The third call was to Dox. “It’s me,” I said, when he’d picked up.
“‘Me’? Who’s ‘me’?” he said in his thick southern drawl.
We’d been through this before. “You know who ‘me’ is.”
He laughed, obviously pleased. “I know, I know, just trying to see-”
“If you can get me to say my name on the phone, I know. You’re going to have to try harder than that.”
“Oh, I don’t know. You’re getting older. I’ll get you sooner or later. How’ve you been, man? Goddamn if it’s not good to hear your voice, even with no name behind it.”
I briefed him on what was going on, and I could imagine him grinning on the other end.
“Sounds like someone’s going to get a mighty special going-away party,” he said.
“Yeah, and they want us to cater.”
“Well, I’m usually amenable to preparing some tasty victuals, if the per diem’s right. But what about you? I thought you were out of the catering business.”
“I’m just going to listen to a proposal.”
He laughed. “Whatever you say, partner.”
Dox was perfectly comfortable employing his deadly talents and could never understand my ambivalence. I said, “I’ll let you know what I learn.”
“Let me know? You’re fixing to go out there alone?”
“Look, there’s no sense-”
“I’ll tell you about sense. There’s no sense in leaving your dick flapping in the breeze while you walk into God knows what. I’ll meet you there and cover your back. And don’t tell me you don’t need it. You say that every time, and plenty of times you’ve been wrong.”
He was right, of course. He was as reliable a man as I’d ever known, and had once even walked away from a five-million-dollar payday to save my life. I just don’t like to have to rely on anyone.
But under the circumstances, the reflex felt like stupidity, like denial. “All right,” I said. “They’re paying me just for the face-to-face. I’ll split it with you.”
“Fair enough. What about your particulars? Secure site?”
Where possible, and especially with travel or other details that could be used to fix me in time or place, I prefer to communicate via an encrypted Internet site. Lately I’d begun carrying a Fire Vault and Tor equipped iPad-small, convenient, and a lot more secure than dedicated machines in Internet cafes, which are often compromised. “You know me,” I said.
“Yeah, I do, and I’ve learned to see some of the wisdom behind what lesser men would call your paranoia.”
I told him I’d post something within eighteen hours, then clicked off and strolled over to an Internet kiosk. There were plenty of seats available on all four daily JAL flights to Honolulu. Not the most direct route possible, but no sense in being obvious. I’d buy the ticket at Narita the next day, and likewise would take care of the L.A. leg once I landed. And I’d fly business, not first. Creating a larger data set for them to sift through wouldn’t indefinitely prevent them from zeroing in on the legend I’d be traveling under, but it would delay them, and under the circumstances a delay would be good enough.
Probably I was being overcautious. Parsimony suggested this was no more than what it looked like: JSOC wanting to contract out a particularly sensitive job, and probably one that involved natural causes. But as an organizing principle, parsimony has its limitations. Like most of what exists in nature, it can be manipulated by men.
Two days later, I sat alone at a corner table of the Beverly Wilshire’s The Blvd, enjoying a bowl of oatmeal and an Economic Energizer smoothie and slowly working my way through a pot of coffee, surrounded by a mixture of hotel guests in tourist garb and studio factotums preening about deal points over power breakfasts. I liked the hotel and would have spent the night there, but didn’t want to be a guest at the same place where, if things didn’t go well, I might have to leave Horton’s body behind. Instead, I’d stayed at the nearby Four Seasons, then strolled over to take advantage of the Beverly Wilshire’s low-key but pervasive security, which would make things more challenging for Horton’s forces if the meeting were a setup. Multiple entrances and exits on three separate streets would also complicate things for anyone planning something untoward. And on top of all the sound tactical reasons, it didn’t hurt that I liked their food.
Kanezaki had come through with information on Larison and Treven. Daniel Larison was indeed a former ISA operator, but was now deceased, blown up in the bombing attack on Pakistani Prime Minister Bhutto in Karachi on October 18, 2007. Either the death was staged, or this guy was someone else who had stepped into the dead Larison’s shoes. And Treven was apparently Ben Treven, ISA, though this wasn’t a sure thing either because Kanezaki couldn’t get photographs that I might use to match against the men I’d met. But I supposed it didn’t matter all that much what their names were. What mattered was they were working for Horton.
I’d called Horton earlier that morning to let him know where he could find me, then headed straight over to ensure I could get a table with a view of the restaurant’s hotel and street entrances. Dox was a few tables away, facing me, concealed from the entrances by one of the giant, wood-paneled pillars.
We’d spent the previous evening catching up over dinner at XIV, a restaurant on Sunset Boulevard. Over the chef’s tasting menu of heir-loom tomato amp; peach salad and Dungeness crab ravioli and other such delectables, Dox told me he’d grown bored with the little patch of paradise he’d built in Bali.
“It’s beautiful and all, you’ve been there,” he said, stroking his sandy-colored goatee. “I always thought it would be exactly what I wanted, my own place on the other side of the world. You know, far from the mad-ding crowd, and all that, but…I don’t know, maybe it’s not Bali, maybe it’s the life.”
“How so?”
“Well, shit. I can get work pretty much anytime I want it…there’s so much from the CIA and the Pentagon I’m not even taking anything from foreign clients anymore. I’m just tired of playing whack-a-mole with Achmed, I guess. I mean, what’s the point of being in the fire brigade, if the people you’re working for keep tossing matches on the underbrush? I should be glad, I realize-the big bad Global War on Terror means a nice annuity for people like you and me. What the hell, maybe it’s a midlife crisis. Maybe I should just buy a fancy car.” He took a healthy swallow of the Bombay Sapphire he was drinking, then said, “What about you and Delilah? How’s that going?”
I was drinking a 2007 Emilio’s Terrace from Napa Valley I’d discovered, strangely enough, in Bangkok. It was a cabernet and still young, but the fruit was delicious anyway. I felt vaguely sad for a moment to imagine how it might taste when it was really ready, in another decade or so. I looked at the dark liquid in the glass and said, “It’s not.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I left her in Paris. I’m back in Tokyo.”
“Back in Tokyo?” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I thought you loved Paris. Hell, I thought you loved Delilah.”
I sighed. “She wouldn’t leave the Mossad. I don’t know how many times I told her that one of us in the life and the other trying to leave it was making me insane. I finally just…I gave her an ultimatum.”
“I think I can tell by where you’re living these days how that worked out.”
I drummed my fingers on the table. “Probably for the best.”
“I don’t know. Thought you two had something special, tell you the truth.”
I nodded. The three of us had been through a lot together: first, as opposing players on hair triggers; then, when the Mossad had brought me in to take out a rogue Israeli bomb maker named Manheim Lavi, on the same team; and then, most improbably, watching each other’s backs for reasons that had nothing to do with national interests and everything to do with personal allegiances. What had bloomed between Delilah and me, I knew, was as improbable as it was precious.