Killing Rain (39 page)

Or maybe he was giving the idiots too much credit. Hell, losing New York . . . maybe they would just pause for a minute, then go back to renaming French fries and prohibiting gay marriage and the other priorities of the day.

Yeah, the politicians were in thrall to Big Oil, or brain-dead, or both. If anyone was going to prevent a cataclysm, it would be Hilger, and the team he had built.

He sighed. Al-Jib was one of his linchpins. If Hilger just could have learned a little more about the man’s contacts, where his knowledge had been disseminated, they might actually have been able to stuff some of the fucking genie back in the bottle. But not now. Al-Jib probably wouldn’t touch Hilger after this. That is, assuming the man was still alive. The blonde in the China Club, whoever she was, had taken off after him like a hungry lioness hot on a gazelle.

Well, there were little silver linings in the cloud. When his pissant National Security Council contact had started back-pedaling about whether the White House could support Hilger in the face of another mess, Hilger had just told the man what a shame it would be when Hilger’s client list came to light, with the contact’s name and those of several other prominent political personages on it. The helpless silence that had followed that warning was one of the most satisfying sounds Hilger had ever heard. The contact’s plan of simply saying “I have no recollection of that event, Senator,” and “I don’t recall that meeting, Senator,” and “I can’t imagine I would have done that, Senator, because that would be wrong,” suddenly just wasn’t going to be adequate, and the piece of shit knew it.

Hilger had gone on to explain that he was no Edwin Wilson. If he went down, lots of people would be coming with him, first among them Mr. NSC contact. Do I need to explain further? Hilger had asked. No, the contact had told him in a tight, emasculated voice. He had made himself perfectly clear.

Wilson had been an operative the Agency allegedly fired back in 1971, but who had gone on acting like a spook afterward, carrying out assassinations, laundering money, and selling plastic explosives to countries like Libya, until he was jailed in 1983.
Wilson claimed that he’d never left the Agency and that the whole thing had been a sanctioned op; the government, predictably, claimed he was fabricating. Hilger didn’t know the truth—that information would be very closely held, just as it was for him—but he suspected the whole thing had been an op. After all, how do you get close to a man like Kaddafi? By selling him what he wants. There were people who understood this principle then, just as there were people, like Hilger, who understood it today.

Wilson’s error, though, had been his failure to collect evidence implicating his paymasters. Hilger had been much better prepared. The people who had been greedy enough to invest their money with him had been stupid, too. NSC staffers just couldn’t explain being on the same client list as unsavorables like Manny. They would have to back Hilger, or go down with him.

As for the Agency, he knew the last thing they would want would be another Wilson scandal. Even if they denied Hilger, the press would go into a frenzy over a repeat. All those resultant congressional committees, and questions under oath, examination of finances, new layers of oversight . . . no one wanted any of that, there was so much more important work to be done. Plus, Hilger’s contacts were putting out the word that Hilger had been behind Manny’s death. And if Al-Jib turned up not breathing, that would be attributed to Hilger, too. All, of course, with the understanding that the new director could take whatever credit for the op he wanted. Politicians tended to be as resistant to that kind of opportunity as junkies were to a fix. The Hong Kong police and Hong Kong liaison could be bought off the same way. With the right mix of sense and incentives, the whole thing could be put to sleep pretty quietly.

Of course, the Jim Hilger cover was permanently blown, and at a minimum Hong Kong’s Chinese overlords would declare him persona non grata and boot him out. Hilger had decided to
save them the trouble. He already had an established identity, and a presence he had been careful to cultivate, in Shanghai. When the authorities showed up at his Hong Kong apartment, or at his office, as perhaps they already had, he wasn’t going to be there to greet them.

He was going to miss that view from Two IFC, though. Well, it wasn’t like there were no skyscrapers in Shanghai. The city was growing so fast, and had so many foreigners, that he’d have no trouble fitting in there and gearing up again.

He thought of Rain for a moment, and could actually feel his face contorting with rage as he did so. He was surprised at his own reaction. After all, Rain hadn’t acted with knowledge. He’d been hired for a job and he’d done it. Hilger used people like him all the time; it wasn’t personal. So why was Hilger taking it so personally now? It was stupid. Yes, the man had screwed up everything. And in the process, cost Hilger years of effort and unknowingly endangered millions of innocents. But he hadn’t meant it, he hadn’t known. Hilger should just let it go.

Or he should just find the bastard and shoot him in the head. It wasn’t justified, it wasn’t even mature, but it would probably help him sleep better.

And that fucking Dox, too. Someone had nailed him with a chair as he’d hauled ass down the China Club stairs, and he had a pretty good idea of who it was. He had a welt on his back the size and color of an eggplant.

One thing at a time, though. First, Shanghai. Then, probably, more damage control. Then salvaging what he could of his operation.

Then it would be time for Rain and Dox. And God help them then.

A
FTER LEAVING KANEZAKI
at Tsuta, I called Tatsu. I asked him if he felt like an early dinner. He told me that would be fine. I told him I would meet him at Tsukumo Ramen, one of the best noodle shops in the city. Rio’s cuisine is wonderful, but ramen is comfort food for me, and Tsukumo is one of the best. I’d missed it and was glad for the chance to return.

I stopped at an Internet café in Aoyama on the way. There was a message waiting from Delilah. It said:

Dox was right, Gil is dead. I never liked him, and yet I feel so sad. Without men like him, I don’t know what would happen to the world. My government won’t acknowledge his affiliations, of course. Only his citizenship. But at least his family
will be able to bury him and properly mourn. One day, I hope to tell them what happened. They should know he was a hero.

My people have transferred your payment in accordance with the instructions you gave them. You’ve been paid in full for Lavi. You have also been paid the same amount for Al-Jib. And there is a bonus.

I don’t know what’s next. There are a lot of meetings going on right now, with me as the subject. For the most part, I don’t care.

I would like to see you again. I hope it will be soon.

—D

I checked the bulletin board I had established with Boaz and Gil. There was a message waiting. It read like an invoice, and matched what Delilah had told me. Next to the amount she had described as a “bonus,” it said:

No hard feelings.
With a little smiley face.

I almost laughed. It had to be Boaz.

I checked the account I had given them. The money was all there. I transferred Dox half of everything, then went to meet Tatsu. I would respond to Delilah later.

I took a cab to Hiro and walked. Tatsu was already sitting at the counter when I came in. He got up, shuffled over, and shook my hand. He was wearing a broad smile and it felt good to be with someone who was so happy to see me. Then I realized he was getting the same smile from me.

It was early enough so that we were able to get a table. We ordered
marukyu
ramen, prepared with fresh noodles and homemade Hokkaido mozzarella over a miso base, and a couple of Yebisu beers. We made small talk throughout the meal, just as we had discussed, and I was almost alarmed at how much I enjoyed his conversation. Dining with company was becoming addictive.

When we were done with the ramen and lingering over a second beer, I asked, “Is everything all right?”

“ ‘All right’?”

“You said you wanted to talk about something personal. Which, as everyone knows, isn’t like you.”

He smiled. “Everything is fine, thank you.”

“Your family? Your daughters?”

“Everyone is fine, fine. I’m a grandfather now, you know. My eldest daughter.”

“Yes, you mentioned she was pregnant last time we talked. A boy, right?”

He nodded, and for a moment there was no trace of the sadness that I could usually see in his eyes. “A beautiful little boy,” he said, beaming.

I bowed my head. “Congratulations, my friend. I’m happy for you.”

He nodded again. “Anyway. The personal matter isn’t mine. It’s yours.”

I shook my head, not following him.

He reached into a battered briefcase, pulled out a manila envelope, and handed it to me. I reached inside and withdrew a short stack of black-and-white photos. Even before my mind grasped the content, I noted the circumstances: from the slightly blurred background, compressed perspective, and shallow depth of field, I knew the photos were taken from a distance through a telephoto lens.

In them, Midori sat at an outdoor restaurant table in what looked like America, maybe New York. A baby stroller was parked next to her. A Japanese child, not much more than an infant, sat on her lap, facing her. Midori was making a face—pursing her lips and puffing out her cheeks—and the child was reaching for her nose, laughing.

My heart started thudding. It always does, when I pause to
really imagine her, to indulge the razor-clear memories of the time we spent together. But seeing a photograph, literally a snapshot of the life she was living a world away, heightened the reaction. I tried not to show it.

“She’s . . . married?” I asked, warring emotions roiling inside me.

“No. Not married.”

“Then . . .”

I looked at him. He nodded and smiled, a profound and strangely gentle sympathy in his eyes.

My instincts, so keenly honed for combat, can be almost laughably useless in matters of the heart. The pounding in my chest intensified, my body understanding fully even as my mind struggled to catch up. I looked away, not wanting him to see my face.

I remembered our last night together, in a room at the Park Hyatt in Tokyo nearly two years earlier. We had made love furiously, despite Midori’s new knowledge of who I was and what I had done to her father; despite our understanding that it would be the last time; despite knowing the cost.

I didn’t know what the hell to say. “Oh, my God,” I think is what came out.

I tried to pull myself together, but couldn’t really manage it. Eventually, though, I was able to revert to some sort of operational default. I found myself asking, “Who took the photo? You?”

There was a pause, then he said, “No. It was taken by Yamaoto’s people.”

I looked at him. My expression was neutral again. Thinking of Yamaoto helped me focus. It put me back on familiar ground.

“Why?”

“She is your only known civilian nexus. Yamaoto has people watch her from a distance, from time to time, in case you reappear in her life.”

“Bastard needs a course in anger management.”

“You defeated him twice. First, in intercepting the disk. Second, in dispatching his lieutenant, Murakami. He is a vain man with a long memory.”

“Is she . . . are they, in danger?”

“I don’t believe so. He is interested in her only as a means to get to you.”

“How did you acquire the photo?”

“A search of one of his affiliates’ belongings.”

“Sanctioned search?”

He shook his head. “Not exactly.”

“Then there’s a chance the affiliate doesn’t know the photos are missing.”

“I can assure you he doesn’t. My men downloaded the contents of his digital camera, but otherwise didn’t molest it. He has no way of knowing his belongings were examined. Yamaoto has no way of knowing you have discovered the existence of . . . your son.”

There was a strange corporeality to those last words. They seemed to linger in the air.

A son,
I thought. It made no sense. My father had a son. But not I.

“It’s . . . he’s a boy?” I asked.

He nodded. “I made some discreet inquiries. She calls him Koichiro. Ko-chan.”

“How do you even know . . . how can you be sure he’s mine?”

He shrugged. “He looks like you, don’t you think?”

I couldn’t even go there. I felt confused, and realized I was in some kind of mild shock.

“Why did you show me this?” I asked, feeling like I was groping, flailing. I was thinking,
Because I had made my adjustment. It was over, she might as well have been dead and gone, I was consoling myself with memories.

Tormenting yourself, you mean.

“Would you have preferred that I hadn’t?” he asked.

“What’s the difference? Even if I wanted to, even if she wanted me to, I couldn’t contact her while Yamaoto is watching.”