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.
TWENTY-FOUR
AFTER 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.