RainStorm

at an Internet cafe. There was a message waiting from
    Kanezaki on the bulletin board. Six guys matching the descriptions
    of the ones I'd taken out had left from Riyadh for Hong Kong two
    days earlier. Plus, the Saudi embassy in Hong Kong was involved in
    the investigation of the recent deaths in Hong Kong and Macau.
    And Delilah had mentioned that the guy she had overheard had a
    Saudi accent. Apparently, she'd been telling the truth, at least about
    that. It looked like my erstwhile friends had indeed been Saudi. A connection
    with half-Algerian, Arabic-speaking Belghazi seemed likely
    under the circumstances. What I didn't know was why. Or how.
    The last part of the message said, "Checking on the phone
    numbers and on the woman. Nothing yet. Will be in touch."
    I typed, "Follow up on the Saudi connection to our friend.
    Monitor Riyadh to Hong Kong air traffic for movement of similar
    teams." Not likely that they could have put together another unit
    so quickly, but it couldn't hurt to be watching for one.
    I uploaded the message, disconnected, and left.
    I thought about Delilah. European, I'd been thinking, although
    I hadn't been able to place the slight accent. I'd been half-assuming,
    pending further information, that she was French. Partly it was her
    appearance, her dress, her manner. Partly it was her involvement
    with Belghazi, who, when he wasn't moving around, was said to be
    based in Paris. Even her Arabic could fit the theory: France has a
    substantial Algerian population, and there is a long and violent history
    between the two countries. The French intelligence services,
    domestic and foreign, would have well-funded programs in Arabic.
    Delilah might have been one of their graduates.
    But there was another possibility, of course, one I was beginning
    to think was increasingly likely. I decided to look for a way to
    test it.
    I bought a pre-paid cell phone from a wireless store, to be used
    later. I dropped it in a pocket, then used a pay phone to call Delilah.
    "The Peninsula," I told her. "Room five forty-four." I wasn't
    ready to tell her the correct room number, or even the correct
    floor. Not with all the reasons she had for wanting to see me off.
    We would do this sensibly.
    "Thirty minutes," she said, and hung up.
    There was a liquor store near the phone. On impulse, I went inside.
    I found a bottle of thirty-year-old Laphroaig for twenty-five
    hundred Hong Kong dollars--about three hundred U.S. Extortionate.
    But what the hell. I stopped at an HMV music store and
    picked up a few CDs. Lynne Arriale, Live at Montreux. Eva Cassidy,
    Live at Blues Alley. Bill Evans Trio, Sunday at the Village Vanguard. All
    the next best thing to being there.
    I went back to my room at the Peninsula and took two crystal
    tumblers and a bucket of ice from over the mini-bar. I set them down
    on the coffee table with the Laphroaig, along with a bottle of mineral
    water. I popped the CDs into the room's multi-disk player and chose
    "random" and "repeat." A moment later, the music started coming
    through a pair of speakers to either side of the television. I paused for
    a minute, and listened to Eva Cassidy doing "Autumn Leaves," the
    lyrics and the melody the more poignant by virtue of the singer's untimely
    death. The song's melancholy notes seemed to clarify, and
    somehow to frame, my feelings about Delilah--part pleasant anticipation
    at seeing her again, part deadly concern at her possible role in
    what had recently come at me in Hong Kong and Macau.
    I used the room's speakerphone to call the pre-paid cell phone I
    had just bought, picked up the call, and left, closing the door behind
    me. I plugged a wire-line earpiece into the cell phone and listened.
    The music was soft but audible. As long as I could hear it in
    the background, I would know the connection was good.
    I took the stairs down to the fifth floor. Room 544 was at the
    end of a hallway, with the entrance to an internal staircase opposite
    and about three meters ahead of it. I waited inside the doors that
    led to the staircase, where I could see the room through a glass
    panel. If anyone had managed to listen in on my call to Delilah,
    which was unlikely, or if she had decided to inform her people of
    my whereabouts, which I deemed less unlikely, I would see them
    coming from here. If they tried to use the staircase, as I had, I
    would hear them. And, if for some reason that I had completely
    missed, someone tried to get into my room while I was