The God's Eye View (13 page)

Fuck.

This was taking too long. He had to focus on what he had come for. Hamilton wasn’t his problem.

He walked over to the bodies and found a mobile phone in the pants pocket of each. He removed the batteries, tossed them all into the trunk of his car, retrieved the SIG, popped in a full magazine, charged it, and placed it on the passenger seat. He glanced at himself in the visor mirror, and was unsurprised to see a fair amount of blood splatter on his face. He walked around to the trunk, grabbed a wet towel he had placed there for this very eventuality, and cleaned off. There was some blood spray on the car, as well. He wiped it down, threw the towel inside, and closed the trunk.

He paused for a moment, watching the van, wishing he had never looked inside it. Then he thought,
Well, maybe you didn’t.

There was something to that. Because even if Hamilton made it out of here, who would he tell? Manus doubted the man could even see through those blackened eyes. The fact that he’d begged,
Please help me
, rather than, say,
Please don’t hurt me
, suggested he didn’t recognize Manus as his abductor. And even if he could see, what would he describe? Manus had been wearing his light disguise of beard, glasses, and hat the first time, and he was wearing it now. He supposed Hamilton might have picked up on the strangeness of Manus’s voice and on his deafness the first time, but this time Manus had said nothing.

Besides, the man was badly fucked up, that was clear. He would probably die here, alone, weak, helpless in the van.

Just kill him, then. You’d be doing him a favor.

Maybe. Yeah, maybe that was right. But it didn’t feel right.

Or . . . you could just take off the handcuffs. After that, it’s up to him.

That felt a little better. Because if Hamilton were smart enough to figure out that one of the dead Turks would have the keys to the van, and that they probably had money he could take, too, and if he were tough enough to drive himself out of here, and resourceful enough to find a place to recover, then didn’t he deserve a chance? And if he wanted to lie down and die, then that was what he deserved, instead. Either way, it would be on him.

Manus went to the bodies and dug around in their pockets until he found a handcuff key. He got back in the van and stepped behind Hamilton. The man began to struggle feebly—a reflex, Manus knew, from the things he’d endured. Manus also knew the man wouldn’t listen to words, no matter how reassuring. So he simply pushed him down firmly, put a knee in his back, and removed the cuffs. He wiped them with the tail of his shirt and let them drop to the floor of the van. He looked around. There were some work clothes in back—a dirty tee shirt and coveralls. That was good. The clothes the Turks were wearing were soaked in blood, and Hamilton wouldn’t make it far in that dress without getting a lot of attention. Assuming he could make it at all.

He stepped out of the van, took one last look around, got in his car, and drove off. When he was safely away, he’d get rid of the towel and bleach down the Berserker. But first, distance.

He drove and considered. He was sorry for what the Turks had done to Hamilton. He was glad he’d killed them, and hoped the man would find some solace in the sight of their broken bodies.

He wondered what he should tell the director, and decided he would tell him nothing. After all, was he even sure the director would want Hamilton dead? The director was smart, and playing at a level Manus probably couldn’t really understand. Maybe there were other plans for Hamilton. Maybe there were other factors Manus wasn’t aware of. What had they taught him in the CIA course? “You don’t know, you don’t go.” Well, the maxim certainly applied here.

All right. He had killed the men and taken their phones and left, and that was all. That’s all he had been sent to do, so it made sense. A van? Yes, there had been a van, but he had never looked inside it. Why would he?

And probably there would be nothing to tell, anyway. Hamilton would die in the van, or the director would find him again and he would die that way. That Manus had encountered him again would, in the end, make no difference. And wasn’t that the same as if Manus
hadn’t
encountered him again?

He put Hamilton out of his mind—because there
was
no Hamilton—and thought of the phones in the trunk, instead. The director would be happy. Then he thought of the woman and her son. He wondered if the director had someone watching them while Manus was away. The thought made him uneasy, though he didn’t know why.

CHAPTER
. . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . .
20

T
homas Delgado emerged from the Washington, DC Metro at Farragut West and headed south on Seventeenth Street NW, the area a kaleidoscope of streetlamps and office windows and car headlights. The worst of rush hour was past, but there were still plenty of cabs jockeying for position as they trolled for evening fares; office workers heading off for a bite with their cronies or a drink by themselves; Metro buses hissing and squealing as they absorbed and disgorged the nightly worker-bee effluent. More pedestrians would have been a plus, but daylight would have made for clearer footage on surveillance cameras. This was the right compromise.

He turned left on H Street, pulling the wheeled carry-on bag behind him, just another cubicle denizen returning to the office after arriving at Washington National or Union Station, still casually dressed in jeans and a button-down shirt, comfortable travel attire. A pair of nonprescription horn-rimmed glasses fit the overall office geek vibe, and though his Orioles cap might have been a little out of keeping, well, who in DC would begrudge a fan for flying the team’s colors? The main thing was to look enough like a local not to be noticed, while obscuring the features enough not to be recognized. The glasses and cap weren’t much, but in the low light, he was confident they would do.

He passed Lafayette Square, where a few lonely protestors stood facing the White House, holding vigil amid the buzz of insects in the trees and the surrounding sounds of traffic. Stop the war, stop the fracking, stop killing black men, stop, stop, stop. Perennial shit. He wondered why these losers bothered, why they didn’t just give up and get a life.

He powered up one of the phones the director had given him and used it to call the cell phones of a few members of a local mosque, along with the numbers of the two other phones the director had provided him. Then he powered down the unit and kept moving.

A few blocks from the White House, he saw what he was looking for: a catering truck, parked in front of one of the area’s innumerable monolithic office buildings, its driver doubtless delivering dinner inside to keep late-working drones nourished and productive into the night. He unzipped the carry-on bag and checked his surroundings, then du
cked down, removed the device, and attached it via its magnetic fastenings to the truck’s undercarriage, no more obtrusive than a man tying his shoe. Seconds later, he was on his way.

He zigzagged over to Pennsylvania Avenue and headed southeast, losing the carry-on in a Dumpster along the way after wiping down the handles and zippers. Maybe someone would find and appropriate it; maybe it would molder in a landfill. Either way, there would be no way to connect it with him.

He paused in front of the Capitol Reflecting Pool, where he repeated the phone operation with the second of the units the director had given him and another set of numbers. Finally, he looped around the Capitol grounds to the Supreme Court, where he went through the procedure once more with the last of the three phones. Then he continued southeast until he reached the Seventeenth Street SE side of the Congressional Cemetery. He slipped over the low brick wall, into the comforting gloom, and padded across the soft grass toward the interior, the light growing dimmer and the sounds of traffic more muted with each step.

He came to a row of mausoleums, faintly outlined against the glow of the adjacent Anacostia River. He paused with his back to one, letting his eyes adjust, listening. The director had warned him there would be intense coverage of the cell phones he was carrying, and that he needed to begin and end his route in what the director called “cataracts”—blind spots in NSA’s pervasive coverage. The Congressional Cemetery was one such. No cameras, no sensors, no IMSI-catcher phone trackers. Going in one end of a cataract and coming out the other was akin to crossing a river to throw off pursuit. Not a perfect solution, but with enough such crossings, a pretty effective way of ensuring no one would be able to follow your tracks.

He unbuttoned his shirt, exposing a tee shirt and belly bag beneath. Into the belly bag went the outer shirt, the glasses, the baseball cap, and the phones; out came a bandana, which he wrapped around his head. An office worker had entered the cemetery; a hipster in a do-rag would leave it.

He had zipped up the bag and was about to move out when he saw a pair of faintly glowing eyes looking up at him from the ground—eyes and a human figure. He leaped back, one hand going up in a protective gesture, the other clearing and opening the Zero Tolerance 0300 folding knife he kept clipped to his front pocket. “What the fuck?” he said in a loud whisper.

“Oh . . . sorry, man,” the person said. “Didn’t mean to startle you. I thought you’d seen me. This is my spot.”

Delgado squinted, trying to make out who he was talking to, then reminded himself to look around. He didn’t see anyone or anything else, but then again he’d missed this guy. Christ, he’d been so sure he was alone, he hadn’t been paying adequate attention.

He looked back to the man and could faintly make out bushy hair and a long beard. “What do you mean, your spot?”

“This is where I sleep, man. Find your own spot.”

“You’re homeless?” It was so ridiculous it was almost funny. All this care avoiding advanced NSA capabilities . . . and busted by some skell sleeping it off in the cemetery.

“No, man, the Waldorf Astoria was full tonight, so I decided to sleep under the stars, instead.”

The guy was funny. “The Waldorf Astoria is in New York. Maybe you mean the Willard.”

“Whatever, man. Look, I’m not looking for company, you know what I mean?”

“There are other people sleeping in this cemetery?”

“What am I, the fucking census taker? Yeah, people sleep here. But we respect each other’s privacy, too, if you catch my drift. Hey man, what’s with the costume change?”

Shit.
“Costume change?”

“Yeah, the shirt and the bandana. What are you, like, on your way to an ultimate Frisbee game?

Oh, well.
“Actually, I’m up to no good.”

The man chuckled. “Ain’t we all, man, ain’t we all.”

“If I give you fifty bucks, will you forget you saw me?”

The man’s eyes grew wide in the dark. “For fifty bucks, man, I’ll forget my own name.”

Delgado smiled. “All right, it’s a deal. Where are you, though? I can barely see you.”

The man sat up and extended his hand. “I’m right here, bro. Lay it on me. And this conversation never happened.”

Delgado stepped to the side of the man’s outstretched arm, pivoted behind him, dragged his head back by the hair with one hand, and slit his throat with the other. The man’s hands flew to his neck and Delgado kicked him away to avoid the spray. The man fell to his side, managed to get to his knees, then collapsed again, all the while making a series of low burbling sounds. Delgado looked around. He saw no one, which suggested no one was close enough to see him, either.

After a moment, the man lay still. Delgado wiped the blade on the grass, then closed and pocketed it. He moved off in the direction of Stadium Armory Metro Station.

Bad luck, running into someone. But no harm done. These bums seemed uppity about their little sleeping spots. He doubted this was the first time an argument about who the ground belonged to had escalated to bloodshed. And he doubted the police would give the matter any attention beyond that obvious explanation.

He wondered again who Ariel was. He wished he knew. Killing the bum had made him horny.

CHAPTER
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. . . . . . . .
21

M
anus spent his Sunday afternoon at the woman’s apartment. She had called and asked if he could build a loft for Dash. Like a bunk bed, but with a dresser underneath, so her son’s small room would be less cluttered. She couldn’t be there except on the weekend, she’d told him, and though Manus didn’t doubt it was true, he was aware also that she might
want
to be there when he was. And was disturbed at how pleasing he found that thought.

He was happy to build a loft for the boy—a simple job, and a good way to get close to the woman, as the director wanted. But he sensed his own motivations were less straightforward than they should have been. He’d been thinking about the woman a lot. About her smile. Her face. Her shape. About that hint of cleavage he could see, just above the V-neck of her sweater.

He’d never been in a relationship. Deafness was repellant to a lot of hearing people. And the wall he felt between himself and the civilian world because of the things he’d done, the things that had been done to him, was thicker and higher still. He knew he made people uncomfortable, and he’d long since stopped trying not to. So when he needed sex, he would email a service, and a woman would come to the hotel he designated, take his money, remove her clothes, and allow Manus to use her body as he needed to. If these women were turned off by his deafness, they were usually too professional to let on, and afterward, Manus would feel relieved, if sometimes a little sad. He’d never aspired to anything else, or been at risk of it. But now this woman, so comfortable around the deaf, and apparently so comfortable around him, was inviting him into her home on what he knew might be a pretext. It was intriguing, and exciting, and disturbing, and he didn’t know what to do about it.

In the end, he had placated his conflicted feelings by telling the director she had contacted him. The director had been characteristically blunt. “Is she interested in you?” he asked.

“I’m not sure.”

“You think she really just wants you to build a bed for her son?”

“I think it’s like you said. They don’t meet many deaf people.”

He didn’t know whether the director bought that, or whether he had noticed Manus hadn’t really answered the question.

“Well,” the director said after a moment spent stroking his chin, “on balance, I think it’s good she seems comfortable with you and . . . receptive to you. If you have the opportunity, engage her about her work. I doubt she’d open up very much to a stranger—certainly she shouldn’t—but I’d like to know if she seems troubled or conflicted. Whether she’s happy. Whether she’s considering a change of career. Anything like that. She’s doing some quite sensitive work right now, and she’s at a delicate stage in terms of her feelings about her role here. Anything you can provide might be important.”

Manus nodded, relieved that to the director it all seemed so uncomplicated.

“But please,” the director continued, “no more stunts like that thing with the baseball, all right? I’ve had six teams out scrubbing the footage from YouTube and the phones and computers of the people who uploaded it. And we had to call in a few favors from the media, too. You’re lucky you don’t have all the networks chasing you, wanting to interview the Samaritan who gave the winning ball to the deaf boy. My God, Marvin, you might have made yourself a celebrity.”

Manus knew the director was only half serious. But the comment embarrassed him regardless. He still wasn’t sure exactly why he’d given the ball to the boy. It had just happened. Though he supposed some good had come out of it. At least the director had seemed pleased.

He bought the lumber he needed at a local Home Depot, and showed up at the woman’s apartment at one in the afternoon, as she’d requested. She was wearing jeans and an oversized button-down shirt, and Manus was intensely aware of the warmth of her palm as she shook his hand in greeting, and of the shape of her body beneath her clothes. He made sure he didn’t look at that spot above the top button of the shirt, though preventing himself wasn’t easy.

The woman and the boy were barefoot, and the woman asked Manus if he wouldn’t mind taking off his boots, as well. Manus liked that they didn’t wear shoes inside, though he wasn’t sure why. It made the small apartment feel separate from the world, somehow, more a personal space for the woman and the boy, more a home.

The boy told Manus he wanted to help with everything, and they started by carrying in the lumber from the pickup. The boy seemed so eager about the whole project that Manus wondered if maybe the woman’s call had been aboveboard after all. The baseball, Manus was weirdly touched to see, occupied pride of place in the center of the dresser in the boy’s room, surrounded like a shrine by other, lesser baseball totems.

Manus explained the basic design—how the legs would each be stabilized on the short ends by a strut attached to the frame, which would leave the front end open for easy access; why a two-by-four was stronger turned on its side than it was lying flat; why they were depending more on bolts than on nails. He showed Dash how to use the basic tools of carpentry: tape measure, combination square, bubble level; marking pen and utility knife; hammer, screwdriver, crosscut saw, power drill. The boy wanted to choke up on the hammer and tap nails down in increments, but Manus showed him that no, if he held the handle low and flexed his wrist on the downswing, he could blast a nail into place with a single blow. And the handsaw—no, not a short, vibrating motion, but rather a long, end-to-end stroke, pushing down at the beginning, drawing up at the finish. The boy wanted to know where Manus had learned all this. Manus told him he’d been taught by his father, which was not entirely a lie, though for the most part the skills had come from years in the juvenile facility’s woodshop.

The job would have gone more quickly without a novice doing so much of it, but Manus didn’t mind. It was strangely satisfying to teach the boy, who was a fast and enthusiastic learner. Periodically, the woman would poke her head in to ask if they needed anything, or to bring them a snack or soda, and Manus was struck repeatedly by that way she looked at her son, the pleasure in her expression, the pride, the protectiveness.

At a little past seven, the woman asked Manus if he’d like to stay for dinner—just pizza, nothing fancy. The loft was nearly done, and Manus reflexively signed that he didn’t want to be a bother. To which Dash immediately insisted that he
had
to stay, it was La Pizza Banca, his favorite, and did Marvin like Italian sausage? Because La Pizza Banca had the
best
. Manus hesitated, thinking he hadn’t had a chance to talk to the woman alone, the way the director wanted, and that maybe it would be good to stay after all. The thought made him feel both pleased and concerned, though he wasn’t sure where to assign either emotion, and while he grappled with his conflicted feelings, the woman smiled and signed that it was no bother at all, the least they could do was provide him with a little nourishment after he’d spent most of the day teaching Dash carpentry. So Manus relented, glad and guilty at the same time.

The pizza was as good as the boy had promised, the sausage especially, the sweet and spicy taste of which stirred memories from a long time before. Or maybe it was just the environment, the feeling of being in someone’s home, welcome in someone’s home, with people who seemed comfortable with him and unafraid of him. The woman opened a bottle of wine, and though Manus didn’t drink much wine, he enjoyed it. The boy seemed especially energized by the work they’d done and carried a lot of the conversation, but it was fine talking with the woman, too, who asked a lot of questions about where Manus grew up and who had taught him carpentry and how he enjoyed living in the area. The answers were all second nature to him; he’d been living the legend so long it felt like the truth. Which was good, because the protectiveness he sensed in the woman made Manus suspect she’d already done her research on the Internet, and probably via some unauthorized searches of NSA databases, as well.

After dinner, they finished bolting together the loft and built a
lad
der. Manus put the boy’s mattress, which had been on the floor
with
no bed frame, on top of the structure, and helped them rearrange
the rest of the furniture in the room. They both thanked him profusely,
the boy’s delight focused primarily on having his bed so high u
p, the woman’s on how much space they had created in the small
room. The boy attached a clip-on lam
p to one of the railings so he
could read in bed; Manus collected wood scraps and his tools; and the
woman vacuumed up the sawdust they’d created. The boy wanted to
hang towels and turn the loft into a fort, but the woman insisted no, it was a school night and already past bedtime, the boy needed to go to sleep. The fort could wait until tomorrow. The simultaneous firmness and gentleness
in her manner gave Manus that strange feeling again, a recollection, a longing, another life.

They stepped outside and closed the door so the boy could get ready for bed. A moment later, he emerged wearing pajamas and
headed to the bathroom to brush his teeth. The woman ruffled his hair
as he passed, then signed to Manus,
What do I owe you for the work?

The thought of having her pay him when he was supposed to be spying on her made him feel uneasy, though of course that was ridiculous. He had a cover and he had to live it.

I don’t know
, he signed.
How about two hundred dollars?

Two hundred dollars? You’ve been here all afternoon! And what about all that lumber?

Don’t forget, you fed me.

She laughed.
I fed you pizza. Plus you spent so much time teaching Dash. Two hundred isn’t enough.

Okay. Two fifty.

She smiled and shook her head as though exasperated, and Manus wondered with both unease and excitement if she was pleased at the low price as much for what it might indicate about his intentions as she was about receiving such a good deal.

All right, you drive a hard bargain. I accept—on condition that you help me finish the wine. No sense wasting it, right?

His ambivalence worsened, and he hesitated. Then he reminded himself this was what the director wanted.

That would be nice. Thank you.

The boy returned. He signed,
Thank you for building me a loft, Mr. Manus. And for letting me help.

You’re a good helper
, Manus signed.
Remember, don’t choke up when you’re using a hammer.

I know
, the boy signed back, and pantomimed a solid hammer swing.

And keep your free hand out of the way.

The boy smiled and nodded, then signed,
We have tickets to the Os’ last regular season home games. Want to come?

Manus hesitated, not knowing how to respond. The woman saved him by laughing and signing,
Mr. Manus has a busy schedule, hon. And so do you—bedtime!

Can I read?

It’s really late, so just ten minutes, okay? Then lights out. Need the bathroom?

The boy shook his head, then stepped close and gave Manus a hug. It made Manus feel strange, as it had at the baseball game, but he patted the boy on the shoulder again and that seemed okay. The boy stepped back and hugged the woman, who kissed him on top of the head.

Ten minutes for real, Dash. No flashlight.

The boy gave her a small
busted
smile, went into his room, and climbed up into his loft. The woman closed the door, and they went back to the kitchen. A moment later, the boy walked in.
Bathroom?
The woman signed. The boy nodded a little sheepishly and went off. The woman smiled and shook her head.
That’s my son. Either he doesn’t need the bathroom at all, or he needs it right away. Nothing in between.

I was like that, too. Too many interesting things going on. It’s easy to forget the everyday ones.

Manus sat while the woman filled two glasses. She leaned forward a bit as she poured, and before he could stop it, Manus’s gaze went to that area, that maddening area with its swells and shadows and contrasts. He looked away, trying to concentrate. The director wanted to know if she was happy at work, or stressed, or thinking of leaving. He didn’t know how to ask about any of that without being obvious. All he had really noticed was that she seemed happy. Though maybe there was something a little sad behind the happiness. But who wasn’t that true for?

The woman sat and took a sip of wine.
It was really nice of you to come out here on a Sunday
, she signed.
And for such a small job.

Manus shook his head.
It was nothing. He’s a good kid.

The woman beamed.
The best.

How old was he when he lost his hearing?

Three.

That’s why he signs so well.

Yes.

You learned for him?

Of course. And you? Were your parents deaf?

No.

Did they learn sign?

My mother did.

Not your father?

The legend was that Manus’s father had died when Manus was an infant. Manus’s hands came up to tell her that, and instead wound up shaping the unfamiliar words,
My father wasn’t a good guy.

What do you mean?

Manus didn’t know why he had said what he’d said. Instead, he took a sip of wine, then signed,
It’s a long story.

I’m not in a hurry.

It was strange, the way he wanted to tell her things. He almost felt she would understand. But he reminded himself he needed her to talk to him.