The Detachment (12 page)

She looked down at his feet and smiled. “You better tie that lace.”

He bent and took care of it and they headed back to the front. “Okay,” he said, “this time I’m trying the steam room. I’ll be safer in my bare feet.”

“Let me know how it goes,” she said, giving him another smile.

He headed back into the spa and called Rain. “We’re good. Cards are switched back. Our friend is still at it. He’ll probably be an hour or so. You should head down here to the spa in case he pops in to use a toilet. Other than that, though, I don’t think he’s coming.”

“It’s okay,” Rain said. “The camera’s in place. That’ll be a huge help. If we can’t get to him in the spa, we’ll get another chance.”

Treven hoped he was right. But two near things in a row—the magazine, then Shorrock moving the key—had him on edge. Both had been saved by luck. It was hard to imagine they’d be that lucky a third time.

G
etting a camera into Shorrock’s room was a lucky break, but we still had to exploit it. Overall, though, the signs were good. We had him on audio, discussing his plans for the evening: dinner at the Michelin-starred French restaurant Alex at seven; drinks at the nightclub Tryst at ten; the casino floor for gambling, or “gaming,” as the industry marketeers insist on prettifying it, before and after. I thought there was a decent chance we could wrap the whole thing up that night.

Larison and I, each accompanied by an interchangeable platinum blonde Las Vegas escort, managed to get tables at Alex, and even better, Larison had line-of-sight to the private dining room where Shorrock was being entertained. Halfway through the long meal, I felt my mobile phone vibrate in my pocket—the signal from Larison that Shorrock was heading toward the restroom. I excused myself quickly and got there ahead of him, just as we’d planned. It was empty, even the stall doors all slightly ajar. My heart kicked up a notch. This was it.

I stood at the urinal on the far right as though taking a leisurely piss and waited. A moment later, I heard the door open behind me. I concentrated on listening and resisted the urge to glance back. Footsteps, coming closer. And suddenly there he was, walking up to the urinal on the far left, obeying the unspoken men’s room etiquette that you leave as much space between you and the other guy as the arrangement of urinals will allow.

Larison would have signaled Dox by now, who would be waiting just outside the restaurant so I could duck out and hand off the cyanide canister when it was done. There was only a remote chance that anyone in the restaurant might immediately fall under suspicion, but I didn’t want to be holding the murder weapon if it happened.

I glanced over and saw Shorrock was swaying slightly, his face flushed from alcohol. My phone buzzed in my pocket—Larison again, the signal for someone else on the way. But damn it, I only needed a second. I dropped my hand into my pants pocket, gripped the canister, and started to pull it out. Just as it started to clear my pocket and in the instant before I turned and advanced on Shorrock, I heard the door open again. I froze and let the canister drop back. Footsteps, and then another patron was standing between Shorrock and me, unzipping his pants.

“Hey, Tim,” the guy said. “How are you enjoying the meal?”

“Unreal,” Shorrock said. “I can’t believe there are still three more courses. I’m stuffed.”

“Trust me, you have to save room for the poached apple cream puff. You’ll die.”

I ignored the irony and kept my eyes fixed on the marble wall in front of me, hoping unrealistically that Shorrock would be so overloaded with wine that he’d piss long enough for the other guy to depart first. But it wasn’t to be. Shorrock shook off, zipped up, and headed over to the sink. I heard water running for a moment, then heard him say, “See you in a minute.” And then he was gone, the opportunity gone with him.

I didn’t give up hope. It was a safe bet the industry executives who were wooing Shorrock had bought him not just the chef’s tasting menu, but also the accompanying wine course—a wine course that would result in frequent additional trips to the rest room. And it did—once more at Alex, and twice afterward, at the nightclub, Tryst. But every time, the restroom was occupied afterward: by another diner at Alex; by a washroom attendant at Tryst.

After Tryst we improvised, trailing Shorrock and his party onto the casino floor, keeping Dox at a slot machine where he could watch Shorrock play blackjack and signal me the moment Shorrock excused himself for what looked like a bathroom break. Everything went smoothly, better than I would have reasonably expected, in fact—other than that I couldn’t get him alone.

What was doubly frustrating was that even though we knew the room he was staying in, we couldn’t get to him there. The two Secret Service guys had been keeping a fairly low profile, maybe because Shorrock wasn’t in the same league as, say, the secretary of defense, maybe because they were relying in part on the hotel’s own extensive security systems, maybe because Shorrock preferred his security detail to give him room to breathe. Whatever it was, one of them always stood guard outside Shorrock’s room when Shorrock was in it, as I’d confirmed via a discreet trip to the 58
^th
floor, aided by a dental mirror, the day before. We could fix him in the room, but we couldn’t finish him there. It would have to be somewhere else.

The next day was the same. Shorrock used the gym in the morning, but not the spa, not even for a toilet break. The lunchtime keynote was a no-go because of the likely security posture. Then there was Shanghai cuisine at Wing Lei restaurant for dinner; a head-splitting mix from a DJ called Pizzo at XS nightclub; and more blackjack, this time with Treven watching from a slot machine. Five restroom visits overall, not one of them offering a moment alone.

At just before one in the morning, Treven called and told me Shorrock’s party was breaking up. He was heading toward his room, flanked by the bodyguards, and there was nothing more to be done that night, his last at the convention. Dox would monitor him until he was asleep via the camera I’d emplaced, and barring anything new, we would try for one more shot at him in the gym in the morning. But if that didn’t pan out, in the absence of some fresh intel regarding his subsequent movements, a stop at a church, for example, as Dox had been hoping, we were done.

I headed back to my room and opened the drapes, then sat silently in the reflected lights of the Strip outside and below.

It was dispiriting. I’ve never failed to complete a job, and I was disturbed at the sudden prospect of blowing this one. It was, I had to admit, nothing high-minded. Just the old and simple obsession with finishing what I’d started and doing it exceptionally well. Not a pretty motivation, no doubt, but at that moment, at least an honest one.

I ran through an increasingly wild set of scenarios, feeling the temptation to try something higher-risk. But that was Vegas talking, encouraging me to redeem my losses with increasingly reckless spins of the wheel. I’ve lasted a long time by not being stupid. It wasn’t a good time to start.

I sat for a long time in the disconsolate glow, waiting for the feel of being on the hunt, the sharp adrenaline edge, to subside. I was tired but I knew I couldn’t sleep. I had just decided to boil the tension out of myself in the room’s generous bathtub when my mobile buzzed—Dox. I snatched it up and said, “Tell me he’s going to church in the morning and I’ll buy you a bottle of Bombay Sapphire.”

“Oh, he’s going to need to go to church, but I don’t know if he will.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Well, partner, I am watching our friend, whose daily workouts have obviously gifted him with a level of stamina to which you can only aspire, banging the hell out of a call girl even as we speak.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“No, sir. She arrived ten minutes ago, but I didn’t call you because I heard a knock but couldn’t see what was happening—they must have started in the corridor or in the extra bathroom, and the camera feed’s only of the main room of the suite. But he’s got her on the couch now, and oh yeah, oh, look at that, he’s turning her over, a little doggy-style, I like this man’s proclivities! Tell me, partner, why is it so hilarious to watch other people fucking?”

I didn’t answer. My mind was racing. There had to be a way we could use this. There had to be.

“Hot damn, look at him go! I am proud, proud to know that our great nation is being steered by men of such exceptional energy and passion. Not to mention rectitude.”

Rectitude. That was it.

“We’ve got him,” I said. “This is our chance.”

“I don’t see what you mean. Right now, the man couldn’t be more un-alone.”

“No, but he’ll be alone soon. I want you to keep watching—”

“Yes, sir, I love my work.”

“—and the second she leaves, buzz me, then meet me on the casino floor. There’s a phone bank, just to the right of Blush nightclub when you’re facing the entrance. The second she leaves, understand?”

“Understood,” he said, his tone suddenly all business.

I clicked off and took three slow, deep breaths, forcing myself to pause, to think it through from every angle. If I missed even just one variable, we would blow the whole thing. But there was a chance. Dox had been joking about rectitude, but rectitude, or more accurately, the threatened loss of its façade, was what we suddenly stood to exploit. I thought about the shame this married, church-going, top-secret-SCI-cleared intelligence official would fear if word—if a damn celebrity porn video, from what Dox was describing—got out. And I thought about how, of all the emotions, it’s shame that most craves solitude, the very solitude we now required.

I imagined an approach, and quickly realized that with just a little luck, I wouldn’t even need the cyanide. I decided to do it the old-fashioned way—more difficult, but also more certain. I closed my eyes and began to picture every step, every variable, every when/then possibility.

When I was done visualizing all of it, I took a roll of sports tape from my toiletry kit and wrapped my forearms and wrists, all the way down to the first joint on my thumbs. Then I pulled on a long-sleeved white tee shirt, buttoned a blue oxford cloth shirt over it, and slipped on a navy blazer whose sleeves were a touch too long. Taped wrists and long sleeves might attract some attention at one of the card tables, but I wasn’t going to be gambling, or at least not in the Vegas sense of the word.

My mobile vibrated forty minutes later—Shorrock must have had the girl for an hour, and I supposed there were few professionals as punctual as a Vegas call girl. I stuffed a pair of deerskin gloves into one of the blazer jacket pockets and the sports tape into the other, then headed down.

Dox was waiting when I arrived, and I was pleased to note the continued density of the crowds on the casino floor, which would offer plenty of concealment. “Let’s walk,” I said, and while we circumnavigated the resort, I explained the plan, and his role in it.

When we were done, we walked back to the phone bank next to Blush. I stood close while he dialed Shorrock’s room, and he held the phone away from his ear so I could hear. Two rings, then a “Yes?” in a slightly nervous tone. I wondered whether Shorrock was concerned the girl, or her company, was calling, whether he was suffering from an afterglow comprised mostly of guilt and fear.

“Mister Shorrock,” Dox said, in his deepest hick drawl.

“Yes?”

“I’ll get right to the point. My associate just left your room. While she was there, she placed a camera under the television in the main room. We used that camera to record a video of your escapades on the couch.”

“What?”

“May I recommend that you just walk over to the television in question and feel along its bottom edge? You’ll find the camera, and then I can tell you how we can settle this so no one else ever sees the video we made.”

“This…this is ridiculous. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sir, just go retrieve the camera if you would. Oh, and by the way, doggy-style is one of my favorite positions, too. Well done, sir, well done.”

That was a nice touch, I thought, and not one I’d scripted. The trick was to feed the subject critical bits of information that would cause him to believe you had more. That, and his growing panic, would prevent him from thinking clearly, and from asking potentially show-stopping questions like,
Oh yeah? What was the girl’s name, then?
Which, if Dox really were her associate, he could be expected to know.

There was silence for a moment, presumably while Shorrock examined the television and located the camera. Then he said, “What…what is this about?”

“Sir, it’s about you compensating me for giving you the thumb drive on which your steamy encounter with a Las Vegas prostitute is now clearly recorded.”

“This is a hoax. Who are you?”

There was no conviction in his voice, and I decided he was just trying to be careful about what he said. At the moment, fear of being recorded would naturally be prominent in his mind.

“Right now, sir, I’m the only person who can save you from personal and professional humiliation and destruction. Which I would sincerely like you to help me do.”