She walked south down Kotto-dori, cold in the capelet and skimpy dress, past an intriguing mix of restaurants, boutiques, office buildings, and residences. Cars and small trucks and motor scooters navigated up and down the street, their engines whining and revving at discordant pitches and resounding off the walls of buildings to either side. An occasional horn honked, but never aggressively. A few bicyclists maneuvered around her on the sidewalk. A number of older women were out walking squirrel-sized dogs, some of the animals in tiny wool sweaters. The women and their overly precious canines you saw everywhere in Paris. But here, she noted, looking down, the custom was to clean up after the pets.
She liked the city. Tokyo seemed to have little in the way of zoning ordinances, something that would have horrified the overseers of Paris. But the planning that worked there would have suffocated the eclectic charm that she sensed was what made Tokyo tick.
She turned left on one of the narrow, nameless side streets running east off Kotto-dori. Fifty meters ahead, she saw two men standing purposefully and sensed they worked for the club. When she had walked by earlier that day, there had been no one around, and, if she hadn't known at the time what she was looking for, she would have gone right past without even knowing. There was no sign or any other announcement, just a slate path leading away from the street, now flanked by these two.
They watched her as she approached. They were wearing identical dark suits, fully buttoned, and each had the same metrosexually refined eyebrows and carefully coiffed hair. They were way too soft-looking to be security, and she made them as the valets Rain had mentioned. That made sense – the place was more than upscale enough, and there seemed to be no parking nearby. They bowed as she approached and she nodded to them, catching sight of the wired earpiece each was wearing.
She turned onto the path, head swiveling as she walked, as though impressed by the design of the place. And it was impressive: to either side of the path were dark rectangular pools of water and lush ferns, all of it illuminated softly from below. A pair of clean-cut concrete walls rose out of the ground and increased in height as the path got closer to the building, eventually reaching about three meters and creating a sense of privacy that grew as she walked. There was a faint smell of incense, and the sound of water moving over stones. It was as though the club was gradually taking her in from the noisy, public city outside.
The effect increased as the path turned right. Suddenly everything was quiet: nothing but her footfalls and that calming sound of water trickling in the pools. She walked up a short riser of concrete steps and into a large vestibule discreetly lit with wall sconces. A small square of glass was embedded in the wall to the right of a pair of large wooden doors, surrounded by a metal plate. Camera, she thought. She felt the detector Rain had given her buzz in her purse, and was glad to know it was working. Next to the camera was a button. Below it, an embedded plastic unit she recognized as a magnetic card reader. There was no keypad, just the reader itself, and she guessed that the valets carried swipe keys. That meant the door would be kept locked and, valets and other employees excepted, controlled from inside.
She looked around again, just an out-of-town girl taking it all in, and noted no other surveillance equipment. She pulled on both doors, then pushed. They were indeed locked. Okay.
She looked at the button next to the camera as though noticing it for the first time, then pressed it. A moment later, she heard the distinct clack of an electronic lock, then the door to her left was swinging outward, guided by another man in a dark suit. Unlike the two out front, this guy had security written all over him. His hair was crew-cut – functional, not stylish – and something in his eyes suggested that if anyone ever tried to metrosexually reshape his brows they'd be hospitalized for their troubles. He held open the door and bowed his head in welcome.
The way he had immediately welcomed her, without checking to see whether she was alone, confirmed that she had been watched via the camera before she pressed the buzzer. The man had opened the door already knowing, or having been told, exactly what was outside.
She nodded and walked in. Soft techno music played from unseen speakers and the air smelled faintly of cigar smoke. She checked the drape of the security guy's suit as she went by. She saw no telltale bulges, but his right side was facing away from her and she couldn't be sure. She'd try for another look later.
This was the small room she'd seen in the floor plans. The design was minimalist, just dark, wood-paneled walls, a leather-wrapped island in the center, and a leather-covered bench to one side. To the left was a pair of large swinging doors, which from the plans she knew led to the main room. Behind the island was another door, the one that led to what they had guessed was an office. To the right, the stairs down to the restrooms and, presumably, the utility room.
Two more men stood off to the right. One was another serious-looking guy she made as security, and there it was, yes, the bulge that was no cell phone at his hip under the jacket. The other guy was as soft-looking as the two out front. Probably another valet, she thought. When a member is ready to leave, this guy runs out for the car, and one of the two outside comes in. They rotate. No one's kept waiting.
Two quite stunning Japanese women stood behind the island. Both were dressed exquisitely in gold lame gowns. Their makeup was perfect, and their long, lustrous hair was set in elaborate chignons. They looked classy, sophisticated, and very, very sexy.
Delilah walked up and smiled a little uncertainly. 'Pardonnez-moi,' she said. 'Parlez-vous français?'
The women looked at each other, then back to Delilah. No, they didn't speak French.
'Ah, this is Whispers, yes?' she asked in heavily accented English.
The hostesses nodded. One of them said, with a Japanese accent, 'Whispers, yes.'
Okay, their English didn't seem too much better than their French. Delilah said, 'I am here for… a job. Working here.'
The woman who had spoken a moment earlier said, 'Mmm, one minute, please.' She picked up a phone and spoke a few words of Japanese, then hung up. 'Please,' she said, gesturing to the bench. 'Just a minute.'
Delilah thanked her and sat. She glanced again at the first security guy, but his right side was still facing away from her. Well, the other guy was carrying, it was safe to assume they both were.
While she waited, she heard a soft buzzer. She watched the women behind the island. They looked down, presumably at a video screen, then nodded to the first security guy, who nodded back and opened the door. Two fiftyish Japanese men wearing cashmere overcoats walked in. The women came out from behind the island and bowed in welcome. One of the women took the coats and brought them into the room behind the island; the other escorted the men into the main area. A few moments later the women had reassembled in their original positions.
So the security guy didn't have visual access to the vestibule outside. The hostesses took care of that, and he took his cues from them. Okay.
A minute later, another Japanese woman came through the door on the other side of the island. This one was older – late forties or fifties. She was a handsome woman, and looked at home in a black Chanel suit that, while certainly elegant, served to identify her, along with her age and bearing, as management rather than talent.