Drawing energy from her center, Ran used the sword and scabbard as one, first pushing straight backwards, imagining an opponent behind her. She left the scabbard to the rear, drawing the blade in a fluid motion, listening for and feeling the familiar hiss as it leapt into the air. Slashing sideways with one hand, she let the scabbard fall to the floor as she stepped forward on her right foot, bringing the blade straight down the centerline with both hands. Rising, she spun to finish the imagined opponent behind her, then dropped in an instant back to one knee, letting the sword trail behind her and slightly to one side. It was a taunting technique and one of the few things she remembered about her mother’s fighting style.
Death in a black T-shirt and pink capris.
McKeon’s cell phone began to ring.
Ran considered cutting the thing in half. Distractions occurred during battle, so she followed through with her movements until she’d returned the katana to its sheath.
She resumed the kiza position, holding the katana at her side, breathing deeply to center her spirit as she listened to McKeon’s side of the conversation.
From the corner of her eye she watched McKeon brighten at the call, as if it was good news. He returned a traditional Muslim greeting in English—“… and peace be unto you…”—as he customarily did when the other party had given him an “As-Salaamu.” He swung his long legs off the bed so he was facing away from Ran and kept his voice low. The call was over quickly and he shoved the sheets aside to walk naked to the bathroom. The smile on his face was visible in the mirror through the open door. It was the soft sort of smile he wore when he spoke to her in the shadows.
“Was it Ranjhani?” she asked.
McKeon half turned, dragged from some deep thought. The smile vanished from his lips. He nodded, the phone still in his hand as he walked. “Ranjhani,” he repeated when a simple yes would have sufficed. “I wish I had time to watch the rest of your workout, my dear,” he said, settling into his old self. “But there is a lot to finish before the trip this afternoon.”
“Certainly,” she said, her hand convulsing on the hilt of the sword, feeling the linen wraps, the roughness of the ray skin.
She knelt again, struggling to clear her mind. She listened for the hiss of the shower, the telltale metal scrape as McKeon slid the curtain open, then shut again after he’d stepped inside.
Peeling the T-shirt up over her head, Ran stepped out of the capris, one leg at a time so she wasn’t hobbled — as her father had taught her — the samurai way so she minimized the time she was vulnerable to attack. She was not actually afraid that someone might jump her while she was changing clothes, but a state of awareness, she had been taught, must be practiced at all times and in all things.
She folded her clothes in a neat pile and set them on the foot of the bed. She placed her sword beside them, covered by the sheets, but where she could reach it quickly if the need arose. Naked and bathed in sweat from her workout, she stepped quietly into the bathroom as if to join McKeon in the shower. Steam rolled over the top of the curtain, fogging the mirror even with the door open, and muting the dark images of her tattoos.
McKeon’s cell phone was beside the sink where he’d left it. Ran was stealthy if she was anything, accustomed to padding up behind her victims and slitting their throats before they even knew she was there. Gliding across the cool tile to grab the phone was child’s play and she was back in the bedroom in a flash.
Ran had watched McKeon enter the code enough that it took her only two tries to unlock the phone. She checked the list of recent calls and didn’t recognize the last number. The fact that there was a record at all was curious. She’d assumed Ranjhani was savvy enough to use a phone with no caller ID.
She closed her eyes, running through the possibilities. Then, with a complete disregard for strategy, she pushed the button to call back the last number.
It rang once before a woman came on the line.
“What’s the matter?” the voice said, breathless and flirty. “You can’t live without me for five minutes?”
Ran held the phone to her ear in complete silence. She recognized the voice as Lee McKeon’s wife — the woman Ran offered to kill at least twice a day. McKeon always had some excuse as to why they needed to let her live. It was curious that he’d lied about her phone call. They talked daily. Ran knew that. But he’d given her a traditional Muslim greeting of peace. She must have “As Saalamed” him — which was even more of a mystery.
Ran ended the call, turning down the volume so McKeon wouldn’t hear it if the woman smelled something off and called him back immediately. When enough time went by, McKeon would just assume he’d accidentally redialed her on the way to the bathroom — if his wife even brought it up.
Ran had just set the phone back on the counter where McKeon had left it when he slid the shower curtain open and stuck his head out.
“Thought I heard you,” he said. “I’d hoped you would come and join me.”
“Of course.” Ran forced a smile as she stepped in beside him. The lukewarm water made her feel like someone was spitting on her. She preferred her showers scalding hot, but she put up with tepid because that was what he liked.
“Here,” he said, turning her gently so he could soap her back. She put her hands against the tile wall and braced her feet on the wet tub while he scrubbed. It had always felt good, and often led to them returning to the bed, but now… now even his washing felt like a lie.
“We leave shortly after lunch?” she said, knowing the times by heart, but trying to settle her nerves with idle conversation.
“Yes,” McKeon said. “We’ll be at the Fairmont.” He kissed her neck, sending a flush of anger through her belly. “The Secret Service wanted him at the Four Seasons. Prime Minister Nabe will be at the Four Seasons as well, allowing them redundant security.”
“There will be an end to this, you know?” she said, both palms still flat on the tile.
“Ah,” he said, “but that end will only bring a new beginning. Drake actually believes he’s going to ride this out — hiding in some secret bunker while China lobs missiles at the rest of the country.” McKeon stood back and wiped the water from his face. “The idiot has no idea what his job entails. China will have no choice but to attack before the US retaliates for his assassination. Congress and the American people will easily see the need to leave the Middle East completely.” McKeon resumed his nibbling, taking her earlobe in his teeth. “My guess is that it will all begin to happen before the end of the week.”
He could not see it, but Ran’s eyes were clenched tight. “You should allow me to kill your wife. I fear she will be a burden to you during the conflict.”
“Not quite yet, my dear,” McKeon said, too easily for Ran’s taste. “When the time is right.”
“And what of us then?” Ran said, her eyes still shut. “Are we to ‘ride this out’ in a secret bunker?”
He held her by both shoulders. “Do not worry about us, my love,” he whispered. “All will work out as it must.”
Ran shrugged him off, spinning, pressing her face to his chest. He was so much taller it would have been easy for someone to believe he was her superior. In many ways he was. She had never met anyone so intelligent, so driven. It would be all too easy to surrender and give herself to him completely. He gathered her up in his arms and drew her to him, the way he always did. Instead, she thought of seven different ways to kill him before he stepped out of the shower.
Chapter 49
“She’ll do thirty knots,” Gruber grunted around a new Scigar. He sat behind the wheel of the small Bayliner, his left leg stretched past a thick curtain that hung over the entry to a small cuddy cabin and V-berth in the bow. He’d told them he’d injured the leg in a shoot-out with the RCMP years before and it locked up on him sometimes. Thick smoke swirled in the dark cabin, combining with the ocean chop to make Yaqub feel as if he had swallowed a stone. He wished Gruber would just be quiet, but the man apparently believed it was his duty to explain every aspect of his movement — an odd thing for someone running an illegal operation.