RainStorm

said.
    She looked at me. "I wouldn't take it lightly."
    "You know what they teach salesmen?" I asked, looking at her.
    "Don't sell past the close. I already told you I would stand down,
    for now. You don't need to keep trying to persuade me."
    She smiled, and for an instant I thought the smile looked strangely
    sad. "Ah, I see," she said.
    We were quiet for a moment. Then she said, "Tell me, do you
    think I went to bed with you . . . tactically? To manipulate you?"
    I looked at her. "Did you?"
    She dropped her eyes. "That's something you have to decide for
    yourself."
    There was a kiss, oddly tentative after our recent bout of passion,
    and then she was gone. I waited fifteen seconds, then slipped off
    the bathrobe and pulled on my clothes. The rest of my things were
    still in my bag. I waited a minute, looking through the peephole
    and using the SoldierVision to confirm that the corridor outside
    the door was empty. It was. I moved out into it, taking various staircases
    and internal corridors until I reached the ground floor. I used
    one of the rear exits, which put me on Hankow Road, cut across
    Nathan, and took the elevator down to the MTR. I made some aggressive
    moves to ensure that I wasn't being followed. I wasn't. I was
    all alone.
    SEVEN
    I slept at the Ritz Carlton, across the harbor. It was a shame
    to have to leave the Peninsula, but Delilah knew I was there, and
    might share that knowledge. Better to sever the potential connection.
    I woke up the next morning feeling refreshed. I thought about
    Delilah. She badly wanted those two days of grace, the day or two
    during which Belghazi had "meetings in the region." I assumed
    that whatever he was doing on this trip was what Delilah and her
    people had been waiting for. They must have been expecting that
    something from the trip would wind up on his computer, something
    important, and that's when they would act.
    But why had she tried to access it that night in his suite, then?
    Opportunistic, maybe. A warm-up. Yeah, could be that. But no
    way to be sure. At least not yet.
    And all my conjecture assumed that she was telling me the truth,
    of course. I couldn't really know. I needed more information, something
    I could use to triangulate. I hoped I'd get it from Kanezaki.
    I showered and shaved and enjoyed a last soak in the room's fine
    tub before going down to the front desk to check out. The pretty receptionist
    looked at me for a moment, then politely excused herself.
    Before I had a chance to consider what this could be about, she had
    returned with the manager, a thin specimen with a pencil mustache.
    "Ah, Mr. Watanabe," he said, using the alias I had checked in
    under, "we believe a man might be looking for you. A police matter,
    it seems. He says it is important that you contact him. He left
    this phone number." He handed me a piece of paper.
    I nodded, doing nothing to betray my consternation, and took
    the paper. "I don't understand. Why didn't you call me about this?"
    "I'm very sorry, sir. But the man didn't even know your name.
    He left a photograph at the front desk. It was only just now, when
    the receptionist saw you, that she realized you might be the gentleman
    in question."
    "Is that all? Was there anything else? Did the man leave a name?"
    He shook his head. "I'm sorry."
    "May I see the photo?"
    "Of course." He reached down and produced what I recognized
    as an excellent forgery--a digitized image of my likeness.
    The face in the photo wasn't a dead ringer, but it was more than
    close enough.
    I thanked them, paid the bill, and left, checking the lobby more
    carefully than I had when I had entered it. Nothing seemed out of
    order.
    I did a series of thorough surveillance detection moves, wondering
    how the hell someone could have tracked me, and who it
    could have been. Having someone stay on you when you think
    you've gotten clean feels highly unpleasant.
    When I was confident I was alone, I found a pay phone. I
    punched in the number the hotel had given me.
    The phone on the other end rang twice. Then a voice boomed
    out, "Moshi moshi," Japanese for hello, in a thick Southern twang.
    "Jesus Christ," I said. Dox.
    "Well, some people think so, but no, it's just me," he said, with
    annoying good cheer. "Did I get the Japanese right?"
    "Yeah, it was perfect."
    "I think you're just saying that. But thank you anyway."
    "What do you want?"
    "Ain't you going to ask how I found you?"
    "Not until I put you in another leglock."
    He laughed. "I told