Barry Eisler - Killing Rain aka One Last Kill

“And we all know how much you hate to be conspicuous,” he said, staring at my neck.

I said, “What?”

His grin achieved galactic proportions. “Partner, I believe that’s lipstick on your collar. You’ve been a bad boy. And here we are, in the middle of an operation and everything. Next thing I know, you’ll be leaving your cell phone on and trying to hump a katoey into submission and committing similar such indiscretions. If you keep this up, people are going to start suspecting you’re human, and the unpleasant burden of explaining otherwise will fall entirely to me.”

My hand wandered up to my collar. “I… I just…”

“You don’t have to explain. Combat will do that to a man, I know. Bet you didn’t even need the Viagra this time, either.”

“No, I just thought of Tiara.”

He laughed. “That’s good, you got me there, man! Damn, you’re always going to have that over me. Hey, you think the Israelites will pay us, after all this?”

“I’d say they’d better. And then some.”

“I’m sure Delilah will strenuously advocate our cause. She’s a nice lady.”

“I don’t know what her position is going to be now. They’re going to ask her a lot of questions.”

“Well, if things don’t work out for her with her people, as far as I’m concerned she’s always welcome to join our happy band of freelancers. Like I said, we’re the wave of the future. The nation-states of the world are just going to outsource all their defense needs so they can watch more television, you’ll see.”

I shook my head. “I don’t think Delilah would be comfortable as a freelancer. It’s not who she is.”

“Well, hopefully she won’t ever have to face that decision. It ain’t a happy moment in a soldier’s life, as you know.”

“No, it’s not,” I said.

“Well? Where to, from here?”

“I’ve got some business in Tokyo. On the way over here, I made a reservation on an Asiana flight that goes through Seoul. It leaves at…” I looked at my watch. “Oh-dark-thirty. Two hours.”

“What about Rio? You still hanging your hat there?”

“Mostly. I’ll probably head back after Tokyo.”

“Maybe I’ll come visit you there. Them Brazilian girls… man, don’t even get me started.”

“I try not to.”

He laughed.

“Yeah, come on down,” I said. “It would be good to see you. We can go to another adult bar.”

He laughed again. “I’d like that. I really would.”

We were quiet for a moment. I said, “What about you? Where are you heading?”

“Gonna go visit my folks in the States, I think. It’s been a while and I miss them.”

I nodded, trying to imagine it. I lost my parents so many years earlier that the simple concept of visiting the folks, of visiting anyone, is almost alien. But maybe I could find a way.

I said, “They’ve got a good son.”

He beamed. “They do. And I’m lucky to have them, too.” He glanced at his watch. “Got a Cathay Pacific flight that leaves for L.A. at twenty-three thirty-five. So I’d better beat feet.”

I held out my hand.

He looked at me and said, “Son, just because I was recently nearly inducted as a new member of the Accidental Katoey Love Association doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to show your feelings for me.”

Oh God, I thought. But then there I was, hugging the big bastard in the middle of the airport.

I SLEPT like a dead man on the trip to Seoul. There was a five-hour layover, then a short flight to Tokyo.

I wondered where I should stay. When I was living in the city, I maintained a relationship with several hotels that held a suitcase for me while I was “out of town,” just in case. But those arrangements were out of date now, and I couldn’t be sure the hotels in question would still have my gear. And even if they did, it was possible the relationship had been exposed in the interim. I decided it would be safer to do something new.

I arrived at Narita airport at a little after noon. I took the JR Express train to Tokyo station, then walked unburdened by anything other than my attaché to the Four Seasons in Marunouchi. I asked if they had any rooms available. Only a suite, they told me. I told them a suite would be fine.

For an excessive price in the lobby concession store, I bought a pair of khaki pants and a navy merino wool sweater. In the room, I showered and shaved with the razor and other amenities the hotel had thought to provide. I called housekeeping and told them I would like to avail myself of their one-hour pressing services. My suit looked like I’d been living in it.

I walked into Ginza to buy clean underwear, a fresh shirt, and a few other such necessities for the fugitive on the move. The weather was cold and crisp-my favorite in Tokyo-and the wind had a clean winter bite to it. Being back felt good. It even felt oddly right.

I looked around as I walked, more in appreciation of my surroundings than to check my back. The topography had changed a bit since my last visit. Some of the stores were different, and a number of new buildings had gone up, and Starbucks had continued its kudzu-like infiltration of lobbies and storefronts. But the feel of the city was all the same: the way you could transition from the Stygian gloom of a Hibiya train underpass to the glittering shops of Ginza in just a few dozen paces; the air of money to be made and spent, of dreams realized and broken; the beautiful people in the shops and the sharp-elbowed old women in the train stations; the sense that everyone you pass in the pricey restaurant windows and on the smart sidewalks and in the solemn silences of the city’s small shrines wants to be here, here in Tokyo, here and nowhere else.

I thought of Yamaoto, and wondered when, if ever, it might be safe for me to move back here. Fond as I was of Rio, it didn’t really feel like home, and as I walked through Tokyo I suspected it never would.

I bought what I needed and went back to the hotel. My suit, pressed to perfection, was already hanging in the suite’s ample closet. I changed, left the hotel, and made my way to a cell phone shop, where I bought a prepaid unit. I used it to call Kanezaki.

“Hai,” he answered.

I gave him my usual “hey” in response.

There was a pause. He said, “You’re in Tokyo.”

Ah, the relentless march of caller ID and other such complicating technologies. “Yes,” I told him. “I wanted to update you on what I’ve found out about Manila. And I think you owe me a bit of an update, too.”

“I haven’t been able to learn that much…”

“Don’t bullshit me. You know that makes me angry.”

There was another pause. “Where are you?”

“I’m watching you right now.”

“You’re watching… what do you mean?”

I smiled, imagining him looking suddenly over his shoulder or through his office window. “Just kidding. I’m at Tokyo station. Marunouchi South exit.”

“I’m near the embassy. I can meet you in ten minutes, how’s that?”

“That’s fine. Call me when you get here.”

I clicked off.

I didn’t think he’d have any inclination to bring company. And I certainly hadn’t given him time. Still, I crossed the street and watched the entrance from afar. Old habits die hard.

He showed up by taxi ten minutes later, alone. He got out and waited, knowing I would want to see him before I showed myself.

I circled around, using taxis and pedestrians for cover, then moved in from his blind spot. But he turned before I could get close enough to say ta-da . Good for him.

“Hey,” he said, and smiled. He held out his hand and we shook.

“Let’s get out of here,” I said. “I doubt the Japanese government wastes a lot of time trying to shadow you CIA types, but just in case.”