Authors: Barry Eisler
McGlade leaned forward and worked his computer for a moment. “April 16, 2007. That was the day Larison flew from Miami to San Jose the second time. So the first time would have been … maybe three months before that. Four at the most.”
“Remember the airline?” Ben said.
“Lacsa. Costa Rican carrier, United affiliate, I think.”
Ben nodded. It wasn’t perfect, but it was a pretty good start. Hort could check the passenger manifest on the day Larison traveled. Ben doubted the man would have been traveling under his own name, but now they had a good shot at uncovering an alias. Or one of them, anyway.
McGlade said, “All right? That’s everything I know. You don’t have to crawl up my ass now. Unless you’re into that kind of thing.”
“One more question,” Paula said, smiling. “The name of your friend’s bar.”
Larison stepped off the bus at the Greyhound station in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. The ticket he’d bought was for Scranton. One was as good as the other, he just didn’t like going where the ticket said he would. He knew no one was watching—paying cash and moving by bus was the most secure and anonymous means of travel left in America—but there was no downside to layering in another level of security, either.
He slung his bag over his shoulder and started walking, his boots crunching quietly on the cement sidewalk. The sun was setting behind the tired-looking buildings to his right, but the air was still suffused with a stagnant heat. He didn’t care. A little sweat, a little body odor would make it less likely that anyone would take an interest in him or recall his passage after he was gone.
He headed south along Market Street, knowing he’d find a
hotel soon enough. In his worn jeans and faded flannel shirt, his unshaven face obscured by a Cat Diesel hat, he knew he looked like a tradesman of some sort who’d lost his job in the hollowed-out economy and was looking to find another. Nobody important, but not a criminal, either, just a down-on-his-luck guy moving away from something sad and toward something maybe a little better, interesting to nobody, not even to himself.
More than anything, he wished he could have spent these days with Nico in San Jose. Or better yet, on the beach in Manuel Antonio, where they’d first met. Costa Rica had become a kind of symbol in his mind, a shorthand for forgetting everything about his past and living the way he wanted to, with the person he wanted to. But he couldn’t afford to go there now. He was too tense, for one thing. Nico, who could read his moods like no one who’d ever known him before, would intuit something was wrong. Also, for now, Larison preferred not to cross international borders. He wanted his remaining few contacts with the government to come from a variety of entirely random eastern seaboard locations, including the last contact, when he would instruct them on how to deliver the diamonds. After that, he would vanish like smoke.
For a moment, the thought of vanishing made him feel almost giddy. Because it would seem like vanishing only from his enemies’ perspective. From his own standpoint, it would be more like … more like being reborn, like his real self finally stirring to wakefulness. And once that part of him, the real him, the self he’d denied and obscured and hidden for so long, was awake, the dreams would stop, wouldn’t they? Yes, that would be one of the best parts about waking up, that the dreams would finally end. They’d belong to someone else then. They couldn’t touch him in Costa Rica.
He’d gone there for the first time five years earlier, while on temporary duty training the Honduran government’s praetorian guard in intelligence gathering and interrogation. He’d heard of Manuel Antonio, supposedly a gay paradise on Costa Rica’s Pacific
coast. It was a short flight to San Jose, and from there, a short drive to Manuel Antonio. Of course he hadn’t told anyone where he was going, he was just taking a few days to himself. He was married, and people naturally assumed he was being tight-lipped because he was chasing whores and wanted to be discreet. No one cared about that sort of thing. Getting a little strange tail was considered one of the perks of temporary duty and was ironically protected by its own informal “Don’t ask, don’t tell” policy. He was happy to have people think it of him. It wasn’t so terribly far from the truth and was therefore perfect cover.
Manuel Antonio lived up to its billing: white sand beaches framed by swaying palm trees to one side and blue surf to the other; dozens of lively bars and clubs and restaurants; nothing but young, toned men, all relaxed, fearless, looking to hook up. He remembered thinking the moment he arrived he would have to find a way to get back, it was that good.
He’d met Nico on Playita, one of the surfing beaches. Nico was riding a board in and then paddling it back out, sometimes with some other surfers, other times alone, and Larison was watching from the sand, admiring the way Nico got the most out of his waves, enjoying the occasional flash of brilliant teeth against smooth, cappuccino-colored skin, the lean muscles that stood out whenever he cut back against a wave or moved his arms to recover his balance. A few times, as he got close to the beach, Nico caught his eye and smiled. Larison smiled back, wondering. He guessed Nico was at least ten years younger. Some guys liked hooking up with someone older, more experienced. Some didn’t. He knew which he hoped the gorgeous creature on the surfboard would be.
After about a half hour, Larison had walked down the hot sand and stood with his feet in the cool, clear water. He watched Nico surfing in, glad to see he was heading right in his direction.
Nico rode in about twenty feet from the beach, then slowly sank into the water as the wave’s force depleted. He picked up his board and waded over to Larison, smiling, rivulets of water running
down his skin, his chest and shoulders broken out in gooseflesh.
“You like to surf?” he asked in Spanish-accented English.
Larison was surprised. When he didn’t want to be spotted as an American, he was adept at projecting something else, and thought he had been. “How do you know I speak English?” he asked.
The smile broadened. “You seem so happy. I think maybe you’ve never been here before.”
Larison should have been irritated or on guard that this guy had made him. But he wasn’t. In fact, for reasons that just then he didn’t really understand, he felt secretly glad.
“Well, you’re right about that,” he said.
“So? You like to surf?”
Larison smiled. “I like surfers.”
A blush appeared behind Nico’s tan cheeks, a blush Larison found surprisingly disarming, even endearing.
They had dinner that night, then made love in Larison’s hotel room. Larison was ordinarily aggressive in bed, and usually attracted men who sensed the conflicted rage in him and wanted to be on the receiving end of it. But Nico brought out something different in him, something much more gentle, even tender. They’d spent the next two days and nights together, and Larison had concocted an excuse to delay his return to Honduras for two days more. He would have tried to stay even longer, but Nico had to return to San Jose, where he had a small architectural practice. They drove back to the capital city together in Nico’s old Jetta. As they sat in the idling car at the curb of the airport passenger drop-off, there were a dozen things Larison wanted to say, none of which he could find the courage to articulate.
“Do you want to see me again?” Nico asked, as Larison hesitated, his hand on the door handle.
“Yes,” Larison said, meeting his eyes and then looking away, both hopeful and terribly afraid of what might be said next.
“I want to see you, too.”
Larison looked at him again, hoping Nico would see how much his words meant, and understand why Larison couldn’t answer.
“You’re married, aren’t you?” Nico said.
Larison looked away, ashamed but also strangely grateful for Nico’s ability to read him, to understand what other people could never see.
He wanted to lie. Instead he found himself nodding, unable to meet Nico’s eyes.
“It’s okay,” he heard Nico say. “I thought so. I’m glad you told me.”
“It’s … complicated.”
“Of course it is,” Nico said, without a trace of sarcasm or condescension.
“Can we … let’s just see what happens. I want to see you again. This feels different.” He couldn’t believe what he was saying. He swallowed. “Special.”
“I’m out, you know. Everyone knows I’m gay—my family, my firm. I don’t really want to go back to halfway in the closet, you know?”
Larison nodded, his mind a roiling mass of emotions. He’d never had this kind of conversation before, with anyone. He’d never even imagined having it. He never would have dared.
“But I would do that,” Nico said. “For you.”
Larison looked at him. He couldn’t speak. He felt an excitement that was becoming indistinguishable from panic.
And just then, in that mad moment, gripped by impossible hope, Larison felt something bloom in his mind. An idea—no, not even an idea, just a possibility, a possibility he’d never considered before but whose contours he was immediately able to recognize.
“Give me some time,” he heard himself saying. “There are some things I can do … to find a way out of what I’m in. Can you do that? Can you be patient?”
Nico smiled shyly and said, “For you, Dan,” and Larison was immediately glad he’d told Nico his real first name. Ordinarily he wouldn’t do that, but from the first instant there had been something
about Nico that had made Larison want to be honest with him. About the things he could be, anyway.
He took Nico’s card but didn’t embrace him. He knew Nico wanted him to, but also knew Nico sensed that he was already melting back into his public self and that any contact in that guise would be unacceptable.
After that, he was able to find a way to visit Costa Rica at least twice a year, sometimes as many as four. He traveled only under legends he himself had developed. He was extremely paranoid about communication, creating an encrypted email account for each of them under false identities and instructing Nico how to use it without establishing any possible connection to either of them. The security procedures were unfamiliar to Nico, but he understood Larison’s fanaticism to be an outgrowth of his fear of being outed, and was always exceptionally careful as a result. In fact, Nico displayed an aptitude and even eagerness for some of the security tools of the trade, which gratified Larison not only for the obvious substantive reasons, but also because he knew it was a sign of Nico’s devotion and desire to please him, as well.
Of course, meeting repeatedly in Costa Rica and staying in Nico’s apartment was suboptimal from a security standpoint, but Larison didn’t have the money to fly both of them to neutral locations or to pay for hotels. It was all he could do to conceal from Marcy the money he was diverting from his military salary for coach travel to Costa Rica. More than that would have risked causing suspicions.
But now they would be able to travel anywhere, live anywhere. He’d come to love Costa Rica and what it represented, but he thought it would be wise to move on, at least for a while, when this thing was done. He’d asked Nico before about someplace new—Barcelona, maybe, or Buenos Aires. Nico had been reluctant because his practice was based in San Jose. So Larison had told him he was working on something big, a sale of his company that would set them both up for life. Larison would finally leave his wife, buy them land somewhere, and Nico could design the house
while he worked on establishing a new practice. How did that sound? Nico said it sounded wonderful, though Larison sensed he didn’t really believe it could be true. Well, he’d see soon enough.
The sun was now completely blotted out by looming office buildings and darkness was seeping into the sky. He came to a Hilton hotel and decided it would do as well as any other. He walked in, hoping he’d be able to sleep a little better this time than last.
The people in government who made mistakes or who acted in ways that seemed reasonable at the time but now seem inappropriate have been held publicly accountable by severe criticism, suffering enormous reputational and, in some instances, financial losses. Little will be achieved by further retribution
.
JACK GOLDSMITH, FORMER ASSISTANT ATTORNEY GENERAL
IN THE JUSTICE DEPARTMENT’S OFFICE OF LEGAL COUNSEL
That is not to say presidents and vice presidents are always above the law; there could be instances in which such a prosecution is appropriate, but based on what we know, this is not such a case
.
JON MEACHAM, NEWSWEEK
If you’re going to punish people for condoning torture, you’d better include the American citizenry itself
.
MICHAEL KINSLEY, THE WASHINGTON POST
Three hours after leaving McGlade, Ben and Paula were on a flight to Costa Rica. Hort had arranged for a small jet to take them from Orlando International. Ben didn’t ask and Hort wouldn’t have told him, but Ben suspected the jet was part of the Jeppesen/Boeing–supported civilian fleet used to render and transport war-on-terror detainees through a series of black site prisons.
Ben had never been to Costa Rica and hated the idea of a hot landing in a place he didn’t know and didn’t have time to reconnoiter. Ordinarily, he would arrive in a place several weeks before the actual action to thoroughly familiarize himself with the terrain. No chance for that this time around, but he’d bought a guidebook in Orlando and was perusing it on the plane. Far from ideal, but it was a start. And he’d picked up some sneakers and a Tommy Bahama short-sleeved button-down shirt and cargo shorts that he
figured would blend better than the faux-FBI outfit he’d worn to visit Marcy Wheeler. Paula was still in her navy pantsuit, and he figured she was most comfortable looking professional and governmental. Fine for her, but he generally liked to look like whatever would be least noticed in the environment at hand.