Barry Eisler - Inside out

"How's that working out for you?"

"Making a difference?"

"Yeah."

"It's hard, sometimes. Getting anything done in this bureaucracy is like trying to swim in molasses. But I've found ways."

"You work in the D.C. headquarters building?"

"I do. Do you know it?"

"Visited on a school field trip when I was a kid."

"You grew up in the area?"

"For a while. Among other places."

"But you know Washington."

He remembered a family excursion to the city when Alex had still been in a stroller. The five of them had stayed in a single room in a cheap hotel off Dupont Circle. Alex wanted to start at the zoo. Katie wanted the ballet. Ben wanted the war memorials. Their dad wanted the Smithsonian. Their mom had tried to negotiate the resulting hairball. It had rained the entire weekend and even Katie couldn't stop the fights. Ben had been back maybe a half dozen times since then, never staying for longer than he had to.

"I know it well enough to know I'd rather be somewhere else," he said.

"And where is that?"

"Why, you thinking about visiting me?"

"Just making conversation."

Her questions were innocuous enough, but they were making him uncomfortable. He didn't want to tell her too much. Harmless details could sometimes be assembled into a meaningful mosaic.

"How about you?" he said. "Why the FBI? Why not CIA, or the military?"

"Because I believe in law and order. Plus I don't like violence. Law enforcement's about breaking the cycle of violence."

He briefly wished someone had told that to the Manila cops who'd exhausted themselves beating the crap out of him. With every passing hour, the memory of those four days felt increasingly bizarre and improbable. But still, every time he thought of it, the cops cuffing him and later whaling on him, the heat and stink of the prison, the feeling of being swallowed up by some huge, insentient beast, cut off from anyone who knew him, anyone who cared "And you?" she said.

"What about me?"

"Why the military?"

"Military? I don't know anything about the military."

"My ass, you don't," she said, shaking her head.

He liked the thought of her ass, which he'd had a few opportunities to appreciate during their unlikely time together. He smiled to let her know.

She cocked an eyebrow and gave him the bored look again. "My God, you're really just fourteen years old, aren't you?"

"It feels like sixteen, actually, but I could be off by a little."

"Actually, I think fourteen is generous."

He smiled. "I thought you said before you didn't have time to flirt with me."

She snorted. "What makes you think I'm flirting with you?"

"Aren't you?"

"I certainly am not."

"Yeah, you are. Otherwise you wouldn't have denied it so fast."

"Oh, dear. Romeo here can't go wrong. When a woman says she's interested, she's interested. When she says she's not interested, she's still interested. Did you know that grandiosity and megalomania are primary characteristics of narcissistic personality disorder?"

"Don't get me wrong. I don't mind."

"Well, I'm glad you're enjoying yourself."

"So, are you married?"

She squinted at him. "Are you for real?"

"You don't have to answer if you don't want to."

"Oh, thank goodness. For a moment there, I thought you had subpoena power or something."

"Well?"

"Let's just keep this professional, all right? I don't think we need to start getting to know each other's personal lives and all that."

"Suit yourself. You're the one who was flirting."

"Please."

"So you're not married."

"No, I'm not married."

"Why not?"

"What are you, my grandmother?"

"Does she ask you that?"

"All the time. But she has an excuse. She's senile."

"Do you date?"

She laughed. "What is this, twenty questions? Why are you asking me this bullshit? Seriously."

"I'm interested in you."

"You're not interested in anyone but yourself. You've got that written all over you."

She seemed to mean it, and because it wasn't the first time he'd heard such a thing, the comment bothered him enough to make him want to ask what she meant. But he knew if he did, he'd lose the initiative. Initiative toward what, he wasn't really sure.

"I'm just wondering what it's like to be a young, attractive, female FBI agent who's smarter and got more moxie than most of the men around her."

"Oh, is that me? Smarter and with more moxie?"

"Don't forget the attractive part."

"Yes, I heard that, too."

"So, are they intimidated by you? Do they hit on you?"

"You know what you're doing right now?"

"What?"

"It's called projection. Do you know what that is?"

"I think I've heard of it."

"You've heard of it, but you don't recognize it. It's when you attribute to others a behavior you sense but can't face in yourself."

"Is that what I'm doing?"

"Of course it is. You're intimidated by me and it's making you uncomfortable. You deal with the discomfort by being sexually passive-aggressive with me. Hitting on me, that is, which makes you feel dominant. But rather than recognize any of that and deal with it like an adult, you suggest that it's other people who must do what you yourself are doing right this very minute."

Ben puffed up his cheeks and blew out a breath. "That's a pretty sophisticated analysis."

She looked at him, and once again he was struck by an incongruous gentleness in her eyes. "It's actually pretty simple," she said. "You're hurting inside, Ben or whatever your name really is. That's where all the adolescent bluster comes from. You don't want anyone to see what's really going on in there, so you act like a jerk to push them away. I expect it works really well for you, too."

After everything that had happened with Alex, that one stung. He thought of Hort, stripping him bare with his commentary in that filthy prison. A few rejoinders came to mind, but because he sensed that maybe she was right, they all made him feel pathetic.

"I guess it does," he said.

But she didn't catch that he wasn't sparring anymore. "Now listen," she said, "we're busy now, we have a job to do. But you know what? When this is over?"

He raised his eyebrows.

"When this is over, I want you to make a little time for yourself and look up some of the disorders we've been talking about. Projection, for example. Maybe you can get some insight."

He didn't answer. He'd had about as much insight as he could handle.

Breaking the Cycle of Violence Ben and Paula landed at Quepos, a small airport on the Pacific coast with an open-air pavilion handling both departures and arrivals. Hort had taken care of customs, and they hadn't needed to transit through San Jose.

At the curb, a young, fit-looking brown-skinned guy in shorts, a polo shirt, and shades was leaning against a dark green van. Ben and Paula walked over.

"Where are you heading?" the guy asked.

"Up the coast," Ben responded, using the bona fides Hort had provided. "Hoping to see some crocodiles."

The guy nodded, handed Ben a set of keys, and walked off without another word. Paula watched him go. "We don't have to sign for anything?"

"I guess not."

"If I didn't already know you're a spook, that's pretty much the proof. If you were FBI, we'd be waiting in a rent-a-car line now."

Ben smiled and opened the driver-side door. Paula rolled her eyes and moved around to the passenger side. "I know, I know, the man's got to drive," she said. "What does this thing do, shoot Hellfire missiles? Turn into a boat?"

"No, but if it's what I'm expecting, in back it's got one-way glass on the windows, a couple of comfortable swivel seats, and even a portable toilet. Perfect for all your mobile surveillance needs."