RainStorm

after that harsh exchange. I was aware that I also just wanted the exchange to be comfortable, that I didn't want to spar with her
    and certainly didn't want to fight, and I wondered for a moment
    where my decision was really coming from.
    "You know, you almost dropped me in Belghazi's suite," I said.
    She shrugged. "I had surprise on my side. I don't think you were
    expecting much from a naked woman."
    "Maybe not. But you used what you had at your disposal, and
    you used it well. Who trained you?"
    The question was straightforward, and I knew she wouldn't take
    it as another attempt to glean something revealing.
    She looked at me for a long moment, then said, "It's Krav Maga."
    Krav Maga is the self-defense system developed by the Israeli
    Defense Forces. These days it's taught all over the world, so experience
    in the system certainly doesn't mean the practitioner is Israeli.
    But Delilah already knew that I suspected her nationality and her
    affiliations. In this context, her acknowledgment served also as a
    tacit admission.
    I wondered how best to pursue the slight opening she seemed
    to have deliberately created. I said, "I like Krav Maga. It's practical."
    "It's all in how it's taught," she said, nodding. "And how you
    train. Most martial arts are taught as religions. They're all about
    faith, not facts."
    I smiled. "People need to believe something, even if they have
    to invent it."
    She nodded again. "Even if it's wrong. But we don't have that
    luxury. We need something that works."
    We. She was getting ready to tell me something.
    But don't push it. Let her get to it the way she wants to.
    "How'd they train you?" I asked.
    "You know how. A lot of scenario-based conditioning. A lot of
    contact. My nose was broken during training, can you see it? I had
    it fixed, but you can still see the scars if you look closely."
    I looked, and saw a hairline mark at the bridge, the remnants of
    a bad break repaired by a good plastic surgeon. It wouldn't have
    meant anything if you hadn't known to look for it.
    "Sounds pretty rough," I said.
    "It was. They took it further for me than for most because
    my missions are special. I'm alone in the field for a long time,
    usually without access to a weapon, or at least not to a traditional
    weapon."
    We were silent again. She took a sip of the Laphroaig and asked,
    "And you?"
    "Mostly judo," I said. "The Kodokan." If she'd trained in Krav
    Maga, she would know both.
    She looked at me. "I thought neck cranks were illegal in judo."
    "They are," I said, seeing that I'd been right about her knowledge.
    "I learn the special stuff elsewhere. Books and videos. I used to
    practice it with a couple partners who shared some of my interests."
    "What else?" she asked. "The way I saw you move, you don't
    learn that doing judo as a sport. Even with the extra books and
    videos."
    "No. You don't. It helps to have spent a decade or so in combat.
    You develop a certain attitude."
    Silence again. Then she said, "So you are who I think you are."
    I shrugged. "I think you know part of it, yes."
    "Well, you know part about me, too."
    There it is, then. "You're Israeli," I said. "Mossad."
    She looked away and cocked her head slightly as though considering
    what I had said, meditating on it. Then she said, "What
    difference does it make who I am, who I'm with? From your perspective,
    none."
    She wasn't going to tell me, I'd been wrong about that. Or
    maybe she already had told me, in her own oblique way, and I'd
    missed it. I wasn't sure.
    She took a sip of the Laphroaig and went on. "But from my
    perspective, your affiliations matter a great deal. The information
    we were able to put together on you suggested that you work
    for the Japanese Liberal Democratic Party. But I don't see what interest
    the LDP could have in Belghazi. So I assume that, at least
    this time, you're being paid by the Americans. And that concerns
    me."
    "Why?"
    She waved her hands outward, palms to the ceiling, as if to say, Isn't it obvious? "They're big and factionalized," she said, "so they're
    not discreet. You have to be careful with them. You never know
    quite who you're dealing with."
    "How do you mean?"
    Now she put her hands on her hips, leaned back on the couch,
    and dropped her shoulders. The gesture read, Is he just playing dumb,
    or is this the genuine, article? She started talking a moment later, so I
    figured she had decided it was number 2. It shouldn't have bothered me-- on the contrary, in fact--but it did, a