Barry Eisler - Inside out

A month earlier, Ben would have laughed at something like that, thought it was demented. But now…

"You said you'd tell me how they'd set me up."

"Easy. You got in a lot of fights growing up, didn't you?"

The truth is, the description was an understatement. "Maybe. What about it?"

"On the one hand, nothing. Everyone in the unit got in fights as a kid. There's a correlation between childhood fights and subsequent combat capability, that's all. But to the public? It becomes 'history of disciplinary problems and violence.'"

"I cheated on tests, too. Hopefully they won't nail me with that."

"You been in any fights lately? Bar brawls, anything like that?"

Ben didn't answer. But with Manila so fresh in his mind, he knew his silence was answer enough.

"Yeah, I thought so. Now you have 'anger management issues.' 'Inability to control violent temper.' I'm guessing you're divorced, am I right?"

Again, Ben didn't answer.

"That would be 'inability to form lasting social bonds.' Likewise if you're at all estranged from any kids you have. And if you ever really uncorked and got in trouble with local law enforcement, they'll use that to crucify you. They love to mention when someone's been arrested. Who needs a conviction? An arrest is just as good."

Ben tried telling himself it was like a fortune-teller's trick, that these things applied to everyone, that Larison could have done the same with anybody. But he didn't believe it. He thought of Manila… of Ami, of the jail. He'd never imagined how those things could be woven into a narrative by someone else. And was the narrative even untrue?

"Ever downloaded porn? 'Deviant.' Any solitary hobbies? 'Loner.' Talked to an army shrink? 'Psychiatric patient.' Look what the brass did to Graner and the rest after Abu Ghraib. Look at what the Bureau did to that guy Steven Hatfill, or to Bruce Ivins, when they needed to convince the public they'd found the anthrax villain. You think any of those people thought they were vulnerable? You need to wake up, my friend. You need to understand the way the system works."

"You make it sound like there's some kind of conspiracy."

Larison laughed. "Conspiracy? How can there be a conspiracy when everyone is complicit?"

Ben wanted to dismiss what Larison had told him as nothing but a paranoid rant. But he couldn't. At least not until he'd learned about the Caspers. And Ecologia.

"All right," Larison said. "We're going to split up now. Find a place to pull over."

Leaving it up to Ben was smart. Larison had chosen the general direction, so he knew Ben wasn't driving him into a setup. He'd know that if he were to choose a specific spot to stop on top of it, it would make Ben twitchy.

Ben drove for a few minutes more, then saw a sign announcing National Memorial Park Cemetery. He pulled off onto an access road and went through a gated opening in a brick wall. Inside was an expanse of trees and rolling lawns that but for scores of scattered headstones could have stood in for an ordinary public park. He followed a looping drive and pulled over. They sat in the long shadows of some nearby trees, watching each other.

"Time for us to get out of the car," Larison said. "How do you want to do it?"

This was more deference than Ben had been expecting. "Why are you asking me?"

"You're not going to kill me."

"I already told you that."

"It doesn't matter what you told me. Now I know."

"How?"

"I just do. How do you want to do this?"

"I'll go first."

"Fine."

Ben eased his little finger off the barrel of the Glock and used it to open the door. He got out, stood, and transferred the gun to his right hand. He kept it trained on Larison. Other than the sound of passing cars on the nearby highway, the cemetery was silent.

Larison opened the passenger-side door and stepped out, taking the backpack with him. He tossed it onto the driver's side of the hood. It landed with a dull thunk. They stood there, watching each other.

Larison nodded toward the bag. "Open it."

Ben unzipped the bag. He couldn't resist a peek. Just a bunch of whitish, yellowish stones, really. Hard to believe it was worth a hundred million. And everything else it had cost.

He turned the bag toward Larison and held it open. "Okay?"

Larison nodded. "Zip it up again."

Ben did. He slid it across the hood. Larison picked it up and put it on the passenger seat.

"We're done?" Ben said.

Larison closed the door. "Unless you want me to drop you off somewhere."

"No offense, but I think I'd rather walk."

Larison laughed. "No offense taken."

Larison walked around the front of the car. Ben took a step back. He didn't think Larison had any intention of trying to disarm him, but why take a chance.

Larison stood by the open driver side. He held the door, and for a second, he seemed unsteady.

"You all right?" Ben said. "You look… tired."

Larison blinked. "I don't sleep well."

They were silent for a moment. Larison looked back at the road they'd come in on. "You don't have to worry about them suborning you," he said. "They get you to suborn yourself."

"I'm not following you."

Larison held out his hand. "Let's hope you don't."

Ben hesitated, then transferred the Glock to his left. They shook.

Larison got in the car. He looked off into the distance at something Ben couldn't see.

"That sound," he said, shaking his head. "You can't imagine. Don't let them do that to you."

He squeezed the bridge of his nose and sighed. "God, I wish I could sleep."

He blew out a long breath, put the car in gear, and drove off.

Ben stood in the shadows of the swaying trees after Larison was gone. He thought, Caspers. Then, Ecologia.

He clicked on the phone and saw he had reception again. No doubt, Larison had been carrying a jammer. He brought up a map and found a Metro station-West Falls Church-less than a two-mile walk from where he stood.

He thought, Ulrich.

It was still early. And K Street wasn't far.

Think It Over Larison drove east into Arlington, where he parked the car in a strip mall and transferred the diamonds into a nylon bag. There was an envelope inside. He hadn't noticed it at the cemetery. He held it up to the dome light, saw nothing untoward, and opened it. It was from Hort. A phone number. And a message telling him to call. There was something he needed to know.

He frowned at the note for a long moment, then pocketed it. He waved a portable metal detector over the diamonds and got no reading. Okay, no tracking device in a fake stone. In a few days, maybe a week, he'd visit a jewelry store with some samples and confirm that he'd received what he'd bargained for. And God help them if he hadn't.

He hooked up the jammer to an external battery and left it in the car's glove compartment. If the car had a transmitter, it would be out of commission for at least another six hours. By then, Larison would be long gone.

He bought a backpack in a sporting goods store and put the nylon bag of diamonds inside it. He used the satellite phone to reset the dead-man trigger on the tapes. Then he found a bus stop and waited, his head down, his baseball cap pulled low.

He supposed he should have felt happy, or at least relieved. But he didn't. He'd always intended to release the tapes after he'd received the diamonds. And now he couldn't. He'd been exposed, and Nico was at risk. Yes, as long as the tapes were out there, Nico would be safe. And he'd gotten the money. But he'd also been neutralized. There wouldn't be any justice. And more than anything else, he'd wanted this thing to end with justice.

He tried to focus on what was in the backpack. At least there was that.

He took out the letter from Hort and looked at it again. He didn't need to call. What could Hort tell him, anyway?