“I've missed you,” I said.
“I can tell,” she whispered, reaching for the erection that refused to go away, stroking it softly, apparently happy that it wasn't going anywhere.
“How's the Bible study going?” I whispered back, getting short of breath.
“Coming along nicely,” she answered. I felt the heat in the caress of her lips as she kissed me on the way down. She bit me several times, in case I forgot who was boss, and then, beneath the sheet, I felt her mouth close around me. I clamped my eyes shut. The pleasure was almost unbearable. Almost.
“So what was Japan like?” she asked, sitting at the table in Class As, eating a little reheated bulgogi and rice for breakfast. She had bought something from the vegetarian restaurant before coming up to the apartment, but after a night in my fridge, it looked far less appealing than Mr. Kim's finest, and there was nothing else in the fridge that was edible unless you were a mold.
I poured Anna a cup of coffee. “What was Japan like? Well, they have vending machines there so that if you feel the need you can get a pair of girl's underwear — used — packaged up with a picture of the young woman herself wearing them.”
“That's sick.”
“I know. You'd think they'd at least wash them.”
“You're sick too.”
“Actually, I haven't felt this good in a long while,” I said honestly.
“Yeah, me too.” Anna smiled. Her eyes caught the morning sun streaming through the window and flashed blue-green like they'd received a jolt of electric current. We looked at each other in silence, neither wanting to speak and break the moment, perhaps because we both knew that a particular set of difficult questions and answers was hovering too close for real comfort.
I broke first. “So, when are you heading back?” There it was. I'd said it.
Anna took a breath and slowly let it out. I knew I wasn't going to like what was coming. “This afternoon.”
“You're kidding.”
She shook her head. “Got a court-martial at Ramstein starting midday tomorrow.”
I said nothing, which pretty much said it all.
“That'll teach me to volunteer.” Anna was suddenly finding eye contact difficult.
A loud burst of silence followed. It reminded me of our telephone calls.
I said, “Y'know, after our last conversation, just before I went to Japan, I was pretty sure things between us were done.” What had Anna said on the phone? You and me, us, our relationship — it's going precisely nowhere … We had fun … we should have just left it at that.
Her turn not to say anything.
“Why'd you come?” I asked. Our mood hadn't so much as shifted as completed a one-eighty.
“Well, you know… a girl has needs,” she said, trying to lighten it up. The attempt flew like the Hindenburg, and she knew it. She glanced down at her coffee again. “Perhaps I shouldn't have come.”
Yeah, perhaps you damn well shouldn't have, I thought. I was just getting used to the idea of being apart. But one night and I was hooked on her again.
“I don't know when I'm going to be back,” Anna said.
I nodded. “ Uh-huh.”
“I was going to suggest you take the day off and spend it with me, but I think I know what you'd say to that.”
Perhaps the heat in my face had given her a clue.
Anna's chin trembled and there was a film of tears in her eyes. “I'm sorry,” she said.
“Me, too.” I stood and took my coffee cup to the sink and poured the remains down the drain. “Anna, I have to go,” I said. I wasn't being a martyr. Captain Clownfish was expecting me at 0930.
“The defense of our great land waits for no one.” She forced a smile.
“Stay as long as you like,” I replied. If she wanted me to be big and tough, I could be that guy. “Just leave the key downstairs with Kim when you go.”
“OK…” she said. The privilege of surprising me in one of my shirts had been rescinded.
I drove my old Pontiac Parisienne to the Pentagon. It was snowing lightly, the early morning sun having been swallowed by a sudden cold snap. I didn't have an accident, but I probably caused a few.
SEVEN
I was on time, 0930 as requested, but Captain Schaeffer wasn't. Fine by me. I told myself to snap out of the Anna thing and get busy. I started with the e-mails. The box was crammed with unread CC'ed crap. None of it was specifically sent to me, except for one with the inviting subject: “The proper completion of a DD Form 1351-2.” CC'ed e-mails are a waste of time, although the one about the 1351-2 reminded me to put in for my Japan expenses. I selected All and consigned the lot to the trash. I pulled my wallet and extracted the wad of receipts from my recent overseas junket and began filling out the form online. It was tedious going, but I don't earn enough that I can fund investigations for the government out of my own pocket. The online paperwork completed, I dispatched it and then forwarded the hard receipts to Accounts Payable through the internal mail.
Checking my wallet for any hidden receipts, the great white's tooth given to me by Dr. Samura Hashimura, the coroner in Tokyo, dropped out onto the desk. I examined it, holding it between thumb and forefinger. It was white and hard and made for cutting and tearing. With so many of these teeth ripping simultaneously into Dr. Tanaka, the unfortunate guy probably wouldn't have felt a thing. I taped the tooth to the frame of the computer monitor. Thus were fifty-nine minutes of my working day accounted for. It was going to be one of those days.
Next I pulled out my notebook and the voice recorder. There was a report to be written. An hour and a half later I was two thirds of the way through it and getting to the point where I felt I needed to rehash the interviews conducted on board the Natusima. I listened to them all, then tabbed to the time code marked in the device's memory.
My voice: “What was he drinking?”
Boyle's voice: “Scotch. We only had that and sake on board.”
“Do you know how much he drank?”
“Enough, obviously, though I didn't realize it at the time. I topped his glass up maybe twice, I think. As you may or may not know, Special Agent, many Asian people don't have the gene that allows them to metabolize alcohol effectively.”
“So you had never seen Dr. Tanaka drunk before?”
“No, never.”
“Did you see him leave the party?”
“No. I wish I had. Then perhaps he'd still be alive.”
Yeah, maybe. Boyle was one condescending asshole: “As you may or may not know, Agent Cooper, many Asian people don't have the gene that allows them to metabolize alcohol effectively.” I tabbed the memory button again.
“Dr. Tanaka wasn't discovered missing for some time — twelve hours, according to statements. Isn't that a long time to not notice somebody missing?”
“It might seem that way, but no, not really. The expedition was over and everyone saw how drunk Tanaka was when he left. I guess everyone assumed, as I did, that he was in his room, sleeping it off.”
Did you see him leave the party? I'd asked. Boyle had replied, no. A few minutes later, under a bit of stress, suddenly everyone including Boyle is watching Tanaka reeling out of the joint legless. Did this mean something? Or nothing? Very few statements contain no contradictions. The ones that don't more often than not tend to indicate coaching. And yet—