A Clean Kill in Tokyo

away. I had the exhilarating realization there was nowhere, nowhere on the whole planet, I would rather have been right then. The city around us was a living thing: the million lights its eyes; the laughter of lovers its voice; the expressways and factories its muscles and sinews. And I was there at its pulsing heart.
    Just a little more time,
I thought, kissing her neck, her ear. A little more time at an anonymous hotel where we could float untethered from the past, free of all the things I knew would soon end my fragile bond with this woman.
    I became increasingly aware of the sound of her breathing, the taste of her skin, and my languid sense of the city and our place in it faded. She turned and kissed me, softly, then harder, her hands on my face, under my shirt, the heat from her touch spreading through my torso like ripples on water.
    We tumbled onto the bed, stripping off each other’s clothes, tossing them helter-skelter. Her back was arched upward and I was kissing her breasts, her belly, and she said, “No, now, I want you now,” and I moved up, feeling her legs on either side of me, and into her. She made a sound like the wind picking up, and we moved against each other, with each other, slowly at first, then more urgently. We were fused together, breathing the breath from each other’s lungs, the sensation arcing from my head to my groin to my toes and back again until I couldn’t tell where my body ended and hers began. I felt a rumbling between us and in us like storm clouds rolling in and when I came it was like a thunderclap from everywhere, her body and my body and all the places where we were joined.
    We lay there afterward, still entwined, exhausted as though we had done battle but had failed to vanquish each other with our last and mightiest blows. “Wow,” she said. “What did they put in the sake?”
    I smiled at her. “You want to get another bottle?”
    “A lot of bottles,” she said, drowsily. And that was the last thing either of us said before I drifted off into a sleep that was mercifully untroubled by memories and only slightly marred by dread of what was still to come.

CHAPTER 23
    I got up just before dawn, and stood looking out the window as the lights came on in Tokyo and the city slowly emerged from its slumber, dreamily stretching its fingers and toes. Midori was still sleeping.
    I showered and dressed in one of the suits I keep at the Imperial, an eleven-ounce gray flannel from Paul Stuart. A white Sea Island cotton shirt, conservative blue tie. The shoes were bench made, the well-seasoned attaché from the old British leather-goods manufacturer W & H Gidden. I was dressed better than most people who are supposed to look the part—again, the details are what make the disguise, or give you away.
And who knows?
I thought.
If this doesn’t go well, you could be buried in this outfit. You might as well look good.
    Midori had gotten up while I was in the shower. She was wearing a white terry-cloth hotel robe and sat on the bed silently while I dressed. “I like you in a suit,” she told me when I was done.
    “Just a
sarariiman
on his way to work,” I said, trying to keep it light.
    I slipped the Glock into a custom holster at the small of my back, where it would be concealed by the nice drape of the flannel. Then I eased the flashbang up under my armpit above the sleeve of the suit, where the natural compression of my arm held it in place. I moved my arm out a few centimeters and jiggled it hard, and the device slid down into my waiting hand. Satisfied, I put it back in position.
    I rotated my head and heard the joints in my neck crack. “Okay. I’ve got to go. I’ll be back sometime in the evening. Will you wait for me?”
    She nodded, her face set. “I’ll be here. Just come back.”
    “I will.” I picked up the attaché and left.
    The hotel lobby was relatively empty of the visiting businessmen who would soon arise and meet for overpriced power breakfasts. I walked out through the front doors and shook my head at the bellman’s offer to assist me with a cab, preferring instead an indirect walk to Tokyo Station, which would give me a better chance to ensure I wasn’t being followed. From the station, I would catch the train to Shinbashi, and from Shinbashi to the station at Yokosuka. I could have gone directly from Tokyo Station, but preferred a more circuitous route for my usual reasons.
    It was a brisk, clear morning—rare weather for Tokyo, and the kind