Barry Eisler - Rain Storm aka Choke Point

I nodded. “But that’s not what you were hoping not to tell me a moment ago,” I said, my tone regretful, as though in anticipation of what I was going to have to do next.

“No, no it’s not,” he said quickly. “We also, sometimes, sometimes we put people on the ground. Oversee a transfer.”

All right, here we go. The moment of truth.

“You keep saying ‘we,’ ” I said. “Tell me who else is involved.”

He closed his eyes and nodded his head for a long moment, as though trying to comfort himself. Then he said, “There’s a former Near East Division officer. He’s a NOC, nonofficial cover, based in Hong Kong, attached to the Counter Terrorism Center. He has a lot of autonomy, and a lot of authority. The other officers stationed there give him a lot of leeway and a lot of discretion.”

“Why?”

He sighed. “The CTC guys are spooky. Area division personnel don’t really know what the CTC types are up to. Hell, I don’t generally know what they’re up to-look how CTC in Langley decided to have Belghazi eliminated, I was totally in the dark about that. Anyway, the attitude is, those CTC guys are into the black arts, maybe I don’t really even want to know. You know, they don’t talk much about what they’re up to, but they’re doing God’s work, don’t ask, don’t tell, just leave ’em alone and go out for drinks with the usual diplomatic suspects, write up an after-action report, call it a night.”

“And this guy in Hong Kong…”

“He knows about Belghazi from his days with NE.”

Finally, the link I’d been looking for: Belghazi to Mr. NOC to Crawley.

But Hong Kong… something about the Hong Kong connection was troubling me. I wasn’t sure what it was.

“Is this guy, the NOC, how you learned about me?” I asked.

He nodded.

“Tell me,” I said.

He swallowed. “Belghazi called the NOC about the dead Frenchman. The NOC checked with Headquarters CTC. He found out that Belghazi was on a list of terrorist infrastructure targets. And that we had sent someone after him in Macau.”

“He found out who?”

He nodded. “Only your name. But the Agency has a whole file on you. Once I had your name, it was easy for me to get the file from Central Records.”

“What was in the file?”

“You know, your history. A bio, suspected location, and activities.”

“What else?”

“Just an old photo. That was all.”

I thought about the photo, and about the way Belghazi had noticed me at the Lisboa. If the photo was military era, and I assumed it was, it would have been three decades out of date and wouldn’t have accounted for the plastic surgery I’d had in the interim. Still, it might have been enough for Belghazi to confirm my identity. Or they could have digitized it, worked on it to bring it up to date. Yeah, that was him , I could imagine him saying. The bastard sat right next to me in the VIP room of the Lisboa. Same night I got sick. Damn, he probably poisoned me .

Then they would have distributed copies to the Saudi team in Hong Kong and Macau. I had been right about the way that spotter was scrutinizing me.

“Who else did you check with?” I asked, hiding the irritation that was building at the thought of these idiots relentlessly, robotically, ruining the little peace I might otherwise have known.

He looked at me, wondering, I sensed, just how much I knew, how much he could try to hold back.

“People in Japan,” he said. “One of the Tokyo Station officers. Because the file said you were based there.”

“Kanezaki?”

His eyes widened. “God all-fucking mighty,” he said.

“What did Kanezaki tell you?”

“Not much,” he said, recovering a little composure. “He’s an asshole.”

I almost smiled. From my perspective, that was the best character reference Kanezaki could ever have received.

“Who else?”

“Japanese liaison-the kay, kay something.”

“Keisatsucho.” Tatsu’s outfit.

“Yeah. They had a file on you, too.”

“What do you know about a woman named Delilah?” I asked, trying to catch him off guard, see if I got a reaction.

“Delilah?”

“Blond woman, cosmopolitan, probably Israeli, maybe European. Spending time with Belghazi.”

He shook his head. “I’ve never heard of her. She’s Israeli, spending time with Belghazi?”

I looked at him, ignoring the question. I didn’t see any dissembling in his eyes.

I looked at my watch. We’d been chatting for five minutes.

“What’s Belghazi doing in Macau, anyway?” I asked.

“What he always does. Meeting with customers, making sure the shipping infrastructure is in place, overseeing a delivery, that kind of thing. Business in Hong Kong, gambling in Macau. He likes to gamble.”

I nodded, thinking. All right, Dox’s story, Kanezaki’s story, Tatsu’s story, things were checking out.

Wait a minute. Dox. That was the Hong Kong connection, the thing that had nagged at me a second earlier. Dox had been using a photo to find me there. And apparently he had some local connections, connections that were sufficient to get the hotel staff’s full attention over a “police matter.”

“Who’s the NOC?” I asked.

“I told you, a former NE Division officer, now attached to the CTC.”

“His name.”

His breathing shortened and quickened. “Please, please, don’t make me tell you that. Why would you need to know, anyway? Please, I can’t tell you something like that. I’ve told you everything else, I really have!”

I had thought that, by this point, we’d have enough momentum to get over this kind of bump. Apparently I’d been mistaken.

“Do you think, if he were in your shoes, he’d die before giving up your name?” I asked. “Because that’s what you’re choosing to do.”

“I don’t know what he’d do. I can’t… I just can’t tell you another officer’s name. I’m sorry, I can’t.”

“Two things,” I said. “First, I’m eighty percent certain I know who he is, and just want the confirmation.” This was a lie, of course, but I wanted to make it easier for Crawley to rationalize if rationalizing was what it was going to take. “Second, I’m only interested in him because he can get me close to Belghazi. So, in not telling me the name, you’re choosing to die to protect Belghazi, not to protect Agency personnel.”

He closed his eyes, and tears began leaking out. “I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m sorry.”

Shit, his hope, real or false, was fading. My leverage would be fading with it.

“The operator you went to,” I asked, fishing now. “To have me removed. He goes by the name of Dox. Is he the NOC?”

He didn’t answer. He just continued to shake his head and silently weep. His reaction told me nothing.

“I’ll give you one more chance,” I said. “The NOC’s name. Live or die, it’s up to you.”

He didn’t answer, and I realized that at some level he might not even have heard me. He had made his decision and had already accepted the consequences. I could have tried some sort of crude torture, but was reluctant to do so. The benefits of information extracted by torture are usually minimal. The costs to the psyche tend to be significant.

Still, the next part wasn’t going to be pleasant. I’d talked with him now, interacted with him, witnessed his tears and his fear and his misguided loyalty. All guaranteed to slice through decades of suddenly soft emotional callus and remind me that it was another human being whose life I was about to take.

But I didn’t have much choice. I couldn’t very well leave him alive after this encounter. He would warn Belghazi, warn the NOC in Hong Kong. And I’d mentioned Delilah, too. If he told Belghazi about her, she’d be dead that very night.