The Detachment

Don’t forget, this was a nice payday. Though I feel like you’ve done most of the heavy lifting.”
    “I wouldn’t feel comfortable doing it under the circumstances if you didn’t have my back.”
    There was a pause, then he said, “I appreciate that, man. Thank you.”
    I thought of the way he’d carried me, as I was bleeding out, over a giant shoulder in Hong Kong, of the transfusion he’d saved me with afterward. “It’s just the truth.”
    “You’re not going to get all sentimental on me, though, are you?”
    I smiled. “Never.”
    “Well, it’s a good thing we’re not getting together tonight. I’d probably give you a big hug, and you might embarrass yourself by hugging me back.”
    “Yeah, thanks for that. I appreciate it.”
    He laughed. “Okay, then. Gonna party like a rock star and I’ll see you soon.”
    I clicked off and walked alone through Vienna.
    I thought about everything Larison had said earlier. I told myself, just one more.
    The mantra of many an alcoholic.

    Larison walked slowly back to the hotel, trying to avoid civilians, keeping to the shadows. His mind was racing and his emotions were roiling and he knew when he was feeling like this the people around him could sense it, like some weird disturbance in an urban force field. A prostitute trolling at the edge of a park he passed started to smile at him with practiced professionalism, and then the smile faltered. A cloud passed across her face and she took a step away, half turning as though preparing to run. In a more superstitious culture, he knew, she might have crossed herself.
    He walked on, his head tracking left and right, checking hot spots, logging his surroundings. How could Rain be so stupid about what he was up against with Hort? With Treven, he understood the psychology—the attachment to the unit, the command structure, the blessing of higher authority. But Rain, obviously, didn’t need that kind of support network, and had long lived outside it. Then what was making the man hesitate? If his motives were purely mercenary, the diamonds were the obvious play. Was this really about doing something good in the world? The notion was vaguely seductive, but come on. All Larison wanted, the best he could hope for, was to eliminate the threat, get back the diamonds, and live out the rest of his days somewhere quiet with Nico, someplace with a beach and the sound of the ocean and no memories, a place where the dreams might eventually slacken and abate. Beyond that didn’t matter. If death were really the end, then everything Larison had done, and all the torments it caused him, would die with him. If there were a hell, it would be his new address. Whatever he might do in whatever time he might have left would have no impact on any of it, one way or the other, and to imagine otherwise was nothing but a childish fantasy.
    It was a little sad, actually. He respected Rain. Felt in some ways the man was even a kindred spirit—another self-contained, lethal loner, professionally paranoid, personally aloof.
    But what difference did any of that make? In his position, sentiment was a weakness, and in his line of work, weaknesses got you killed.
    Still, he was surprised to feel an uncharacteristic sense of regret at the thought of taking out Rain and the others. He wondered if it was a sign of aging, or whether it might be some last, twitching vestige of a conscience he’d long since left for dead. What if it was? He’d read his Thoreau in high school. How did it go again? Something like, What’s the point of having a conscience, if you don’t listen to it?
    But Thoreau had never been a soldier. And if there was one thing he’d learned from Hort, it was that the mission came before the man. The mission. And the current mission couldn’t be more clear: eliminate Hort and recover the diamonds. Protect Nico. Protect himself.
    As for the rest…well, it was a rare mission that didn’t involve collateral damage. You didn’t welcome it, but you couldn’t shrink from it, either. In the end, he supposed, all men do what they have to.
    The trick was living with it afterward. But he’d had plenty of practice with that.

I arrived in D.C. on an Amtrak train from New York, having flown to JFK from Munich. I preferred not to use obvious routes to or from the places I might be expected. Dox, Larison, and Treven had traveled somewhat less circuitously, and had therefore arrived ahead of me, but that was their risk, not mine.
    The