RainStorm

out, I
    would know it through the cell phone. Layers. Always layers.
    Delilah arrived fifteen minutes later. As she passed my position,
    I checked the direction she had come from to ensure that she was
    alone. When I saw that she was, I opened the door and said,
    "Delilah. Over here."
    She turned and looked at me. She didn't seem particularly surprised,
    and I wasn't surprised at that. She was familiar with my
    habits and wouldn't have expected me to just be waiting at the appointed
    place at the appointed time.
    I held the door open as she walked past me. Harry's detector was
    in my pocket, sleeping peacefully, the batteries fully juiced from an
    earlier daily charging. She wasn't wired.
    I led her along various stairways and internal corridors back to
    the room, listening in on the earpiece while we moved. All I heard
    from my room were the quiet notes of Lynne Arriale and the others.
    Neither of us spoke along the way. We encountered no surprises.
    I unlocked the door to the room and we went inside. "Sorry
    about the procedures," I said, removing the earpiece. I turned off
    the cell phone and left it by the door.
    The apology was perfunctory. So was the shrug she offered in
    response. I bolted the door behind us.
    Feeling secure for the moment, I took in a few more details. She
    was wearing a midnight blue dress, something with texture, maybe
    raw silk. It was cut just above the knee, with three-quarter-length
    sleeves, an off-the-shoulder neckline, and a deep V cut in the back
    and front. Her shoes were patent leather stilettos with sharp toes.
    There was a handbag to match the shoes, and a gold Cartier watch
    with a gold link band encircling her left wrist. It was a man's watch,
    large and heavy on her wrist, and its incongruous heft served to accentuate
    her femininity. Her hair was swept back and away from
    her face in a way that accentuated her profile. Overall the look was
    controlled and sleek, sophisticated and sexy. None of it, especially
    the shoes, would be ideal for escape and evasion, if it came to that,
    so I realized she must have chosen it all for some other operational
    imperative. There are all sorts of weapons in the world, and I reminded
    myself that when this woman was dressed for work she was
    anything but unarmed.
    She reached into her purse and took out her cell phone to show
    me that it was turned off and unconnected to anyone who might
    be listening in. Then she opened the purse so I could see there was
    nothing else inside that might have been problematic. I nodded to
    show that I was satisfied.
    She raised her arms away from her sides and looked at me. She
    smiled in that sly, subversive way she had--teasing, but also amused,
    and inviting the recipient of the smile to join in the amusement.
    "You're not going to search me?"
    I didn't think it would be necessary. And it certainly wouldn't be
    wise. If I put my hands on her body, my previous reaction, when I
    had watched her leaning over the bedstand in my room at the hotel
    in Macau, would have seemed shy and retiring by comparison.
    She knew that, and she was showing me that she knew.
    "Why would I want to do that?" I said, aware that my heart had
    started a little giddyup just at the prospect. "We trust each other,
    right?"
    She lowered her arms, letting the smile linger for a moment,
    maybe acknowledging that I'd handled her suggestion about as well
    as anyone could under the circumstances.
    "Shall I take off my shoes?"
    "Why?" I asked, thinking of that idiot shoe bomber who had
    tried to bring down a flight from Paris.
    She shrugged. "Isn't that the custom in Japan?"
    Cute. A way to confirm a biographical detail, to increase or decrease
    the probability that the guy her people had read about in Forbes had been me. She'd have to do better than that.
    "I think they do it in houses, not so much in hotels," I said. "Either
    way is fine."
    She bent forward, raised her right leg behind her, and reached
    around to a strap at the back of her ankle. She didn't need to touch
    the wall or otherwise support herself to perform this maneuver.
    Her balance was good. But I had already seen that, in Belghazi's
    suite when she had nearly put me down with that elbow shot.
    She repeated the procedure for the other shoe. In the half-light
    where we stood by the door I caught a tantalizing glimpse of skin
    and curves as the front of her dress slipped momentarily away from
    her body. The view wasn't accidental, I knew, but it was undeniably
    good.
    I took