Killing Rain

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 familywill 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 toreally 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.
    I remembered our last night together, in a room at the Park Hyatt in Tokyo nearly two years earlier. We had made love furiously, despite Midori’s new knowledge of who I was and what I had done to her father; despite