Barry Eisler - Killing Rain aka One Last Kill

For a moment, she felt the familiar indignant anger rising. Then she realized: He’s not entirely off the mark .

She walked through the lobby and out onto the veranda. Gil was leaning on the balcony as though in appreciation of the tourist-perfect river scene beyond. But he checked his back within a moment of her arrival and saw her. He straightened and nodded. As she approached, she saw him look behind her, then to his flanks. He was wearing an untucked, short-sleeved, button-down shirt, like most of the other tourists here. The difference being that, in Gil’s case, the casual local attire would make it easier for him to conceal the pistol Delilah knew he carried. Gil was right-handed, and, with the shirt out, he probably had the gun on his right hip, which she judged to be the appropriate compromise here between concealment and access. Not that her take on all this was particularly relevant at the moment-this was Gil, after all, and, even if he was an asshole, they were on the same side-but such assessments had become second nature to her, and went on in the background regardless of whom she was meeting.

“Nice place,” she said, ignoring his obvious suspicions.

He nodded and said nothing. He was coiled tight, she could feel it. She would have to find a way to calm him down.

“What do you want to do?” she asked. “Stay here? Go somewhere else?”

He looked at her for a long moment, then shrugged. “We can stay here.”

“Good. I’m hungry.”

They ate at the Verandah Restaurant overlooking the river. It was a beautiful scene, and she was able to take in all of it because Gil took the seat that put his back to the water. Having her back to the door wasn’t her favorite way to sit, but many of her targets had some security consciousness and she was used to the disadvantage. Call it an occupational hazard.

They ordered khao phad goong -they were in Bangkok, after all, and might as well take advantage of the local cuisine-and talked. She explained how things had gone with Rain since she had first met him at the airport in Bangkok. She let Gil ask the questions. At first, he indulged himself with some periodic innuendo. She had anticipated this, and planned to ignore it, but after a few annoying jabs she found herself saying, “Look, can we just be professional about this?” That seemed to sober him, and she realized that her reaction, more genuine than the gambit she had originally planned, had been the better choice. From then on, he kept the bullshit in check, and she answered his questions as forthrightly as he would expect. She wanted this to feel more like a debriefing than a briefing. That would be more comfortable for him. It would make him feel in charge.

He glanced around frequently. To an outsider, it would have looked like he was enjoying his exotic surroundings, trying to take it all in. Or perhaps that he was waiting for someone, looking up from time to time to see if the other party had arrived. But she knew where it was coming from. And she didn’t like that it wasn’t going away. She decided to call him on it.

“Am I making you nervous?” she asked, during one of his perimeter checks, with a friendly, slightly amused smile.

He looked at her. “No.”

Her smile broadened, but its gentleness remained. “I thought for a moment that you didn’t trust me.”

“I don’t trust anyone.”

That, she suspected, was the sad truth.

“But me, in particular,” she said, as though this was something she regretted.

“It’s not personal.”

“Are you sure?” Her tone had just the right mixture of sadness and uncertainty.

He shook his head, afraid or unwilling to go there. “What would have tipped him off?” he asked.

She recognized that the gambit hadn’t succeeded. It was all right, she would keep playing it by ear. She shrugged. “He’s naturally paranoid. Up until my suggestion of a private beach, he’d been in charge of the arrangements. Someone else proposing the time and place…”

“You shouldn’t have been in such a hurry. That’s what spooked him.”

Ordinarily, that kind of comment would cause her to go for the jugular. That’s what Gil was expecting, and prepared to deal with. But she’d sparred with him enough today. If he wanted to push hard, she would just step out of the way. Let’s see him keep his balance then.

“I know,” she said, looking down as though this was a difficult admission, as though he had worn her out. “I’m sorry. I should have been more subtle with him. It’s my fault.”

There was a pause while Gil digested this. Then he said, “It’s not like you, that’s all. Your instincts are usually good.”

Ostensibly a compliment, but really a way of demonstrating that it was his purview and prerogative to judge. And therefore, again, a comment that would ordinarily set her off.

She smiled wanly, as though both appreciative of his expression of confidence and embarrassed by what had precipitated it, then looked away.

After a moment, he said, “Don’t worry about it. We’ll find another way.”

Her earlier realization that she had hurt him had softened her, and now her apparent surrender was having the same effect on him. Good.

She looked at him and said, “Thanks.”

He shook his head and looked away as though embarrassed by her gratitude. She saw her opening and said, “Gil. Why are you always so… hostile to me?”

His expression was of someone trying to look perplexed and not quite pulling it off. “Hostile to you? I’m not hostile.”

“Come on, you know you are. I can feel it all the time.”

He shook his head again. “Look, I’ve got a job to do and I’m serious about it. I don’t always have time to be diplomatic. Some people don’t understand that.”

Sure, that’s part of it, she thought, respecting his instinct for offering up something that wasn’t untrue, but simply half true.

She offered a self-conscious laugh. “Okay, maybe I’m being too sensitive.”

“You’ve got a hard job, too,” he offered. “I know that.”

She looked down, as though his kindness had touched some deep part of her psyche, as though she wanted to tell him something more, but didn’t know how to find the words. She noted that he hadn’t done one of his visual scans in almost a minute.

They were halfway to a connection. She knew he would be finding the prospect attractive, and wouldn’t want her to pull back from it now.

“I’ll put up another message on the bulletin board,” she said. “Tell him I’m offended that he would leave me like that. Maybe I can get him to meet me again.”

Gil nodded. She sensed that he would have preferred to stay on a less operational track. That he might unconsciously be willing to jump through a few hoops to get back to it.

“Or maybe we could get a lead from the CIA,” she went on. “They’re looking for him, too. Have they made any inquiries with us?”

“No.”

“No? I would have thought they might check with friendly intelligence services.”

“Not yet.”

She nodded, then said, “You know, I was thinking about something. It’ll sound strange, but… Are we sure those men were CIA?”

He nodded, probably enjoying the feeling of having information that she lacked, enjoying being in a position where she would have to ask him. “We’re sure,” he said.

“Because, you know how the Americans are. It would be hard for them to run a guy like Lavi. If Congress found out, someone could get in trouble.”

Gil laughed. Making fun of CIA fecklessness was like fishing in a barrel. And the joke had reminded him subtly that, c’mon, Gil, we’re not like that. We’re on the same team.

“Look,” he said. “About a year ago, when we first got suspicious about what Lavi might be up to, I led the team that monitored him with spot surveillance and electronically. We saw him meet more than once with an American who I knew in the first Gulf War as Jim Huxton, but who now seems to go by Jim Hilger. At the time, Hilger was with America’s Third Special Forces. The two Americans who Rain killed in Manila were part of Hilger’s unit. After the war they all left the military to work for the CIA.”