. The guy was connected. Well, maybe that’s how they came to focus on him. He was known in Washington—he’d even testified to Congress a few times about visa quotas and capital gains taxes and other such issues near and dear to the Silicon Valley heart. Maybe … maybe he was more involved in this than Ben was giving him credit for. Ben was so arrogant about his skills, and he’d as much as told Alex that he thought lawyers were nothing more than a bunch of latte-swilling sheep. That arrogance would make him cocky, and blind him to just how shrewd and politically savvy players like Osborne could be. The more Alex thought about it, the more he thought Ben had missed something about Osborne’s involvement. And the more sure Alex became that Ben was making a mistake about Osborne, the more sure he became that Ben was making a mistake about his commander, too.