12

HILGER DID a surveillance detection route, and, when he was satisfied neither Rain nor anyone else was following him, headed to the Sheraton, his rendezvous point with Demeere. He walked slowly, sweating in the tropical evening heat, only dimly aware of the humidity and the smell of diesel and spices he couldn’t name, ignoring the incessant horns, the shouted invitations from motorcycle cabs, the dizzying whine of two-stroke engines.

That had been a close thing with Rain, a hell of a close thing. If the man had been bluffing at the Góc Saigon, it was the best bluff Hilger had ever seen. When Rain held that knife to his neck, and he saw what was in Rain’s eyes, he really thought he was done. He had thought, I miscalculated, he doesn’t care about Dox, the crazy bastard’s going to kill me right here.

Hilger had been an inch from death twice before. The first time was in Baghdad, when a sudden sneeze from the omnipresent sand and dust had jerked his head a fraction, just far enough for a sniper round to crease his scalp instead of his skull. He’d called in artillery, and a minute later the sniper was vaporized. The second time, his rifle had jammed and he had to engage one of Saddam’s Fedayeen hand-to-hand. The man had tried to gut Hilger with a Bedouin knife that broke off on Hilger’s flak jacket, and Hilger knocked the man down with his rifle stock, then beat him to death with the butt, pulverizing his skull. Both times, the initial elation had given way to a feeling of wonderment at the miracle of still being alive, and then to a long period of reflection on the fragility of everything. He’d dodged two bullets, one of them literally, but those were only the two he knew about. How many went right by us, every day, without our even knowing?

Well, he’d just survived his third, and now that he was out of Rain’s presence, now that the operational exigencies were behind him and he could acknowledge what had happened, that post-combat giddiness was kicking in. His legs felt rubbery and his hands were trembling. He’d known Rain by reputation, and by their one brief encounter in Hong Kong, but this was the first time he’d really seen him up close and personal. He recognized the type, although he’d known only a very few: Rain was a killer, a natural predator. The hesitation, the hand-wringing, even the paralysis that afflicts ordinary men, it was all absent from what he’d seen in Rain’s eyes.

Hilger had done his share of killing, most recently that idiot Drano in Bali, but he didn’t consider himself to be in Rain’s class. He knew his own ability to kill, while formidable, was also something cerebral, something he had learned. Rain was a different breed. Killing was in him, down deep, and whatever that quality was, whatever name could be ascribed to it, Hilger suspected Rain had been born with it. He wasn’t sure if that would be a blessing or a curse. What he did know was that he wouldn’t want it for himself. He valued control too highly, and Rain’s control of that killing part of himself was clearly questionable. He’d been struggling with it in the restaurant, and it could easily have gone the wrong way.

He crossed the street and saw Demeere, waiting in front of the hotel as though for an acquaintance or a cab. Vigilant as always. Hilger gave him the slightest nod as he passed to let him know everything was fine, then took the elevator to the bar on the twenty-third floor. Demeere arrived a few minutes later. They sat on the terrace, a sticky breeze rustling the tablecloths, the sounds of traffic diminished now, pleasant, the lights of the city twinkling all around them.

“You want something to drink?” Hilger asked. “I could use something.”

“Sure,” Demeere said. They ordered a pair of Bombay Sapphires, doubles, and when the waiter had departed, Demeere said, “I couldn’t stay with you. He would have made me, I could feel it.”

Hilger nodded. “You played it right and we knew you’d probably have to let me go. It worked out.”

“He’s going to do it, then?”

“It looks like it.”

“Can he really manage it in five days?”

Hilger thought again of what he’d seen in Rain’s eyes. “Yeah. I think he can.”

“And then?”

“Then things start to open up for us. And we give him the second target.”

“And then the third?”

Hilger looked at him, and understood that, as usual, Demeere’s intuition was sound.

“The third target is Rain,” Demeere said.

Hilger nodded. “He’s too dangerous to leave alone. Especially after what he’s doing for us now.”

The drinks came and they sipped them in silence. The gin was just what Hilger needed. He could feel it relaxing him, anesthetizing his still slightly jangled nerves. He’d been planning this for a long time and a lot of things still had to play out just right before it was over. But they were off to a good start. It was strange to think how much good it was going to do the country, and yet everyone would believe it was the work of the country’s enemies. Well, strong medicine could be like that. It wasn’t the bitter taste that mattered. It was the beneficial effect.

13

I CHANGED PLANES in Bangkok and slept most of the six hours to Tokyo. I arrived at Narita at seven-thirty the next morning. An hour and a half later, I was at Tokyo Station. I emerged from four stories underground into a cold, sunlit morning. I stood for a few minutes outside the massive red brick façade of the building, my carry-on bag slung over my shoulder, watching and listening. Truck engines and car horns. Construction equipment, jackhammers. Commuters flowing by me in their nameless thousands, squinting against the harsh morning light, hunched into the wind, briefcases gripped like life preservers. The moment I felt it, I realized how I missed the overwhelming energy of the place, missed it like the perfume of a woman I secretly loved, who slowly crushed me with her indifference.

I sighed. Tokyo was a sad place for me now, the people connecting me to it disappearing one by one, like lights going out at night in the windows of an almost empty building. First, Midori. Then Harry, set up and thrown off the roof of a building. Then Naomi, the sweet Brazilian Japanese dancer I’d gotten involved with while hunting a yakuza assassin named Murakami, and who I’d left in Rio after discovering she’d told the CIA where to find me. And then, only a year ago, Tatsu, my onetime nemesis and then loyal friend with the Keisatsuche, the Japanese FBI, to cancer. After that, Tokyo had become for me just another way station, a meeting venue. And soon, even that would be gone, when Kanezaki was recalled to headquarters or transferred to some other post or left for a career in industry. If I came back then, all I would find would be a graveyard of memories.

I called Kanezaki from a pay phone. “It’s me,” I told him.

“Didn’t take you long.”

“Can you meet?”

“Of course.”

The “of course” was a perfect imitation of Tatsu, right down to the mildly exasperated tone, which was intended to only ill-conceal the vast reservoirs of patience needed in the face of so many stupid questions. Hearing Tatsu’s quirks live on in Kanezaki, whom I knew Tatsu had mentored, and whom he had perhaps in his mind even adopted as a surrogate after losing his own son, caused me a pang of sadness, and a small smile.

“How about breakfast?” I asked.

“An early lunch would be better. I’ve got a few things to do.”

I instantly disliked the counteroffer. It would give him time to arrange things, if…

If what? In the last few years, Kanezaki had a half-dozen opportunities to try to set me up. He never did, nor, as far as I could tell, did he have any reason to. I’d dropped in suddenly. He had things to do, like he said.

Still, I didn’t like it. If I hadn’t needed him so much right then, I might have bailed. Instead, I said, “All right. How about the place we met last time. When it opens.”