The Detachment (14 page)

L
arison and Treven drove through the desert on Interstate 15, the sun rising behind them. Larison had heard from Rain and Dox two hours earlier that the job was done, and they were on their way back to Los Angeles to meet and debrief.

Rain had been vague about how and when he’d finished Shorrock, and Larison had a feeling that while some of this reticence was due to sensible communications security, Rain also didn’t want to let on that he’d waited to inform Larison and Treven so that he and Dox could get a head start leaving town. Larison understood. He would have done the same. As far as Rain knew, Larison and Treven could be under orders to tie up loose ends by eliminating Rain and Dox once Shorrock was done. They weren’t, though Larison’s actual plans weren’t so far off from what Rain probably suspected. Regardless, it was natural that Rain would be careful. Assassinating the assassins was practically SOP for a job as high-profile as this one.

Larison had called Hort from a sterile phone while on the road and briefed him. Hort told him to check in when he knew more, but hadn’t asked where he and Treven would be meeting Rain and Dox. Hort would understand that Larison had the same concerns about Hort that Rain had about Larison.

The car was a gray Ford Taurus rented at LAX, with no navigation system or automated toll payer that someone might use to track them. Treven was driving, nice and easy, not a mile over the speed limit, just a couple of white guys heading back to California after a few days of gambling. Larison looked out the window at the passing brown hills and dusty chaparral and considered how much he ought to tell him. A lot, he decided. There was no other way to properly motivate him. But he had to do it cleverly, and with certain key omissions. Treven’s instincts might be blunted by an excess of infantile patriotism, but he was far from stupid.

He turned and looked at Treven. “So what has he got on you?”

Treven glanced at him, then back to the road. “Who?”

“You know who. Hort.”

There was a pause. “Why do you think he’s got something on me?”

“Because Hort has something on everyone. It’s how he works.”

Treven didn’t answer. Larison said, “You know what he has on me.”

Treven nodded.

Larison said, “You know what he told me will happen if I ever release those torture videos?”

Treven nodded again. “Your friend will be killed.”

Larison was weirdly grateful that Treven would be so oblique. The man knew perfectly well what Nico was to Larison. For an instant, Larison imagined what it would be like to be able to trust someone with his secret, and then, with a scary, giddy rush, what it would be like not to have to keep it a secret at all.

He shook off the feeling and said, “He told me they would send contractors to rape Nico’s nieces and nephews and mutilate his parents and sisters and brothers-in-law. Bring down the wrath of God on his entire extended family, every last one of them. And then tell Nico why it had happened, how it had been my fault.”

There was another pause. Treven said, “Then don’t release the tapes.”

“Yeah? And what is it you’re not supposed to do? Who’s getting fucked on your side to keep you in line?”

Treven didn’t answer.

Thinking he needed to push a little harder, Larison said, “Do I really need to point out that we have similar problems? Which might have similar solutions, if we try to solve them together?”

“Meaning?”

“How can I answer that if you won’t tell me what he’s got on you?”

They drove in silence. A revelation of Larison’s own to build trust, the possibility of working together to create hope, silence to draw Treven out. If the man was going to open up, this would be the time.

Come on,
Larison thought.
Talk. Once you start, you’ll keep going.

He had just begun to think he’d miscalulated when Treven said, “You know that former vice presidential chief of staff you told me about? The one who was tortured to death in his office?”

Larison smiled. “Ulrich.”

“Yeah, David Ulrich.”

Larison’s smile lingered. “I thought you might have been the one who did him.”

“I wasn’t. But I was in his office shortly before it happened, and I tuned him up pretty hard. Hort says the CIA has security tapes that place me there at the time of his death.”

“You believe him?”

“There was no other way for him to know I was there.”

“Well, then, I’d say you have a real problem on your hands. Unless you don’t mind being Hort’s fuckboy for the rest of your life.”

“It’s the CIA that has the tapes.”

“Hort told you that?”

Treven didn’t answer.

“Because that’s what he would tell you. You know that, right?”

Again, no answer.

“Look,” Larison said. “I’d lay good odds Hort has those tapes himself. He’s not going to tell you that, otherwise you know he’s the one squeezing your nuts. Instead, he positions himself as the guy who’s trying to help you relieve the pressure. It’s the way it’s done.”

“Yeah. I get it.”

“And even if it were true the CIA did have the tapes, they don’t give a shit about you, not as long as you don’t get in their business. Get rid of Hort and you don’t have to worry about anyone using those tapes against you, regardless of who’s holding them.”

“Get rid of him?”

“Come on. You’re telling me you’ve never considered it? How stupid do you think I am?”

Treven shook his head. “You don’t need me for that. You can make Hort dead on your own.”

“But there’s something else I want.”

There was a pause. Treven said, “The diamonds.”

“Correct. And that’s not a one-man job. It’ll take two, minimum.”

“But you’re thinking four would be more like it.”

Larison smiled. No, Treven wasn’t stupid at all.

“We’re talking about a hundred million dollars,” Larison said. “Rain and Dox could have a quarter each. So could you. Once we have the diamonds, I’ll take care of Hort gratis.”

Treven didn’t answer, and Larison couldn’t tell what he was thinking. But he could guess. Twenty-five million and the removal of the man who was blackmailing him? Who wouldn’t jump at the chance?

“Well?” Larison said. “Are you in?”

There was a long pause. Larison waited, letting the silence do its work.

Finally, Treven said, “You’d have to tell me the plan first.”

Larison smiled. Treven was in. Now all he had to do was dangle the diamonds in front of Rain and Dox, too.

I
called Horton as Dox drove us past Pasadena. There are those who would suggest I’m paranoid, or they would if they were still alive, anyway, but I didn’t want anyone triangulating on the position of our rental car while we were on some deserted stretch of Route 15, with no alternate routes possible and nowhere to run or hide.

“It’s done,” I told him.

“I heard,” he said, pleasure in his rich baritone.

That was pretty fast—Dox and I had left Las Vegas less than four hours earlier. Ordinarily, a body can sit for a long time in a closed restroom stall without anyone noticing anything amiss. Usually it’ll be discovered by a cleaning person, trying to clear and close the bathroom before getting to work. Maybe an early morning crew had found Shorrock. More likely, the bodyguards went looking for him when he didn’t come back from his mysterious solo errand. I realized I should have foreseen they’d find him sooner than normal. But it didn’t really matter.

“You hear about any problems?” I asked.

“None at all. Glad to see your reputation is well deserved.”

“We were lucky.”

“I doubt it. You used what I gave you?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Now, to save you from asking the obvious question, your remuneration has already been distributed per your instructions. You can each confirm receipt.”

The conversation was so familiar I might have been having déjà vu. It was appalling, how natural it felt to be doing this again. How…normal. As though I’d been forced to use only my weak hand for the last few years, and was at last again able to use my strong one.

“I’ll tell the others.”

“Good. And if you’re heading back to the area where we previously met, I’d like to see you again.”

Alarm bells went off in my head. “Why?”

“To brief you on the next one.”

“Why do we have to meet for that?”

“Because I’m not going to put the details in writing or say them over the phone. Look, under the circumstances, I completely understand your hesitation. So, needless to say, we can meet anywhere or anyway that’s comfortable for you.”

I didn’t like it. Ordinarily, the probable quality and quantity of the opposition were such that I could implement satisfactory countermeasures. But Horton could bring some exceptionally heavy firepower into play if he wanted to. I imagined a SWAT team, briefed about the presence of Shorrock’s armed-and-dangerous killer, surrounding a restaurant with me inside it.

“The guy who just left the project isn’t enough?” I said, stalling for time.

“Not quite. I need two more personnel changes to make sure the project doesn’t get off the ground. If it does, it’s going to cost the company a lot of money. You’ve proven you’re the man for this. Finish the job and there’s a hell of a bonus.”

I didn’t know if I wanted this. But what did I want?

“Where are you now?” I said, improvising.

“In the city.”

“Close to where we met before?”

“I could be there in twenty minutes.”

“Go to the same hotel. I’ll call in less than an hour.”

“Good.”

I clicked off.

“He’s got some more work for us?” Dox said.

“Two more. And a big completion bonus, apparently. How’s that sound to you?”

He smiled. “Sounds like money, partner.”

“Maybe. How do you feel about a face-to-face?”

“You worried he’s gonna be Jack Ruby to our Lee Harvey Oswald?”

“Something like that.”

He reached under the seat and produced the Wilson Combat. “Old Oswald should have carried one of these.”

I thought about it for a moment, and decided there was a way. “Head to West Hollywood,” I said.

When we were off the highway and had driven a couple of miles west on Santa Monica Boulevard, I called Horton again. At this point, anyone listening in wouldn’t have time to scramble a team after us, so the momentary breach of communication security I was about to commit would be harmless. “Urth Caffé,” I told him. I knew the place from previous visits to L.A., and though I liked their coffee, we wouldn’t be enjoying it today. “Corner of Melrose Avenue and Westmount Drive.”

“I’ll be there in under ten minutes.”

I clicked off. Horton was a precise man, and it occurred to me that he must know the city reasonably well to be able to instantly offer such an estimate. I wasn’t sure what that meant, if it meant anything, but I filed the information away for subsequent consideration.

We parked on Westmount, just south of Melrose, and got out. The air felt cool compared to the blast furnace heat of Las Vegas, and the late morning sky above the mixed palm and deciduous trees was a clear, hard blue. We both headed to the restroom in Urth, squeezing past tables of chattering, oblivious Angelenos clustered around metal tables under the shadows of green umbrellas on the sidewalk and patio. The coffee smelled like heaven, but we didn’t have time and I was already amped for the meeting with Horton. Maybe later.

We went back to the car, Dox in the backseat this time while I took the wheel. I drove around the block, right turn following right turn, single family bungalows, walk-up apartment houses, low slung commercial establishments like Bodhi Tree Bookstore and Peace Gallery, repeat. Knots of pedestrian shoppers shifted and glided along the sun-drenched sidewalks, but no sign of Horton. And no sign of anything untoward, either—black Chevy Suburbans with darked-out windows; sedans with hard-looking men inside idling at the curb; a formation in sunglasses and unseasonable jackets taking up positions around the perimeter of the restaurant and beginning to move in.

My phone buzzed—Horton. I clicked on and said, “Yeah.”

“I’m here, but I don’t see you.”

“Walk out of the restaurant left on Melrose and immediately turn left onto Westmount. We’ll be there in a minute.”

“Still being cautious, I see.”

“I’m sure it’s unnecessary.”

He chuckled. “I fully understand.”

I clicked off and handed my phone back to Dox. “Phones off,” I said. “And take out the batteries.” Horton knew the number, and someone could triangulate on it while we drove. Probably unnecessary, as Horton put it, along with my other precautions, but if you’re serious about having something life-saving in place the one percent of the time you really need it, you’ll have to have it in place the other ninety-nine percent, too.

Dox laughed. “This about automobile cell phone use being illegal in the great state of California?”

“No,” I said, glancing in the rearview and trying to hide my exasperation. Dox’s cell phone habits had once nearly gotten us killed in Bangkok. “It’s about—”

He laughed. “I know, I know, we don’t want anyone triangulating on us. Just pulling your leg, partner. Though I don’t know why I bother, it’s so easy.”