The God's Eye View (25 page)

CHAPTER
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40

T
he room was clean and functional: two queen beds separated by a nightstand; a table and two chairs; pine-paneled walls and low-pile carpeting. It was deluxe compared to some of the places Manus had stayed, but he wasn’t sure how the woman and the boy would like it. He knew Evie was scared and uncertain, though she was doing a good job of hiding it. Dash seemed all right, and Manus sensed he was picking up his emotional cues from his mother.

They all took turns in the small bathroom. Manus went last, and when he came out, Dash was in pajamas. Smart of Evie, to bring something of their home routine on the road with them, a small comfort for her son. Far back in his mind, Manus was aware of that feeling—a ghost, a vanished memory, a shadow from another life. He noticed Evie looking at him closely and pushed it away.

Dash went to the bathroom to brush his teeth. Manus pointed to the bed farthest from the exterior door, then signed,
You take that one. Better for me to be closer to the door.

She looked frightened at that, and he realized the possibility of having to engage someone breaching the door was new and unnerving to her. Along with, presumably, everything else that was happening. He signed,
Just being careful.

I’ve noticed that about you.

I’m sorry.

It’s okay. I think we need it right now.

I mean . . . I’m sorry for everything.

Dash came out of the bathroom. He handed Evie his toothbrush and yawned.

She smiled at him.
Time for bed.

He smiled back.
No school tomorrow?

No school.

He walked over to Manus and looked up at him.
Thanks for helping my mom.

Manus nodded, not knowing how to explain that he deserved no thanks for anything he had done.

When you’re finished, will you help me build a desk under my loft? My mom said you might.

Manus glanced over at Evie. She looked discomfited, and he gathered she hadn’t expected the boy to repeat that. And of course whenever she’d said it, things had been completely different.

Only if you help me carry the lumber.

The boy’s face lit up in a big smile and he held out his hand. Manus shook it, and then the boy hugged him. As always, it made Manus feel strange—guilty, happy, sad.

And now, he realized, something else, as well. What? Maybe . . . protective. Not the way he always had with the director. That was different. This was . . . he didn’t know. He’d think about it later.

Evie tucked the boy in and kissed his forehead. She held out the tee shirt the boy had been wearing and signed,
Mister Manus and I are going to talk for a few minutes. Put this over your eyes so the light won’t disturb you, okay?

The boy signed,
It’s okay, it won’t bother me,
and Manus knew he wanted to see what they were saying.

Evie smiled.
You go to sleep.

Manus signed
, It’s late. Probably better to turn the lights off anyway. We can just talk in the bathroom.

Evie looked at him for a moment, then nodded in apparent understanding. No advantage to having light creeping under the door or through the edges of the drapes and drawing attention to the room, even though they were registered in the one adjacent to it.

They left the door open a crack. Evie sat on the edge of the tub; Manus took the closed toilet.

She glanced through the crack in the door as though at the world outside, then signed,
What are we supposed to do?

He knew how it would sound, but he said it anyway.
You have to give the director the thumb drive.

She looked at him for a long moment.
How do you know I have it?

They told me you do.

How did they know? How did they know about the Rockville mail drop?

I don’t know. The director told me you had stolen media, probably a thumb drive, and that we had to get it back.

Do you even know what this is about?

Manus was perplexed. He didn’t know. Not really. He didn’t need to.
He really just wants the thumb drive. That’s why—

She shook her head forcefully.
No. That’s not just what he wants. Maybe it was at one point. But not anymore.

Manus knew she might be right, probably
was
right. But his way at least offered a chance. He had to persuade her.
Then what?

She hesitated. Manus knew she was gauging how much she should trust him. If he were in her shoes, he knew he wouldn’t say anything. But maybe she decided she had no choice, because she signed,
I told you, I saw some things I wasn’t supposed to. I guess that’s what you were fishing for, weren’t you?

He nodded, ashamed.

I was talking about the bombing in DC
, she continued.
The director was behind it.

Manus didn’t understand.
What do you mean, behind it?

He did it. He ordered it.

Manus shook his head, certain she was mistaken. He had killed many people on the director’s orders, of course. But those actions had always been discriminate, even surgical. They’d never involved innocents. Never a massacre.

No,
he signed, not sure of who he was trying to convince.
He would never do that.

Your friend Delgado planted the bomb.

What?

I saw him plant the bomb. On a food truck. I monitored him via video footage, and he knew exactly where to exploit the gaps in my coverage so I couldn’t track where he came from before or where he went after. Who else could have told him about those gaps? I don’t think anyone besides the director even knows about the camera networks.

No, the director would never—

What do you think, the director is some kind of nice guy? Delgado was going to kill me tonight. I think he was supposed to make it look like some random abduction and rape. You think the director didn’t know about all that?

Manus didn’t answer. Knowing the director would allow something like that was already almost unbearable. As for the bomb . . . for the first time, he allowed himself to wonder why the director had sent him back to Turkey to kill those men. And take their cell phones.

Did you know?

Manus shook his head violently.

Did you?

Not . . . at first. At first I thought it was just about the thumb drive. But then . . .

He couldn’t finish.

Then what?

It was like his world had been shattered, and now someone was shattering even the pieces.
Why? Why would the director set off a bomb?

He wanted an excuse to launch a drone strike on where they were holding that kidnapped journalist Ryan Hamilton. Hamilton was working with an NSA whistleblower, Daniel Perkins, the one who died in a car accident in Ankara the same day Hamilton was kidnapped. You think that’s a coincidence?

How do you know Hamilton was working with Perkins?

There was a pause, then she signed,
Camera networks. That’s my job. I hack the networks and I wrote the software that monitors them all with a biometric matching program.

Manus struggled to keep up.
So . . . you saw Hamilton and Perkins together?

She nodded.
In Istanbul. I’m the one who told the director about it. Which I think is part of the reason he went to such lengths to make what happened to Hamilton and Perkins look so . . . I don’t know. Disconnected. Random. He knew I was going to suspect.

But why kidnap Hamilton if he wanted him dead?

I think he was supposed to die. The kidnapping was intended to be a
kind of circuit breaker. I mean, a journalist getting kidnapped by some ISIS-
affiliated jihadist group . . . how would anyone connect something like that
to the director? But something went wrong. Whoever kidnapped Hamilton
didn’t kill him the way they were supposed to. So the director had Delgado
plant a bomb, and claimed it was the same terrorist group that was hold
ing Hamilton, and convinced the president to launch a drone strike. All to
kill Hamilton. All to cover up whatever Hamilton had gotten from Perkins.

Without thinking, Manus signed,
Hamilton is alive.

She blinked.
What? How do you know?

He didn’t want her to know of his role in what had happened to Hamilton. He wondered why he’d told her. But he couldn’t take it back now.

I saw him. In Turkey. He was hurt, but . . . he was alive when I saw him.

But all the networks said he was dead.

Maybe he is, but not in that drone strike. He was in Turkey when it happened.

Where is he now?

Manus hesitated, then signed,
I don’t know.

She stared at him for a moment.
What are you not telling me?

Nothing.

Marvin, if he’s alive, he might be my only hope.

Why?

Just tell me. Do you know anything about where he is?

Manus shook his head.

She put her hands on his face and looked in his eyes. “Please,” she said. “Help me.”

Her hands were warm and her face was beautiful. Manus was afraid she would hate him if she learned what he’d done, what he was. But it would be worse if something happened to her. Or to Dash. He closed his eyes and put his hands over hers so he could remember what it felt like when she touched him.

After a moment, he took his hands away.
If he’s alive, I think he’s somewhere near Lake Tuz.

How do you know this?

I just do.

How?

I saw him there.

How?

He felt anger well up inside him.
It doesn’t matter!

She recoiled as though he had hit her. He held up his hands palms out in apology, then signed,
I’m sorry.

She shook her head.
Why won’t you tell me?

He flexed his fingers, searching for words.
I don’t . . . want you to know.

Because I won’t like it?

He looked down.
Because you won’t like me.

She touched his knee. When he looked up, she signed,
I do like you.

You wouldn’t if you knew.

Knew what?

He hesitated, then signed,
You and Dash are good.

She gave him a faint smile.
Well, Dash is, anyway.

No. You are, too. I see how you are with him. You’re good.

I guess with Dash I am, yes.

I’m not good.

Because you’ve done bad things?

He nodded.

Did you do something bad to Hamilton?

He nodded again, unable to look at her.

She rested a hand on his knee. After a moment, he raised his eyes.
She was looking at him with a gentleness and understanding he knew
he didn’t deserve, and never expected to have. It hurt like a stab wound.
But . . . he so wanted to believe what he saw in her eyes could be true.

Whatever you did
, she signed,
he’s still alive
.

I think he is. I didn’t do anything to him. But he was in bad shape. Some people hurt him.

What people?

It doesn’t matter. They’re gone. They can’t hurt anyone anymore. And I don’t know anything else. Not really. The men who hurt him are dead. He could have taken money from them, and the keys to their van.

Where would he go?

Manus imagined Hamilton, scared, hurt, disoriented. He gets out of that dress they’d put him in, and changes into the work clothes in the back of the van. He goes out and finds the bodies. He’s terrified, horrified. But his survival instincts are strong, and he subdues his urge to vomit at the sight of all that gore. He forces himself to go through the dead men’s pockets. He finds money, he finds the van keys. He drives off. He sees some tourists at one of the concession stands by the lake. He asks directions. He buys a map. And then . . .

He’s a city guy, I could tell. He wouldn’t know how to survive outdoors. Or how to get across a border. He might look for a youth hostel. But . . . the way he was hurt, he wouldn’t want to share a room or bathroom. Or have to talk to a bunch of backpackers. Plus his face has been on television. Not so likely that he would be recognized, but the more people who see him, the more the risk. So I think . . . a hotel like this one. The kind that doesn’t require credit cards. A place where he could bring in some food and pull the drapes and cry and hide and heal.

Where?

There’s not much around Lake Tuz, so my guess is he would head to Ankara. Closer than anything else and he’d have the most options there.

Her eyes were excited, her expression intense.
What day and time did you see him? Be precise.

The day before I built Dash his loft. Noon, local time.

He could see her calculating the elapsed time.
All right
, she signed,
it’s morning there now. He would have been holed up for . . . four nights. Wherever he went, do you think he could still be there?

He was traumatized. If he found a safe place, I think he’d be afraid to move. Until his money was close to running out. What are you thinking?

She pressed her fingertips against her forehead in concentration.
What I was saying before we took this room—about the way NSA could comb through hotel reservation systems? I can do that. Hamilton isn’t as tactical as you, and he doesn’t know as much as I do about NSA capabilities. Plus he wouldn’t want to draw any more attention to himself than necessary. He wouldn’t ask anyone to not register him in a computer system.