RainStorm

a
    pretty understanding husband."
    "Don't tell him."
    "I'd have to not tell him about what I've been doing for the last
    dozen years, too. You know, if a man learns that you can be an actress
    in bed, he'll always wonder afterward whether you're acting
    with him. Men tend to be insecure about those things."
    I realized that the comment might have been directed at me.
    Maybe a probe, to see if I would admit to something along those
    lines. Better to sidestep. I said, "It must be hard being so close with
    someone like Belghazi, knowing what he does."
    She nodded. "You have to be able to compartmentalize. But it's
    not so bad with him. He's not one of the killers. He's much higher
    up the food chain than that. Besides, he's intelligent and not unkind.
    Attractive. Remember, I like men. It's part of what makes me
    good at what I do."
    "But after you've gotten what you want from him . . ."
    Her expression occluded slightly. "Someone else will take care
    of that. Maybe you, if we can manage this relationship properly."
    "How 'will you feel then?"
    "The way I always do. But you don't shrink from doing what's
    right just because it's not comfortable."
    I looked at her, impressed. Most people don't realize it, but
    ninety percent of morality is based on comfort. Incinerate hundreds
    of people from thirty thousand feet up and you'll sleep like a baby afterward. Kill one person with a bayonet and your dreams
    will never be sweet again.
    Which is more comfortable?
    Which is worse?
    Maybe it doesn't matter. In the end, you get over everything.
    We're such resilient creatures.
    It was strange, lying in bed with her. The room felt like a haven.
    I realized my ease of mind was borne both of the precautions I had
    taken and of my confidence that she wouldn't have allowed herself
    to be followed. But also, perhaps, of some part of me that wanted
    to feel this way, for its own reasons, independent of the evidence of
    the outside world. Not a good sign, I knew. And possibly an indication
    that I was growing less well adapted to the game, and less
    able to survive in it.
    Delilah got up and took a shower. She brought her purse in the
    bathroom with her, knowing I would have gone through it if she
    hadn't. Not that I would have found anything useful. She was too
    careful for that.
    I lay on the bed and listened to the water running. I knew there
    was at least a theoretical possibility that she would use her cell
    phone while she was in there, alerting her people to my whereabouts.
    My gut told me the possibility was remote, but my gut
    might have been feeling the effects of whiskey and lovemaking.
    The fact was, she would still be concerned about the danger I
    posed to her operation. I had to stay sensible.
    When she came out she was already dressed. She looked relaxed
    and refreshed. I had pulled on one of the Peninsula's plush bathrobes
    and was sitting on the bed, as though ready to turn in for
    the night.
    She sat down next to me and said, "What do we do now?"
    I put my hand on her thigh. "Well, I'm ready for round two, if
    you are."
    She laughed. "About the situation."
    "Oh, yeah. Can you send text messages with your phone?"
    "Of course."
    I gave her the URL of one of my encrypted bulletin boards.
    "The password is 'Peninsula,'" I told her. "The name of this hotel.
    Tell me when you've gotten what you need from Belghazi and
    where I can find him then."
    "You'll do that?"
    I shrugged. "I'm still waiting to hear from my contacts, who
    should be able to shed some light on who came after me and why.
    And how. For the moment, I don't have access to Belghazi, anyway.
    Standing down seems sensible."
    "It is. Whoever was coming at you in Macau won't have unlimited
    resources. It will take them time to get new forces in position."
    "I know," I said.
    "But you need to be careful. I know you know this, I know
    you're a professional. But Belghazi is a dangerous man. Remember
    when I told you that I've known men who could act without compunction?
    Never more so than with him."
    "What do you mean?"
    "In Monte Carlo, I saw him kill a man. With his feet and bare
    hands."
    "Yeah, he's got a Savate background, I know."
    She shook her head. "More than a background. He has a silver
    glove in Savate and was a ring champion in Boxe-Francaise. He works
    out on sides of beef. With his kicks he can break individual ribs."
    "He ought to market it. 'Belghazi's meat tenderizer.'"
    She didn't laugh. "And he carries a straight razor."
    "Good for him," I