RainStorm

a cream-colored
    silk blouse, a pot of tea and an open book on the table in
    front of her.
    Son of a bitch, I thought. I was right. My first reaction, when
    spotting the Arab surveillance in the lobby earlier that day, had
    been to suspect her. I had tried to talk myself out of that. Now I
    realized I should have just accepted it. You don't give people the
    benefit of the doubt. Not in this line of work.
    She glanced over and saw me coming before I'd reached her.
    "I've been waiting for you all day, damn it," she said.
    That brought me up short. "I'll bet you have," I said, looking
    around.
    "Yes, I have. To tell you not to go to your room. There's someone
    in there."
    I looked at her closely. "Yeah?"
    She looked back. "You don't believe me?"
    I was suddenly unsure again. Which was frustrating. Ordinarily,
    I know exactly what to do, and I do it.
    "Maybe I do," I said. "Let me see your cell phone."
    Her eyes narrowed a fraction. Then she shrugged. She reached
    into her purse and pulled out a Nokia 8910, the sleek titanium model.
    I popped open the sliding keypad and the screen lit up. The
    service provider was Orange, a French company, and the interface
    was in French. I checked the call log. No entries--she'd purged it.
    No surprise there. She was smart. I turned the unit off, then back
    on. As it powered back up, the phone number appeared on the
    screen. I didn't recognize it. It wasn't one of the ones I'd seen on
    the unit I'd taken from the guy at Sham Shui Po.
    The exercise proved nothing, though. She might have had another
    phone with her. I could ask for her purse, rifle through it. But
    then, when I didn't find anything, I'd wonder if she hadn't just left
    the other phone in her room, or hidden it somewhere, or whatever.
    I knew she was in the habit of thinking several moves ahead.
    I handed the unit back to her. "Who's in my room?"
    "I'm not sure. My guess is it has something to do with your reasons
    for being in Macau."
    "If you're not sure--"
    "I overheard him in the lobby of the hotel this morning. He was
    speaking in Arabic, so he assumed no one around could understand
    him."
    I raised my eyebrows. "You speak Arabic?"
    By way of answering, she said something suitably incomprehensible.
    It sounded Arabic to me.
    "All right," I said. "Tell me what you overheard."
    "He said he would wait in your room in case you returned unexpectedly
    from Hong Kong. He didn't use names, but I don't
    know who else they could be talking about."
    I considered. It's not all that hard to get into a hotel room if you
    have some imagination and know what you're doing. I would have
    known he was in there before I entered, of course. That morning,
    while Keiko waited for me in the lobby, I'd taped a hair across the
    bottom of the doorjamb, as I do whenever possible before leaving
    a place where I'm staying. I'd hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the
    door to make sure the maids didn't spoil the set-up. If the hair was
    broken when I returned, I'd know that someone had been in the
    room, and might still be there.
    "Why are you warning me, then?" I asked.
    She looked away for a long moment, then back at me. "I think
    your cover is blown," she said. "Forget about this job. Leave Macau."
    A contrivance? A way to get me out of her hair? Maybe. But if
    she really did have a confederate in there, warning me could easily
    get him killed, which your standard confederate ordinarily won't
    appreciate. And if the room was empty, I'd be sure to find out when
    I checked it, and I'd know the whole thing had been a ruse.
    "It would serve your interests if I walked away from this," I said.
    "So you'll have to forgive me if I doubt your motives."
    "I don't care what you think about my motives. I could have let
    you go into your room. Then you wouldn't walk away, you'd be
    carried out. My interests would be served in either case. So do what
    you want. I have to go."
    She stood up and started walking toward the elevators.
    "Wait a second," I said, moving with her.
    She ignored me, then stopped in front of the elevators. "I don't
    want to be seen with you," she said. "Just go."
    "Look," I started to say. I heard the ping of an arriving elevator
    and we both glanced over. The doors opened.
    Another Arab started to come out. He saw us. He looked at my
    face, then to Delilah. He froze. His mouth dropped open.
    He'd clearly recognized me. He'd also clearly seen that I'd been
    chatting with Delilah. The way he'd looked from me to her--he
    was connecting