RainStorm

and put the key in the
    lock. She pushed open the door wide enough to move inside--no
    wider than someone who had, say, taped a mercury switch vertically
    to the floor behind the door would have opened it to leave.
    She paused for a moment, then opened it wider. We went in, looking
    for tripwires along the way.
    The door closed behind us. I set the body down next to it and
    we each quickly examined the room. Mercury switches, pressure
    release switches, photocell switches . . . there are a lot of ways to
    rig a room. The main thing is to look for anything unusual, anything
    out of place. We checked the desk chair, the edges of every
    drawer, the closet doors, the mini-bar cabinet, the underside of the
    bed, the drapes, the television. Neither of us spoke. The sweep
    took about ten minutes.
    I stopped a moment before she did. She was bending forward,
    her back to me, running her fingers along the edge of the bedstand
    drawer. The black skirt was pulled taut across her ass, the exposed
    back of her legs deliciously white by contrast.
    She stood up and looked at me. Her brow was covered with a
    light sheen of perspiration. The silk of her blouse shimmered and
    clung in all the right places.
    "That was too close," she said, shaking her head. "This has
    to stop."
    I nodded, looking at her. I couldn't tell if the thumping in my
    chest was from the exertion of killing, hoisting, and carrying Elevator
    Boy, or from something else. My awareness of her shape, of
    her skin, made me think maybe it was option #2. Horniness is a
    common reaction of the post-combat psyche, Eros reasserting over
    Thanatos. If I didn't change my lifestyle soon, I might not live
    long. But I'd never have to worry about Viagra, either.
    "No one saw us," I said, pulling myself back from the direction
    my body and the reptile portions of my brain wanted to go in, focusing
    on the situation. "And there are no cameras in the elevators
    or hallways."
    "I know that," she said.
    "All right. Tell me what you know about this."
    "Nothing more than what I just told you." She inclined her
    head toward the figure slumped on the floor by the door. "Saudi. I
    could tell by his accent."
    "You speak Arabic well enough to recognize regional accents?"
    She shook her head at the question. "We can talk about that another
    time. The only thing we need to talk about now is getting
    you off Macau. I've had enough of you fucking up my operation."
    I felt some blood drain from my face. "I'm fucking up your operation?"
    I said, my voice low. "I could as easily--"
    "I was almost just seen with you," she said, her hands on her
    hips, her eyes hot and angry, "by someone who until I can be convinced
    otherwise I will assume is working for Belghazi. Do you
    understand what will happen to me if he comes to suspect me?"
    "Look, I didn't ask you to--"
    "Yes, you're right, I should have just let you walk into that man's
    ambush. I should have, too. You would be gone, and that's what
    I need."
    "Why, then?" I said, thinking that maybe I'd have more luck
    finishing my sentences if I kept them short.
    She looked at me, saying nothing.
    "Why did you warn me?"
    Her nostrils flared and her face flushed. "It's none of your business
    why I do or don't do something. I made a mistake, all right? I
    should have just stood aside! If I could do it over and do it differently,
    I would!"
    She stopped herself, probably realizing that she had been raising
    her voice. "I want you to leave Macau," she said, more quietly.
    I wondered for a moment whether her outburst had been born
    of frustration. Frustration that whatever she had just set up to get
    rid of me had failed to get the job done.
    "I know how you feel," I said. "Because I want the same thing
    from you."
    She shook her head once, quickly, and grimaced, as though
    what I had said was ridiculous. "We both understand the situation.
    We've already discussed it. Even if our positions were symmetrical
    before, they're not any longer. He's on to you. Even if I were to
    leave, and I won't, you can't finish what you came here to do."
    "I don't know that."
    "My God, what more proof do you need?"
    I stopped for a moment and thought. She was probably right, of
    course. But I still hadn't heard back from Kanezaki. I might learn
    more from him. And maybe from her, too, if I could find a way to
    get her to tell me.
    She wanted me to be gone. Wanted it so much that whatever
    had happened in the elevator might have been a bungled attempt to
    make it happen.