He sank onto the couch, took off his jacket, loosened his tie. His lids weighed a ton, but for some reason he had lost the wish to sleep. He was also hungry, rapaciously so. Bad. His appetite became overdemanding only when he was disturbed.
He nodded to himself. He had reason to be disturbed. He had booted security right and left. Maybe his luck, fantastic so far, would hold out.
He would need all he could get. The morning papers would be full of Kimiko’s murder and his name and description. It would hit Krylov like a ton of brick. Would it make Krylov change his mind about coming over? There was a chance, a better than fair chance, that it would not. The Russian was smart enough to know that the last people in Tokyo who would put his woman on ice were the American agents. The answer for Krylov had to lie elsewhere, in uneasy directions. No, Brook thought that Krylov would be more than ever anxious to go through with it.
Benny Lopez would see the English-language editions. For that matter, they would be brought to Holloway’s attention in Washington. Would they change the plan? Brook saw no reason why they should. So Benny would go ahead with the run; he would have the motorboat ready at the prearranged spot a short way up the coast on Saturday morning. But I’ll have to know it definitely, Brook thought; I’ve got to get in touch with Benny soon. It was best done without Toby Stark’s help or even knowledge. An amateur friend could be far more dangerous than a professional enemy.
The door opened. Brook’s eyes flew wide; he had dozed off. It was Jasmine.
“Well, hello!” Brook said.
She was certainly something to see first thing in the morning. She did not make the mistake of wrapping herself like a mummy to suggest the charms underneath; she wore angular vermilion silk slacks and a loose jacket embroidered in gold, everything loose, everything flopping, everything left to the imagination. In spite of his fatigue he found his working overtime.
“I brought you these, Mr. Brook.” Even her voice called on the imagination; it was slow and surly, inviting a contest. She deposited on the table a bundle wrapped in a silk scarf, and undid the knot. In the scarf lay a razor, shaving cream, toothpaste, toothbrush, soap, and a hand towel.
“Thanks.” He did not rise, watching her. “What did Toby tell you?”
“Everything. He always tells me everything.” She smiled, but not with her eyes. It was queer about her eyes; they seemed to flick from side to side like the tip of a tail. Even the set of her lips was provocative, a smile and not a smile, shifting from moment to moment. There’s an underlying aggressiveness in all this, he thought, some secret game she plays that gives her kicks. She seemed to be saying yes, I am desirable, all men want me, including you, Mr. Brook, and maybe you can have me and maybe you can’t.
“Then you know, Jasmine, why nobody must find out I’m here. I have to be sure about that.”
The smile flickered, a match struck for a moment in the dark. “You are safe from me, Mr. Brook. Even if I wished to tell, whom do I see here to speak to?”
“Something’s bothering you.”
“Me? I don’t think so, Mr. Brook.” That’s right, he thought; give me the wide eyes.
“The name is Pete. May I guess? You’re stuck at Katori Spa here. No excitement. And you’re a girl who likes to stir things up. Right?”
“That could be said about most women, Mr. Brook. Peter. Who has no problems?” The hidden shoulders twitched. “I must go now.”
“Just a minute. Could I have breakfast? I’m starved.”
“I will bring it when the servants are gone from the kitchen.” Jasmine glided to the door. “Is there anything else you wish?”
“A bottle of Scotch would help.”
She nodded and went, shutting the door carefully behind her.
Brook washed and shaved, drawing out his toilet not so much to kill time as to bring it alive. He found his thoughts going back to Jasmine. Toby Stark had boasted of her talents in bed. It would be nice to find out first hand. A dirty trick on Toby, of course, but the hell with that. The only thing was, it was out of the question. Right now his job was to keep matters simple, not complicate them further.
When he had finished, Brook picked up his jacket to drape it over a chair. As he was doing so he saw a bulge in the right pocket. He frowned, wondering what could be causing it. He never stuffed his pockets. He explored the pocket and a frigid mouse ran down his spine. He knew what it was even before he pulled the stuffing out of the pocket.
It was the gold cord from the lounging outfit Kimiko Ohara had worn. The cord that had strangled her. The cord he had removed from her neck — and put in his pocket!
Why? For the love of Holloway, how could he have done a stupid thing like that? If the Japanese police had succeeded in laying their hands on him... The mouse ran down again.
Talk about a run of luck! This was one detail a Presidential directive couldn’t have made him put into his report to the Director.
There was a big ceramic ashtray on the table. Brook made for it, feeling for his lighter. He hoped the braided cord would burn.
The door opened again.
She had changed her costume. This time she wore a hot pink Chinese cheong-sam. Phase Two apparently: a little less strain on the imagination, a closer look at the goodies. If I can get her to come in here often enough, Brook thought as he slid the gold cord into his pants pocket, she’ll be down to the buff. He did not think she had noticed the cord; his body had been in the way.
“Hello again. Yum-yum!”
She brought the tray with his breakfast to the table. Standing up from the tray like a lighthouse was a bottle of Chivas Regal.
“That’s fine, Jasmine, elegant.”
“It is nothing, Peter; I had to hurry. But it will keep you from starving. Tell me now if you will need something more. I can come here only when no one is watching.”
“This ought to take care of everything. Well, almost.” After all, why not? It would endanger the run only if Stark found out. And she certainly wouldn’t tell the Australian. She might not even want to play. But he owed it to his manhood to find out. “I could use a little company with my breakfast.”
He was looking at her lips. They were very red and satiny. That strange smile lifted them briefly. Then her tongue appeared. Just the tip. “Oh? Very well, I will stay a little if you like. Toby is busy at the hotel this morning, as always at this time of day.”
Okay, kid, I’ve got the message. Amusing how suddenly his muscles had recovered their tone. No sleepiness at all, either. Like taking an amphetamine. Instant zap.
This time he held a chair for her. She smiled up at him, and he touched her neck briefly. In Japan a woman’s neck was an erogenous zone, out of bounds except in intimacies. If she had any Japanese in her it ought to get a reaction.
It seemed to him that her eyes acknowledged the pass as he sat down opposite her.
He dawdled with the bacon and scrambled eggs, sipped the coffee, disdained the toast. He was no longer hungry. He reached for the Scotch.
Jasmine pushed a glass toward him. “May I join you?” Her smile was a millimeter wider.
“Excuse me,” Brook said, and obliged. He should have figured her for an early-morning drinker. But then he noticed how she brought the glass to her lips, and he said, “You don’t really want that.”
The exquisite shoulders shrugged. “It is part of your sex ritual, is it not?”
“I suppose so.” It rather startled him. He had never thought of it that way. Was the Western man bucking up his own guts, or trying to loosen the Western woman’s inhibitions? He realized that, in light of the prevailing mores, it was rapidly losing its physiological function and becoming what Jasmine called it, a ritual; a sort of psychological appendix.