Killing Rain

an open charcoal barbecue and served on wood skewers. It’s usually supplemented by chazuke, a soupy mixture of tea and rice, and always washed down with copious portions of beer or hot sake.
    Yakitoriya tend to be small, cozy, and unpretentious, and are often located near subway stations to make it easier for their sarariman and student patrons to duck in for a quick meal at a corner table or the easy camaraderie of the counter.
    I was sitting in a tea shop across the street, wearing an unobtrusive sarariman -style navy suit and reading the Asahi Shimbun, a Japanese-language daily paper, when they arrived. I saw them approach from the north, pause to glance at Torisei’s sign, and go inside. Although they were out of their element in Nagoya, they didn’t refer to directions or other written instructions to confirm that they’d found the place, and I sensed from this that they were accustomed to operating sterile, something that in professionals becomes a habit.
    I waited and watched the street. After ten minutes, I got up and followed them in. As I parted the establishment’s blue noren curtains, I was thinking in Japanese and maintaining a Japanese persona. In my peripheral vision, I saw that they had taken one of the small tables. They both looked up when I arrived, but I ignored them. I expected Delilah would have given them a description, but I doubted that would be enough for them to pick me out if I wanted to stay anonymous. I took a seat at the counter, facing them and with the entrance door to my right. I ordered yaki-onigiri —grilled rice balls—and an Asahi Super Dry, opened my paper, and started to read. After a few minutes, when I felt they would have concluded I wasn’t of interest, I glanced around.
    I liked what I saw. They were dressed neatly, blazers but no ties, and seemed relaxed and comfortable in the doubtless unfamiliar environment. But for a slightly heightened sense of alertness that only someone like me would have recognized, they could have been a couple of visiting European tourists, or businessmen pleased to have discovered an authentically Japanese place to eat after a day of interminable meetings in some generic office conference room.
    I looked around and didn’t see anyone or anything that set off my radar. After another moment, I explained to the counterman that my acquaintances were already here and I had somehow overlooked them. I was going to go join them at their table, and, when it was ready, the waitress could just bring my order there.
    I got up and strolled over. I left my newspaper at the counter, wanting to reassure them in the face of this small surprise by keeping my hands empty. They watched me coming.
    When I reached their table, I said, “Boaz? Gil?” These were the names I had been given.
    They both stood up. The one with his back to the door said in lightly accented English, “I’m Boaz.”
    The other said, “Gil.”
    “Sorry,” I said, “I didn’t see you here at first.”
    Boaz laughed at that. They knew damn well I had seen them.
    We shook hands and I sat down next to Gil. Boaz looked at the all-Japanese menu and asked with a smile, “Do you want to order, or shall I?”
    His smile was reassuring and I returned it. I said, “Maybe you should let me.”
    As we ate and talked, I found myself impressed. They were in their early forties, senior enough to have advanced within their organization, presumably on merit, but not so senior that they would have lost touch with the field. They were comfortable in their cover: although I sensed by a dozen small tells that they were ex-military, nothing in their outward appearance would have revealed their backgrounds to a casual observer. They eschewed G-Shock wristwatches, aviator shades, too-short hair, and the other indicators of an ongoing attachment to a military past. Instead they wore their hair at a civilian length; dressed tastefully, even stylishly; and either were comfortable unarmed or were carrying weapons I wasn’t able to detect. They were confident, but not arrogant; businesslike, but not cold; obviously serious, and even grave, about the business at hand, but not without a sense of humor.
    Of the two, Gil was quieter. His eyes were a contradiction—partially hidden by heavy lids that made him appear relaxed, almost ready to doze, and yet lit by a strange glow from within. In those eyes and in his unaffected tone I recognized a fellow killer, a man who had taken lives at close range, and