Tom Clancy - The Bear and the Dragon

Not here. Here everyone dressed the same, looked the same, talked the same, and largely acted the same way … … except this one. There was something else to be had here, Nomuri thought, and that’s why he’d asked her to dinner.

It was called seduction, which had been part of the spy’s playbook since time immemorial, though it would be a first for Nomuri. He hadn’t been quite celibate in Japan, where mores had changed in the past generation, allowing young men and young women to meet and … communicate on the most basic of levels-but there, in a savage, and for Chester Nomuri a rather cruel, irony, the more available Japanese girls had a yen for Americans. Some said it was because Americans had a reputation for being better equipped for lovemaking than the average Japanese male, a subject of much giggling for Japanese girls who have recently become sexually active. Part of it was also that American men were reputed to treat their women better than the Japanese variety, and since Japanese women were far more obsequious than their Western counterparts, it probably worked out as a good deal for both sides of the partnerships that developed. But Chet Nomuri was a spook covered as a Japanese salaryman, and had learned to fit in so well that the local women regarded him as just another Japanese male, and so his sex life had been hindered by his professional skills, which hardly seemed fair to the field officer, brought up, like so many American men, on the movies of 007 and his numerous conquests: Mr. Kiss-Kiss Bang-Bang, as he was known in the West Indies. Well, Nomuri hadn’t handled a pistol either, not since his time at The Farm-the CIA’s training school off Interstate 64 near Yorktown, Virginia-and hadn’t exactly broken any records there in the first place.

But this one had possibilities, the field officer thought, behind his normal, neutral expression, and there was nothing in the manual against getting laid on the job-what a crimp on Agency morale that would have been, he considered. Such stories of conquest were a frequent topic of conversation at the rare but real field-officer get-togethers that the Agency occasionally held, usually at The Farm, for the field spooks to compare notes on techniques-the after-hour beer sessions often drifted in this direction. For Chet Nomuri since getting to Beijing, his sex life had consisted of prowling Internet pornography sites. For one reason or another, the Asian culture made for an ample collection of such things, and while Nomuri wasn’t exactly proud of this addiction, his sexual drive needed some outlet.

With a little work, Ming might have been pretty, Nomuri thought. First of all she needed long hair. Then, perhaps, better frames on her eyeglasses. Those she wore had all the attraction of recycled barbed wire. Then some makeup. Exactly what sort Nomuri wasn’t sure-he was no expert on such things, but her skin had an ivory-like quality to it that a little chemical enhancement might turn into something attractive. But in this culture, except for people on the stage (whose makeup was about as subtle as a Las Vegas neon sign), makeup meant washing your face in the morning, if that. It was her eyes, he decided. They were lively and … cute. There was life in them, or behind them, however that worked. She might even have had a decent figure, but it was hard to tell in that clothing.

“So, the new computer system works well?” he asked, after the lingering sip of green tea.

“It is magical,” she replied, almost gushing. “The characters come out beautifully, and they print up perfectly on the laser printer, as though from a scribe.”

“What does your minister think?”

“Oh, he is very pleased. I work faster now, and he is very pleased by that!” she assured him.

“Pleased enough to place an order?” Nomuri asked, reverting back to his salaryman cover.

“This I must ask the chief of administration, but I think you will be satisfied by the response.”

That will make NEC happy, the CIA officer thought, again wondering briefly how much money he’d made for his cover firm. His boss in Tokyo would have gagged on his sake to know whom Nomuri really worked for, but the spook had won all of his promotions at NEC on merit, while moonlighting for his true country. It was a fortunate accident, Chet thought, that his real job and his cover one blended so seamlessly. That and the fact that he’d been raised in a very traditional home, speaking two native tongues … and more than that, the sense of on, the duty owed to his native land, far over and above that he pretended to owe to his parent culture. He’d probably gotten that from seeing his grandfather’s framed plaque, the Combat Infantryman’s Badge in the center on the blue velvet, surrounded by the ribbons and medallions that designated awards for bravery, the Bronze Star with combat “V,” the Presidential Distinguished Unit Citation, and the campaign ribbons won as a grunt with the 442nd Regimental Combat team in Italy and Southern France. Fucked over by America, his grandfather had earned his citizenship rights in the ultimate and best possible way before returning home to the landscaping business that had educated his sons and grandsons, and taught one of them the duty he owed his country. And besides, this could be fun.

It was now, Nomuri thought, looking deeply into Ming’s dark eyes, wondering what the brain behind them was thinking. She had two cute dimples at the sides of her mouth, and, he thought, a very sweet smile on an otherwise unremarkable face.

“This is such a fascinating country,” he said. “By the way, your English is very good.” And good that it was. His Mandarin needed a lot of help, and one doesn’t seduce women with sign language.

A pleased smile. “Thank you. I do study very hard.”

“What books do you read?” he asked with an engaging smile of his own.

“Romances, Danielle Steel, Judith Krantz. America offers women so many more opportunities than what we are used to here.”

“America is an interesting country, but chaotic,” Nomuri told her. “At least in this society one can know his place.”

“Yes.” She nodded. “There is security in that, but sometimes too much. Even a caged bird wishes to spread its wings.”

“I will tell you one thing I find bad here.”

“What is that?” Ming asked, not offended, which, Nomuri thought, was very good indeed. Maybe he’d get a Steele novel and read up on what she liked.

“You should dress differently. Your clothing is not flattering. Women should dress more attractively. In Japan there is much variety in clothing, and you can dress Eastern or Western as the spirit moves you.”

She giggled. “I would settle for the underthings. They must feel so nice on the skin. That is not a very socialist thought,” she told him, setting down her cup. The waiter came over, and with Nomuri’s assent she ordered mao-tai, a fiery local liqueur. The waiter returned rapidly with two small porcelain cups and a flask, from which he poured daintily. The CIA officer nearly gasped with his first sip, and it went down hot, but it certainly warmed the stomach. Ming’s skin, he saw, flushed from it, and there came the fleeting impression that a gate had just been opened and passed … and that it probably led in the right direction.

“Not everything can be socialist,” Nomuri judged, with another tiny sip. “This restaurant is a private concern, isn’t it?”

“Oh, yes. And the food is better than what I cook. That is a skill I do not have.”

“Truly? Then perhaps you will allow me to cook for you sometime,” Chet suggested.

“Oh?”

“Certainly.” He smiled. “I can cook American style, and I am able to shop at a closed store to get the correct ingredients.” Not that the ingredients would be worth a damn, shipped in as they were, but a damned sight better than the garbage you got here in the public markets, and a steak dinner was probably something she’d never had. Could he justify getting CIA to put a few Kobe beef steaks on his expense account? Nomuri wondered. Probably. The bean-counters at Langley didn’t bother the field spooks all that much.