Killing Rain

many before her, either.
    How could I know what this was about, what she had in mind, unless I saw her? She might have the information I would need to get close to Manny again. She might be able to give me insight into her people’s thinking about what had happened in Manila, about their related plans. Yes, there would be risks. But there always are. And I could control the risks. I always do.
    My gut told me it was worth taking a chance. For a moment I was afraid that I couldn’t trust my gut, that maybe the instinct that has always served me well had somehow been distorted, the internal navigation instruments compromised. But then I thought, If your gut’s no good anymore, you’re done anyway.
    Which might itself have been a distortion. But the hell with it.
    I found an international pay phone and called the number. As the call went through, I felt my heart beating harder and felt foolish for it. Dox would have ribbed me if he’d known, told me I was acting like a kid or something.
    She answered after one ring.
    “Allo,”
    I heard her say.
    “Hey,” I said, staring out at the street, afraid of my hopes.
    “Hey,” she said back. When I didn’t answer, she asked, “How have you been?”
    Whatever I’d been expecting, I hadn’t expected it to be awkward. “Good. You?”
    “The same. I’ve been working on a . . . project, but I can get away for a few days, if you can.”
    No mention of business. Either this was a personal call, as I wanted to hope, or it was business disguised as personal, which among the current range of possibilities would probably mean the worst.
    “Yeah, I can get away. I’m in the middle of something that’s quiet for the moment, but it might heat up suddenly.”
    I wondered if she would react to that. She didn’t. She said, “I can come to you, if that’s better.”

I considered for a moment. I needed to stay in the area, in case Boaz and Gil turned up something that could put Dox and me back in the game with Manny. And I wanted to meet Delilah someplace that would pose difficulties for her if she was thinking of bringing company. Just in case.
    “Can you make it to Bangkok?” I asked.
    “Sure. I can probably get a nonstop from de Gaulle.”
    “Put your itinerary on the bulletin board and I’ll meet you just outside customs.”
    “All right. Are you sure you want to do Bangkok, though? They say taking a date there is like bringing a lunch box to a restaurant.”
    I smiled. “I know the kind of food I like.”
    She laughed, and the tension eased a little. “All right, then. I’ll make the flight arrangements, and leave the rest to you.”
    I recognized the concession to what Dox might call my paranoia. She knew that letting me choose the final destination, without telling her in advance, would be more comfortable for me.
    “I’ll need to know the name you’re traveling under,” I said. “To make reservations.”
    “I’ll put it all on the bulletin board.”
    “Okay, then.”
    There was a pause. She said, “It’ll be good to see you.”
    “Yeah. I’m glad you got in touch.”
    “Jaa,” she said, displaying a little knowledge of Japanese. Well then.
    I smiled.
    “À bientôt.”
    And hung up.
    I walked for a few minutes, then went into another Internet café. I did the usual spyware inspection, then checked on flights to Bangkok from Paris. The only nonstops were on Thai Air and Air France. The Thai flight left daily at 1:30
    P
    .
    M
    . Let’s see, it was already 1:15
    P
    .
    M
    . in Paris, so she’d missed that. The Air France flight left daily at 11:25
    P
    .
    M
    . and arrived at Bangkok International at 4:35 the following afternoon.
    I thought for a minute. Either she had some sudden free time, as she’d said, in which case she would want to make the most of it, or, more likely, she was coming on business, which would entail its own form of urgency. Either way, I could expect her to move promptly, which would probably mean that evening’s Air France flight. All right, I’d bet on that.
    I thought about where to take her, and how to go about it. It had to be someplace special. Partly, I had to admit, because I wanted to impress her. More important, because I wanted her to feel far away from whoever might have sent her. A sense of distance, of disconnection, would increase the likelihood that she would talk openly, or at least that she would slip. The place also had to be secure. And we’d have to get there in a way that would give me the