Rain Storm by Barry Eisler

Author:Barry Eisler [Eisler, Barry]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Mystery, Suspense, Thriller
ISBN: 9780451215505
Google: XetvnUowaTsC
Amazon: 0451215508
Barnesnoble: 0451215508
Goodreads: 988
Publisher: Signet
Published: 2004-06-27T12:00:00+00:00

7

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.

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