Barry Eisler - The Detachment

There was no way to resurrect the lives I’d taken or rectify the damage I’d done. That side of the balance sheet was immutable. The only thing, maybe, was to offset it. To do something to save more lives than I’d cost, prevent more pain than I’d inflicted.

It wasn’t much. But what else did I have to hope for?

Hating the feeling of being manipulated, and of being a fool, I said, “We’ll need some hardware.”

“Of course.”

“And a private plane to get us to Lincoln. Even if we had time to drive, we’re all too strung out at this point. I think we’d kill each other before we got there.”

“I’ll get you there.”

“I need to talk to the others. I’ll call you back later today.”

I hung up and checked my watch. Almost ten o’clock. Stores were opening soon.

“Come on,” I said to Larison. “I’ll brief you on the way.”

We walked to Harry Winston on Rodeo Drive, the store we’d agreed on after looking on the Internet that morning. We wanted someone reputable, and we figured Harry Winston was about as reputable as it got. Neither of us had been happy to leave our hardware at the motel, but we couldn’t very well walk into a jewelry store carrying, either. Larison’s danger vibe was enough of a problem. If an alert security guard then saw a bulge in our waistbands or around our ankles, we would have a little too much explaining to do.

En route, I briefed him on Kanezaki’s intel. Unsurprisingly, he wanted no part of it. I wanted to bring up that weird moment from the night before, when Dox had employed, innocently, I was sure, a sodomy reference. But I didn’t know how to do it. Don’t worry, I don’t give a damn? Or, don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone? What if I was wrong? And what good would it do anyway? But the thought that Larison had a secret, and might suspect that Dox and I had stumbled upon it, concerned me. This was a guy who was more than capable of killing to keep his private matters private.

We got to the store at just after ten o’clock. A gemologist named Walt LaFeber helped us. He seated us in front of a glass table in the corner of the store while he went around to the other side. On the table were a microscope and a number of other instruments.

I took out an envelope in which we had placed twenty stones of varying sizes, and emptied it carefully on the table. LaFeber picked up one of the larger stones and touched it with what looked like a current detector.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Believe it or not,” he said, “it’s just called a diamond tester. Diamonds are very good conductors of heat, and the instrument measures thermal conductivity. Yours looks good so far.”

He examined the stone with various other devices, which, he explained as he worked, identified color, hardness, specific gravity, and various internal characteristics.

After about ten minutes, he said, “Congratulations, this is quite a fine stone.”

“It’s real?” Larison said. “A real diamond?”

“Oh, yes. Quite.”

“How much would you say it’s worth?” Larison asked.

“Based on its size-nearly five carats-and its structure, shape, and color, I’d say you’re looking at somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty thousand dollars. Possibly more. A very fine stone.”

“That’s a nice neighborhood,” I said, and even Larison smiled.

LaFeber checked the rest of the stones. They weren’t all as impressive as the first one, but he estimated the least of them at over five thousand dollars. It looked like Horton had delivered.

There was no charge for the service. It was strange. We’d shown him stones worth in the neighborhood of a quarter million dollars, and didn’t even have to pay anything. I supposed it was one way the rich got richer.

We thanked LaFeber and walked out into the sunlight of Rodeo Drive, oblivious consumers flowing past us. Shopping, it seemed, would be the last thing to go, even in the face of rolling terror attacks.

We headed east on Wilshire Boulevard. I considered that I was suddenly worth something like twenty-five million dollars. But the thought felt unreal. Not just because of the amount. But because I still had to live to spend it. And because, at the moment, I couldn’t say the prospects for that looked particularly promising.

Larison and Rain boarded a bus on Wilshire and rode it toward Koreatown, where they would change to a Metro train. The wrong direction from the hotel in Santa Monica, but they were taking zero chances and weren’t going to follow a direct route to anywhere, especially now that they had the diamonds. Not today; maybe not ever again. Which was fine by Larison. He’d been living in a state of low-grade paranoia for years now. He accepted it. He was accustomed to it. He had no more problem with the necessity of watching his back to protect his life than he had with the necessity of brushing to preserve his teeth. It was just the way things were.

Rain was good cover. Larison made people nervous, but when civilian eyes lighted on Rain’s Asian features, they were reassured and kept right on going. Larison could almost see the unconscious calculation appear for an instant in their expressions: not Muslim-looking. Peaceful Japanese. No problem.

He almost couldn’t believe he had the diamonds. This is what he’d worked for, what he’d planned for, what he’d taken on the entire U.S. government for. True, Hort wasn’t dead-that punk Treven had fallen for yet another line of trademarked Hort bullshit-but Larison supposed he could accept that, at least for the moment. The original plan was to use Rain, Dox, and Treven to take out Hort, and then to close up shop by doing them, too. But Hort was a civilian now, he could be gotten to, so maybe it didn’t really matter if the order of operations had been reversed. In the scheme of combat plans being changed by a collision with battlefield reality, this was a pretty minor alteration. And, in the end, an irrelevant one.

He’d act at his first opportunity, probably as soon as they got back to the motel and he was armed again. There were really only two considerations. First was the noise of the gunshots. But they still had the suppressed weapons they’d taken from the dead guys outside Kei’s apartment. If he could access one of those without alerting anyone to what he was up to, the noise part would be taken care of.

Second was the reaction of whoever didn’t get shot first. Action always beat reaction, and he was fairly sure he could drop all three of them before the last to go had a meaningful chance to react. But fairly sure wasn’t entirely comforting under the circumstances, given the penalty he would incur for a miscalculation. Treven, Rain, and Dox were all formidable men, and Larison had to expect an exceptionally fast reaction when the shooting began. He decided he would drop Treven first, because Treven was the best combat shooter. Then Rain, because Rain had the sharpest instincts. And Dox last, because he was the biggest target and therefore the hardest to miss.

Dox. He hadn’t much cared for the big sniper initially, but his respect for him had grown. That stunt at the Hilton in D.C. was one for the record books, and Larison had to acknowledge that without it, they almost certainly all would have shot each other a second later. And when they’d almost gotten into it the night before, he couldn’t help but be impressed by how easily Dox had shed his good ol’ boy persona and suddenly presented himself as lethally calm and quiet. It was a rare man who could maintain that kind of dangerous poise in Larison’s presence. He wondered if maybe he ought to revise the order of operations and take out Dox first.

The problem was, some part of him didn’t want to take out any of them. Not even Treven, who had been dumb enough to let Hort walk away when he so easily could have left his body facedown in a remote canyon pass in the Hollywood Hills.