RainStorm

resources
    that you don't." She took a sip of caipirinha. "So I think my description
    of our positions as 'mirror image' is apt."
    "All right. What do you propose?"
    She shrugged. "I told my people that moving against you would
    be a poor option, although we couldn't rule it out if you insisted
    on behaving unreasonably. If you gave us no choice."
    I looked at her, letting her see some coldness again. "I doubt
    that your people were able to get you any background on me," I
    told her, "but if they had, they would have told you that I react
    poorly to threats. Even irrationally."
    "I'm not threatening you."
    "Convince me of that."
    "Look, you know what we want from Belghazi. And we know
    what you want. Stand down for a few days. Let me get what I need.
    When I have it, I can get you access."
    "I already have access."
    She shook her head. "That was one in a million. You or someone
    else must have put something in what he was eating or drinking.
    If that happens to him again, he's going to know something is
    wrong. He'll react accordingly, stiffen his defenses. And he moves
    around a lot. You tracked him here, all right, but are you sure you
    could track his next move?"
    She sipped again. "But if you work with me, you have someone
    on the inside. Once we have what we need, we don't care what
    happens to him."
    I thought for a moment. There was something obvious here,
    something she was avoiding. I decided to test it.
    "I've got a better idea," I said. "Help me get close, and I'll do
    what I'm here to do. You can take his computer when I'm done."
    She shook her head. "That won't work."
    "Why not?"
    She shook her head again. "It just won't. I can't tell you why. We
    have to do it my way. Give me a little time, and then I'll help you."
    It was what I thought. The information on Belghazi's computer
    would lose its value if Belghazi died before Delilah accessed it.
    I looked at her and said, "Even if I needed your help, and I
    don't, why would I trust you? Once you've gotten what you
    wanted from the computer, you'd just walk away."
    She shrugged. "But that's your worst case, isn't it? You wait a
    few days and then I'm out of your way. Your best case, though, is
    that I stick around to help you. And I'll tell you why you can believe
    me. Because it would be very much to our advantage if, after
    we acquire what we need from his computer, Belghazi were to expire
    naturally. As opposed to ... violently."
    "You'd have to be pretty confident that I could make that happen."
    She shrugged again. "Your behavior in his suite tells me that you
    intend for it to happen that way. And if you are who we think you
    are, we're also confident that you have the capability."
    I raised my eyebrows.
    "You were right, I had my people run a background check on
    you," she went on. "I didn't have too much for them to go on: Asian
    male, about fifty, American-accented English, adept at close-quarters
    combat, good with surreptitious entry, very cool under pressure."
    "Sounds like something you came across in the personals," I said.
    She ignored me. "And probably intending to put Belghazi to
    sleep in a way that would look natural."
    "Any response?" I asked, my tone mild.
    "We had nothing specific in our files," she said, "but we did
    come up with some interesting information from open sources,
    primarily Forbes magazine. A series of articles written by a reporter
    named Franklin Bulfinch, who died not so long ago in Tokyo. His
    articles suggested that there is an assassin at work in Japan, an assassin
    expert at making murder look like anything but." She paused,
    looking at me. "I think we may be dealing -with this man."
    Whoever they were, they were good, no doubt about it. I liked
    the way they used open sources. Your typical intelligence service
    suffers from the belief that if it's not stamped Top Secret and not
    nestled between the service's own mauve-hued folders, it's not
    worth considering. But I've been privy to some of the secret stuff,
    as well as to the work of the Bulfinches of the world. I know the
    spooks would learn more reading Forbes and The Economist than the
    magazines would learn from perusing "intelligence assessments."
    "How long are we talking about?" I asked.
    "Not long. Two days, maybe three."
    "How do you know that?"
    "I can't tell you that. But we know." She took a sip of caipirinha. "Just trust me."
    I laughed.
    She retracted her head in mock indignation. "But I trusted you.
    I got you out of his suite, didn't I?"
    "When