Barry Eisler: Killing Rain aka One Last Kill

I liked what I saw. They were dressed neatly, blazers but no ties, and seemed relaxed and comfortable in the doubtless unfamiliar environment. But for a slightly heightened sense of alertness that only someone like me would have recognized, they could have been a couple of visiting European tourists, or businessmen pleased to have discovered an authentically Japanese place to eat after a day of interminable meetings in some generic office conference room.

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.