RainStorm

event. No more sideshows. I'd get
    close, do it right, and get out. After that, a big payday. Big enough
    so that afterward I would get clear of this shit forever.
    Or at least for a reasonably long while.
    TWO
    The next morning, Keiko and I enjoyed another leisurely breakfast in the hotel's Cafe Girassol, then whiled
    away an hour browsing the hotel shops, all of which offered splendid
    views of the lobby. But Belghazi never showed.
    Around noon, I went to an Internet cafe to check the electronic
    bulletin board that I was using to communicate with Tomohisa
    Kanezaki, my contact inside the CIA. Before going further, I
    downloaded a copy of security software and installed it, as I always do,
    to confirm that the terminal I was using was free of "snoopware"-- software, some commercial, some hacker-devised, that monitors
    keystrokes, transmits screen images, and that can otherwise compromise
    a computer's security. Hackers love to remotely place the
    software on public terminals, like the ones you see in airports, libraries, copy shops, and, of course, Internet cafes, from which they
    then harvest passwords, credit card numbers, bank accounts, hell,
    entire online identities.
    This one was clean. I checked the bulletin board. There was a
    message waiting: "Call me."
    That was all. I logged out and left.
    Outside, I turned on the encrypted cell phone the Agency had
    provided me, punched in the number I had memorized, and started
    walking to make it harder for anyone to triangulate.
    I heard a single ring on the other end, then Kanezaki's voice. "Moshi moshi," he said.
    Kanezaki is an American sansei, or third-generation Japanese,
    and he likes to show off his language skills. I rarely indulge him.
    "Hey," I said.
    "Hey," he said, conceding. "I've been trying to call you."
    I smiled. Kanezaki was part of the CIA, which in my book rendered
    him automatically untrustworthy. Of course, he probably
    had the same misgivings about me. But in Tokyo I had declined a
    contract that his boss wanted to take out on him, and in fact had
    warned him about it. You'd have to be a world-class ingrate not to
    appreciate a favor like that, and I knew Kanezaki felt he owed me.
    He'd feel that way not just because of what I had done, but also because
    he was much more American than Japanese, and Americans,
    whose self-image is so tied up with "fairness," wind up making
    themselves suckers for the concept. His sentiment would take us
    only so far, of course--in my experience, one of the guiding principles
    of human relations seems to be "what have you done for me
    lately"--but it "was something, a small antidote against the potential
    poison of his professional affiliations.
    "Unless I'm talking on it," I said, "I leave this thing turned off."
    "Saving the battery?"
    "Guarding my privacy."
    "You're the poster boy for paranoia," he said, and I could see
    him shaking his head on the other end. I smiled again. In some
    ways I liked the kid in spite of his choice of employer. I'd been impressed
    by the countermeasures he'd taken against his boss after my
    warning, and some part of me enjoyed being able to watch his development
    from naive idealist to increasingly seasoned player.
    "Our friend just got in," he said.
    "I know. I saw him last night."
    "Good. You know, we're tracking him. If you'd leave the cell
    phone on, we might be able to contact you with some timely information."
    Although I didn't know for sure, I suspected the Agency had
    been keeping tabs on Belghazi through a compromised cell or
    satellite phone. I wasn't going to make the same mistake.
    "Sure," I said, my tone neutral to the point of sarcasm.
    There was a pause. "You're not going to leave it on," he said, his
    tone half-resigned, half-bemused.
    I laughed.
    "We'd have a better chance of success if we could work together,"
    he said, earnest as ever.
    I laughed again.
    "All right, do it your way," he said. "I know you will anyway."
    "Anything else?"
    "Yeah. It would really be nice if you could account for some of
    those disbursements."
    "C'mon, we've been over this. I need the cash to get into the high
    rollers' rooms. I saw a guy from China drop a million U.S. at one of
    the baccarat tables the other night. That's where our friend plays. I
    need to get near him, and they don't allow spectators. Or low rollers."
    He was probably just giving me a hard time to try to make me
    feel like I'd won something. I knew this whole program was as off
    the books as anything the Agency had