Killing Rain (3 page)

I looked around and didn’t see anyone or anything that set off my radar. After another moment, I explained to the counterman that my acquaintances were already here and I had somehow overlooked them. I was going to go join them at their table, and, when it was ready, the waitress could just bring my order there.

I got up and strolled over. I left my newspaper at the counter, wanting to reassure them in the face of this small surprise by keeping my hands empty. They watched me coming.

When I reached their table, I said, “Boaz? Gil?” These were the names I had been given.

They both stood up. The one with his back to the door said in lightly accented English, “I’m Boaz.”

The other said, “Gil.”

“Sorry,” I said, “I didn’t see you here at first.”

Boaz laughed at that. They knew damn well I had seen them.

We shook hands and I sat down next to Gil. Boaz looked at the all-Japanese menu and asked with a smile, “Do you want to order, or shall I?”

His smile was reassuring and I returned it. I said, “Maybe you should let me.”

As we ate and talked, I found myself impressed. They were in their early forties, senior enough to have advanced within their organization, presumably on merit, but not so senior that they would have lost touch with the field. They were comfortable in their cover: although I sensed by a dozen small tells that they were ex-military, nothing in their outward appearance would have revealed their backgrounds to a casual observer. They eschewed G-Shock wristwatches, aviator shades, too-short hair, and the other indicators of an ongoing attachment to a military past. Instead they wore their hair at a civilian length; dressed tastefully, even stylishly; and either were comfortable unarmed or were carrying weapons I wasn’t able to detect. They were confident, but not arrogant; businesslike, but not cold; obviously serious, and even grave, about the business at hand, but not without a sense of humor.

Of the two, Gil was quieter. His eyes were a contradiction—partially hidden by heavy lids that made him appear relaxed, almost ready to doze, and yet lit by a strange glow from within. In those eyes and in his unaffected tone I recognized a fellow killer, a man who had taken lives at close range, and who was prepared to do so again. Boaz, short, balding, and slightly chubby, had a warmer persona, and I judged him the less lethal of the two. In fact, he had an infectious laugh and insisted on
telling me several American jokes, which I didn’t find unfunny. If they were a team, Boaz was the front man and Gil the trigger puller, a division of labor that, I imagined, would be fine with Gil.

They had initially insisted that Manny’s expiration would have to appear natural. I pressed them for a more precise definition. Certainly a heart attack is natural, about as natural as it gets, and I’ve been known to cause one when conditions are right. But I wasn’t sure I could get that close to someone like Manny, wasn’t sure I could establish the necessary control over the environment. I asked them about an accident, or a suicide. These were possible, they said, if things could be made to look convincing. I told them there were no guarantees, not with the little they were giving me to go on. I told them that in the end it might have to look like a crime—a robbery or a kidnapping gone awry, foul play, yes, but not foul play that had been directed specifically at Manny. And therefore not attributable to anyone who would be happier in the absence of such attribution.

In the end, we had agreed on a sliding scale of compensation, with the richness of each potential payment tied to the degree of “naturalness” of Manny’s demise. Sure, there were some gray areas that a good lawyer might have been able to better define. But I was confident that any disputes would be resolved in my favor. Trying to take advantage of someone like me is usually unwise, and smart people tend to know better.

I noted the way they made decisions. There was no “We’ll get back to you on that” or “We’ll just have to check with headquarters first.” They examined the facts and made up their minds on the spot. Obviously their organization gave them a healthy amount of operational autonomy. I sensed a deference on Gil’s part toward Boaz, and took Boaz’s likely rank as further evidence that he was more the brains, Gil more the brawn of the operation.

I asked them why they had come to me rather than doing the job in-house. Boaz laughed his infectious laugh. He looked at Gil, then at me, and said, “You think the two of us would blend in in a place like Manila?”

“I know this might come as a shock to you,” I told them, “but not all Asians look alike. I don’t look particularly Filipino.”

Boaz said, “We don’t mean to imply that all Asians look alike. We’re familiar with the differences. I only mean that an Asian would blend there better than a Caucasian. I don’t think that’s an inaccurate statement, is it?”

In fact I wasn’t worried. Although it’s true I don’t look like the average Filipino, there are plenty of ethnic Chinese in the country and all sorts of other mixes, too, along with a significant expat population. With the tan I had acquired in Rio, where I had been living since leaving Japan, I knew I could blend in just fine. But I didn’t want them to think this would be easy. They might try to price it accordingly.

We were quiet for a moment. Boaz said, “Also, you were highly recommended.”

“Delilah?”

Gil said, “And other sources.”

I wondered whether there really were any other sources, or whether they were just trying to seem more connected than they really were. Cops, intelligence agents, interrogators . . . puffery about how much you know is a venerable technique for establishing control.

“Recommended on what grounds?”

Boaz shrugged as though the answer were obvious. “Reliability. Discretion.”

Gil, his eyes flat, added, “Lethality.”

I glanced around and confirmed that no one was within earshot. The Japanese education system’s ubiquitous efforts to teach English as a second language are sometimes endearingly
useless, but there are plenty of success stories wandering around, too, and you have to be careful. I said, “I’m glad my references checked out.”

Gil shrugged. “Delilah seems to think highly of you.”

The comment was redundant after Boaz’s assurance that Delilah had recommended me. That, and something in Gil’s tone, suggested to me that he wasn’t entirely pleased by Delilah’s enthusiasm. If he was jealous, it was sloppy of him to show it. On the other hand, it was clear to me that Gil was employed for talents other than his knack with people.

“To be more specific,” Boaz said, “lethality without weapons.”

His smooth catch of the conversational ball made me feel I had been on to something in thinking that Gil might have some issues with Delilah. I raised my eyebrows, and Boaz went on.

“Firearms present a problem in Manila. All the public venues—hotels, shopping centers, theaters—have guards and metal detectors. Lots of bombings in the region, and these are countermeasures. So if you’re carrying a gun, you’ll limit your mobility.”

Gil said, “But we understand you don’t carry.”

“Depends on the terrain,” I said, deliberately noncommittal.

“But you don’t need one,” Gil pressed, as though intrigued.

I shrugged. “A gun is a tool. Sometimes it’s the right tool to carry, sometimes not. Like I said, it depends.”

They nodded: Boaz, seemingly satisfied; Gil, as though mentally confirming that, in a pinch, he could drop me. Christ, he was in his forties, he really should have been past that sort of shit. Well, I guess you never get past it.

After a moment, Boaz said, “Regardless, we would prefer if he died of something other than lead poisoning.” He raised his eyebrows, and I nodded to indicate I understood the joke. He smiled.

Gil added, “As we’ve explained, the less this looks like an assassination, the better.”

“The ultimate point being deniability,” I said.

To that, they both nodded.

I wanted to ask about that, but I sensed it might be a sensitive subject, so I decided to hold off for a moment. “Tell me,” I said, “what has our friend Manny done that’s made you want to wish him other than a long, prosperous life?”

The truth was, I didn’t particularly care why they wanted him dead. What I needed was who, and where, and when. But I’ve learned from experience in the business that their ostensible reasons, and what I might glean from between the lines of their response, could help me protect myself from unpleasant surprises.

Gil took a briefcase from the floor and placed it on the table, then reached inside. Although we were in a public place and all seemed comfortable enough, I noted that he moved reassuringly slowly. The implication was:
If you have a problem with me reaching into a bag, just say so, and I’ll stop.
The move was courteous and showed experience.

Gil took out a sheaf of about a dozen color photographs and handed them to me. Holding them so that no one in the restaurant could get a casual look, I started leafing through them.

Boaz said, “The top one is Bali, October twelfth, 2001.”

The photo was of a demolished building. Charred bodies were everywhere, lying among burning palm trees and smoking rubble. A dismembered hand was front center, a man’s wedding band prominent on the fourth finger, bloody tendons protruding from the stump of the wrist like wiring ripped from the back of an electronic appliance.

“You’re saying Manny did this?” I asked, my tone dubious. “I thought Bali was Jemaah Islamiah.”

“Yes, JI carried out the op,” Boaz said. “The Malaysian Azahari Husin was the bombmaker. But where did Azahari acquire his expertise? From our friend.”

“Lavi is a chemist by training,” Gil said. “He has special expertise
in the explosive properties of various materials. That expertise is now for sale.”

“Take Bali,” Boaz said. “The Bali bomb used lots of low explosives—potassium chlorate, sulfur, aluminum powder, alum, and chlorine—and only a small amount of TNT. The mixture created a shock wave and blistering heat. Most of the victims were roasted alive.”

“He’s Israeli, and he’s doing this?” I asked.

Boaz nodded. “It’s . . . how do you say, ‘infamy’? But yes, just like everyone else, we have some people who will do anything for money. There are Israeli soldiers who’ve been prosecuted for selling weapons to Palestinians in the West Bank and Gaza—the same weapons that are then used to kill their own brothers in the army.”

Gil shook his head disgustedly and said, “I don’t understand why we bother prosecuting them.”

Boaz reached over and showed me another photo. “This is the Jakarta Marriott, August 2003. For this bomb, the terrorists used sulfur, potassium chlorate, gasoline, and TNT. The resulting bomb was both smaller and more powerful than the Bali device. This mixture created a shock wave and again a horrible burning effect.”

He pointed to the next photo. “The Australian embassy in Kuningan, Jakarta, September 2004. This time we have sulfur, potassium chlorate, and TNT. The mixture created a tremendous shock wave followed by fire. Again, more powerful than the Bali bomb.”

Gil said, “This is Lavi, learning by experimentation.”

Boaz said, “Lavi isn’t just disseminating his knowledge. He’s refining it. He’s briefed on the composition of these bombs, he analyzes the results, and he proposes ‘improvements.’ Lavi is one of the linchpins of a worldwide terrorist knowledge base. He
helps these monsters improve their tools and tactics all over the world. What is learned in Southeast Asia is passed on in Europe, in the United States, in the Middle East.”

“How long have you known about what he’s up to?”

“Not long enough,” Boaz said. “A chance observation of a meeting with an Azahari cutout, more focused attention after that. We want him removed as soon as possible. As you understand, though, and personally I consider it unfortunate, we need deniability.”

“Otherwise,” Gil said, “the list of volunteers for this job would be long.”

It was clear to me that Gil would be first in line.

“Knowledge,” I said, musing. “How can you stop it? Isn’t the genie out of the bottle?”

“We do what we can,” Boaz said, without any trace of his characteristic good humor, and for a moment I wondered whether I had misjudged in thinking that between them Gil was the only killer. “We do our part.”

I went through the rest of the photos. Boaz gave each a place and date in a monotone: first World Trade Center attack, 1993; Buenos Aires Jewish Community Center, 1994; U.S. embassies in Kenya and Tanzania, 1998; USS
Cole,
2000; others. Gil explained Manny’s behind-the-scenes involvement, and how his participation was increasing the lethality of the bombs and furthering knowledge of how to create them.

“So you see,” Boaz said when I was finished and had handed the sheaf back to Gil, “to us, eradicating Lavi is like curing a fatal disease. We can’t bring back the people he has already murdered, but we can save the lives that will be lost if his life were to continue.”

“We think you can help us,” Gil said.

Boaz added, “And we think you can do it the right way.”

I got the point. The main thing was, they weren’t looking for something foolproof, only something deniable. If they had
insisted on a heart attack, I would have taken it to mean that their fundamental concern was that no questions even be asked. I would then have assumed that Manny was an unusually connected target, and would have reevaluated accordingly. Instead, they seemed willing to have questions asked, as long as the answers didn’t lead back to them.