Barry Eisler - The Detachment

Dox took a sip of the smoothie he was drinking. I was aware that he’d broken bread with her, and felt uneasy about it.

“Wouldn’t make any difference to us,” he said. “But I don’t want to mix you up in this anymore than we already have. I mean, you’re close with your daddy, right?”

I saw her weigh the pros and cons of possible responses before settling on the truth. “Yes,” she said. “We’re close. Which is why I want to know what he could have done to wrong you. I really can’t imagine it.”

Dox smiled. “I can tell he’s lucky to have you for a daughter. And all I can tell you is, part of the burden of being a man, and the nature of the defect that defines us, is that we sometimes have to do things we can’t tell our loved ones about.”

“Why can’t you?”

“Because sometimes things need to be done in the world, and telling you would make you complicit. By keeping you innocent, we save you from having to join us in hell. It might not sound like much, but it is a comfort when you’re faced with hard choices.”

“But that’s ridiculous. You make women sound like children. You think we can’t decide for ourselves? That’s completely demeaning.”

“Demeaning? Hell, I wish someone would do it for me.”

“No, you don’t. You like keeping it all to yourself because doing so makes you feel powerful.”

Dox looked perplexed. “I don’t think so.”

“I do. You say my dad did something to you, something so horrible that now in your mind it justifies kidnapping and threatening his daughter? You’re willing to do all that, but not even to tell me what this is all about?”

Nicely played, I thought. I waited to see how Dox would respond.

“We did some work for your dad,” Dox said. “Not the kind of work I’m going to discuss with you. And then, to hide the fact that we did the work, he hired some people to do the same kind of work on us. You follow? You really want to know more?”

“Yes,” she said. “I do. And you don’t have to be afraid to tell me.”

“Well, it’s not-”

“It’s not a matter of fear,” I said. “Like Dox said, the less you know, the better for you. And for your father.”

She looked at him. “Your name is Dox?”

“I told you,” I said, “your father already knows who we are. We’re not trying to keep our identities secret from you.”

“Then what’s your name?” she said.

She really was smart. She was doing what she could to glean information that at some point might be operationally useful. And she was also establishing rapport, making herself seem human and making her captors feel human, which in itself might create tactical opportunities for her, or, at a minimum, make it more emotionally difficult for us to harm her.

“You can call me Rain,” I said. “But enough questions for now, okay? We’re tired. We’ll have plenty of time to talk more later, if you want.”

I had a feeling Dox might have liked to protest, but he must have thought better of it.

I was a little concerned about Kei. She had a natural interrogator’s personality-smart, likeable, unthreatening, and inquisitive under the guise of sincere interest. Dox was obviously being careful in response to her inquiries, but I wondered how he might comport himself in my absence. He obviously wanted her to like him. Partly to make her comfortable, partly to assuage his guilt, and partly because, after all, she was gorgeous, and he just couldn’t help himself.

We flex-tied one of Kei’s wrists to a bedpost and passed a couple hours silently, Dox watching her while I catnapped on the floor. I was awakened by a knock.

Dox and I took out our guns and approached the door. “Yes?” I said.

“It’s us,” I heard Larison say.

I had previously placed a strip of duct tape over the peephole to prevent anyone on the other side of the door from knowing by the blockage of light that someone was looking through it. I put my face up close and removed the duct tape. Larison and Treven, as advertised.

I moved the dresser, then let them in and bolted the door behind them. “Any trouble?” I said.

Treven shook his head. “No. Ditched those guys, ditched the van, no problems.”

If Kei wondered whom he was referring to by “those guys,” she didn’t ask.

“All right then,” I said. “If everything’s good to go, it’s time to call Horton.”

Larison looked at Kei and smiled. “Yes, it is.”

It was a long time before Larison was ready to call Hort. He didn’t know how they’d been tracked in D.C.-satellite, surveillance cameras, drone aircraft, whatever-and he needed to be certain it wasn’t going to happen again. So he ramped up his already stringent procedures, spending hours in buses, taxis, malls, and on the subway, making sure he wasn’t just flushing out possible foot and vehicular surveillance, but also that he was obscuring his movements against more remote potential watchers, as well.

He was glad he’d managed to persuade the others that their only move was to take Kei hostage. It had the benefit of being true, of course, but he had his own, additional reasons for wanting Kei as leverage against Hort: he recognized that the value of his threat to release the torture tapes was diminishing.

Larison had long understood that America’s political elites insisted on counter-terror policies like disappearances, torture, drone strikes, and invasions because the elites perversely benefited from the increased terror the policies inevitably produced. He understood the policies weren’t a response to the threat, but were rather the cause of the threat, and that this was by design. A frightened populace was a controllable populace. Endless war and metastasizing security procedures meant enormous profits for the corporations the politicians served. In this sense, the possible publication of graphic videos of American servicemen torturing screaming Muslim prisoners had always been, from the perspective of America’s elites, as much a promise as a threat.

Still, in ordinary times, people would have reacted to videos of gruesome torture with disgust and horror. In the most emotionally irrefutable way, the tapes would implicate various establishment players, and the reputations of the men who had ordered the barbarism in the videos would have been sullied; their careers, derailed. And that highly personal threat had outweighed the government’s institutional interest in finding ways to increase the danger of terrorism-at least enough for the government to agree to cough up a hundred million dollars worth of uncut diamonds.

But everything had changed now. America was under attack, and who would object to what was on the tapes now? Object, hell-they’d clamor for more. The people who had ordered what was shown on the tapes wouldn’t be censured. They’d be heroes.

And that, in essence, was the problem. Circumstances were now eroding the value of the cards he held, so much so that he wondered whether neutralizing the extortion value of the tapes was the purpose of the attacks. Well, even if it wasn’t the primary purpose, it must have occurred to somebody. And regardless, the effect was the same. The value of his assets was declining, and he knew he needed new ones. Hort’s daughter was one. The daughter, and what she would lead to.

Eventually, he made his way to the graffitied roll-down storefronts and cracked cinderblock walls and peeling real estate lease signs of the blighted industrial district. For a while, he wandered among the jobless, solitary men who gravitated to the area, casualties of a hollowed-out economy. He liked the cover they gave him, liked that no one knew them or cared about them or could tell one from the other, liked knowing that as he made himself complicit among them, the world’s callousness and indifference would envelop him, as well.