Killing Rain

by Barry Eisler

  “When you’re done with that,” I said, “let’s meet on the mezzanine level of the Grand Hyatt at sixteen hundred. It’s away from the main lobby so it’s private, and you’ll look right at home there in your new threads.”

  “Sounds good. You’ve got the gear?”

  “And everything else.”

  “All right, partner, see you soon.”

  I turned off the phone and headed over to the hotel shopping arcade, where I got a haircut and a shave. I had them put a bunch of gel in my hair and slick it back—not my usual look, and not a dramatic alteration to my appearance, but lots of small changes would begin to add up. Next, a visit to an optometrist for a pair of rectangular wire-frame glasses that did a nice job of reworking the angles of my face. At the adjacent Pacific Place shopping mall, one stop at Dunhill got me the rest of what I needed: single-breasted, double-vented navy gabardine suit, fitted with inch-and-a-half cuffs in fifteen minutes flat; white Sea Island cotton shirt and flat gold cuff links; brown split-toe lace-ups and navy socks; brown alligator belt and British-tan attaché case. It wasn’t terribly cold in Hong Kong, but perhaps just chilly enough to justify the purchase of a pair of brown deerskin gloves, which went into the attaché. I checked myself in the mirror before heading out of the store and liked what I saw: a well-off Japanese businessman, with international experience and taste, in the discreet employ of powerful industrial interests seeking a foothold in Hong Kong through one of its famous business institutions, the China Club. Hopefully I’d even get to keep the clothes when this was done. Hopefully they wouldn’t have any bullet holes in them.

  I headed back to the hotel and filled the attaché case with the commo gear and other equipment. From the hotel, I caught a cab to the bug-out point, where I taped an extra passport and some other necessaries to the back of a cabinet in the men’s room. Then I walked until I found an Internet café, where I checked the bulletin board. No word from Kanezaki. From Tatsu, there was some interesting news. His post said:

  Jim Hilger: Works as a financial adviser in Hong Kong for high net worth clients. Cannot confirm his possible CIA affiliations, although sources believe there was a connection there at some point. More recently, considered dirty. Suspected to be involved in black market arms trading, including Israeli weapons to various separatist groups in the region. Suspected of operating “Murder, Inc.” type organization, trading on former military and possible intelligence skills and contacts.

  Mitchell William Winters: Gulf War I veteran, Third Special Forces. No other information.

  Looking forward to seeing you. Take care of yourself.

  All right, the more I learned, the more it seemed that Dox and I were right. Either Hilger was running his own show, or he was so far off the government reservation that he might as well be.

  I Googled “Two Slain Americans Reported to Be CIA Officers” to follow up on the story we’d seen the day before in the Washington Post. This time there were dozens of hits—the other services were starting to pick up the story. I went to the Post’s site because they seemed to be breaking the news. There was a new story, this one headlined, “Americans Killed in Manila Connected to Mysterious Company.”

  The Post had picked up the Gird Enterprises information and was running with it. They’d done some digging, and apparently the address listed in the company’s articles of incorporation was an empty suite in a New Jersey office park. The Post had contacted the law firm that had drawn up the articles; when told who was calling and why, the lawyer they reached hung up. Interesting.

  I caught a cab to the Grand Hyatt and called Delilah from the lobby.

  “Hey,” she said. “I was wondering when you were going to call.”

  “Sorry. I had a lot of things to do to get ready. How soon can you be in the lobby of the Grand Hyatt?”

  “Fifteen minutes.”

  “Good. See you then.” I clicked off.

  I walked up the black granite stairs that curved along the wall to the mezzanine level. The mezzanine was open to the opulent lobby below, and would provide a good vantage point for ensuring that Delilah came alone.

  Dox wasn’t there yet. I stood looking down at the lobby, explaining to the woman who offered to seat me that I preferred to wait and watch for my acquaintances, who ought to be arriving soon.

  Delilah got there in fifteen minutes as promised. She looked around the lobby, then up at the mezzanine. I nodded when she saw me, then watched her cross the lobby and start up the long, winding stairs. No one came in after her. If Gil was keeping tabs, it was at a distance. So far.

  I offered her my hand as she approached, just a business acquaintance greeting her for a post-meeting drink. We shook, then stood looking down at the lobby. Harry’s bug detector lay in my pocket without stirring.

  “Dox is on his way,” I said. “Let’s just keep an eye out for him.”

  “All right.”

  In fact, I wanted to watch the lobby for a little longer to make sure she had come alone. She knew what I was doing, of course, but under the circumstances couldn’t really object.

  “Where’s Gil?” I asked.

  “He’s here. I told him you contacted me and wanted to meet me in Hong Kong. Right now he’s probably just sitting in his hotel room, waiting for me to call.”

  I would have liked to take the fight to him. I’ve never been inclined to simply run and hide. A tactical retreat, sure, but at a minimum you leave booby traps along the way. Or you circle behind the people who are hunting you until you’re hunting them. It’s just the way I work, the way I’ve always done things.

  But all I said was, “We’ll try to get this over with before he gets too antsy.”

  Dox showed ten minutes later. Damn, I’d never seen him like this—a perfectly tailored charcoal suit, white spread-collar shirt, and a monochrome blue tie. The only thing that was out of place was the goatee—I’d forgotten to mention that. It was too memorable and anyway we needed to alter his appearance as much as possible. I thought it ought to go.

  Unlike Delilah, Dox looked up before he looked anywhere else. It was reflex for him to check for sniper hides, and he saw us immediately. He crossed the lobby and headed up the stairs.

  He walked over to where we were standing and shook Delilah’s hand. “It’s nice to see you again,” he said.

  I realized that the latent formality Delilah seemed to evoke in him would be perfect for the job at hand. Dox, whose acting skills, in my opinion, still needed polishing, would automatically comport himself like the perfect gentleman, businessman, and solicitous host, which was exactly who he was supposed to be today.

  She gave him a warm smile and said, “Likewise.”

  “Sorry I’m a little late. I had some trouble getting fitted in this suit. They’re not used to the big guys in these parts.”

  “You look great,” she said, nodding her head appreciatively.

  He actually blushed. One day I would have to ask Delilah what her secret was. “Thank you,” he said. “You do, too.”

  She did look great. She was wearing a charcoal pantsuit with a fitted double-breasted jacket, short to the waist with the buttons set low across the chest. Underneath was a crisp white blouse open at the neck. The pants were also fitted, with a slight flare below the knee; farther down, a pair of deep purple flats, a little less dressy than pumps but better for maneuver. The whole thing was set off with a pair of diamond stud earrings and a simple platinum link necklace. She was carrying a leather attaché case and a small clutch. Her blond hair was down and blown out—the perfect attention-getter in Hong Kong, and something that could be expected to draw attention away from Dox, whom Hilger might recognize.

  We sat down and ordered tea. I briefed them on what I had just learned from my “source in Japan,” and on the latest news from the Washington Post. We all agreed that, although Gil’s information was to the contrary, the jury was in on Jim Hilger. Now all that remained was to carry out his sentence. And Manny’s.

  We spent so
me time mapping things out. Through the hotel, I had already arranged a visit to the China Club for later that afternoon, and Dox and Delilah needed to do the same. Reservations shouldn’t be a problem; all they had to do was get there early enough to ensure getting seats at one of the small tables in the bar. We’d communicate via the commo gear. We would use the wireless video transmitters that Dox and I had employed in Manila, but this time we would supplement them with audio, and the combination would let us know when tonight’s targets arrived, where they were positioned, and, most important, when one of them excused himself from dinner to attend a call of nature. I was confident I could find an appropriate place to hide on the premises; Dox and Delilah would monitor it all from the bar and keep me apprised of whatever I needed to know. As for Manny and Hilger, I would use my hands on the first one that presented a target of opportunity, then immediately proceed to the other. With any luck, at that point I would be armed. VBM, whoever he was, would go down, too, if he got in the way, but other than that he meant nothing to me.

  If this had been a sniping operation, I would have been the sniper; Dox and Delilah, the spotters. The division of labor isn’t always necessary, but it’s almost always useful. Having a partner spot, assess, and monitor the target enables the sniper to focus on a single task: killing. In this case, it would have been distracting for me to have to try to gauge whether and when Hilger or Manny might be moving toward my position; to adjust, if they went elsewhere; to react, if they did something I hadn’t predicted. Dox and Delilah, angled with their backs to the wall and monitoring everything on the laptop like two businesspeople discussing a PowerPoint presentation, would provide some welcome cushioning from all those vagaries. And backup, if something went wrong.

  I looked at my watch. It was almost five o’clock. Time for me to go.

  “You take the attaché,” I said, setting it on the table and discreetly removing the items I would need. “Everyone carries a bag in Hong Kong and you have to look the part. The commo gear, the laptop, everything is inside.”

  “What about you?”

  I eased my hips forward and started slipping the items I’d removed from the attaché into my front pockets. “I’ll find something on the way. Something the right size for adhesive-backed, wireless audio and video transmitters.”

  He grinned. “What the well-dressed man is carrying these days, I understand.”

  I looked at him, trying to decide, then said, “I think you’re going to have to lose the goatee. It’s too noticeable.”

  He looked at me as though I’d suggested a vasectomy. “Son, I’ve been wearing this goatee for over twenty years.”

  “That’s my point. If Hilger has file photos, and I’m sure he does, the trademark goatee will be front center. The suit and the beautiful lady by your side are helpful, but losing the facial hair would be better.”

  “Well, the suit is a new look, it’s true, but I’ve been known to have a beautiful lady by my side from time to time,” he said. “So that part’s not exactly a disguise for me.” He rubbed the beard. “Damn, I feel like Samson here on the chopping block.” He turned to Delilah. “Well, your name is Delilah.”

  She smiled. “I think you’ll look great without it.”

  “Really?”

  She nodded. “You’ve got good bones. Why hide them?”

  Dox smiled and looked at me. “Someone get me a razor!” he said. Then he turned back to Delilah. “You know, I’ve never considered myself the marrying type. But if you ever get tired of my partner here, I believe I’d like to propose to you.”

  She laughed.

  “Did I say something funny?” Dox asked.

  “All right, I’ve got to go,” I said, standing up. “You should get there in, say, forty-five minutes, before the bar fills up. And before Hilger and company arrive.”

  They stood and we all shook hands again, staying in our roles. I went downstairs, took a cab to the Mandarin Oriental, then crossed the street and ducked into a luggage store. They were selling a number of high-quality, but essentially boring business bags . . . and one mahogany-colored, lid-over, Tanner Krolle attaché. Expensive, I thought, playing with the latches, which clicked open with the quiet assurance of a bank vault or the door on a Rolls-Royce, but life is short . . .

  Five minutes later, I was circling the old Bank of China building, attaché in hand. At over half a century of age, the Art Deco–influenced building was, by Hong Kong standards, ancient. At fifteen stories, it was also a pygmy, and with the steel-masted HSBC headquarters looming to its right and the fountain-like, fiber optic–controlled light show of the Cheung Kong Center rising up behind it, it had the air of a structure that has been granted some miraculous reprieve from the engines of progress that must have demolished its contemporaries to make room for the behemoths that now surrounded it. A condemned man, still dignified, but now living on borrowed time.

  I noted all points of ingress and egress, the direction of traffic, the presence of cameras. There was a single entrance in use, on the western side, along a short, single-lane street that was all that separated the building from its giant neighbors. On the other side of the street, directly across from the building’s entrance, was a large industrial dumpster that would make for good cover and concealment if for some reason I needed it. Four elevators, two security cameras, center. One bored-looking guard behind a desk, right. A stairwell and fire door, left. An office worker emerged from the stairwell as I approached, and as the door eased closed behind him, I noted he wasn’t holding a swipe card or other key. The stairwell doors were accessible from the interior, then, at least on the ground floor. To be expected, it’s true—you can’t very well lock people in if there’s a fire—but it’s good to have confirmation.

  I stepped onto one of the elevators, running a hand along my slicked hair as I did so to obscure my face while I checked for more cameras. There it was, a ceiling-mounted dome model. I pressed the button with a knuckle and kept my head down on the trip up. I reminded myself of who I was and why I was here: Watanabe, an advance man examining the China Club on behalf of certain Japanese industrial interests.

  I got off on thirteen and looked around. A winding wooden staircase curved upward to my left, its banister supported by some sort of Chinese-style metal latticework. The walls were white; the floors, dark wood, with that density and slight unevenness that’s only acquired with generations of use. A flat panel monitor by the staircase was running stock quotes from the Hang Seng index. There was a hush to the place, a feeling of money, old and new; status, acquired and sought; ambition, barely concealed behind pin-striped suits and cocktail party smiles. The Bank of China might have moved its headquarters to I. M. Pei’s triangular black glass tower a few blocks to the southwest, but the ghosts of the drive and wealth to which the new headquarters stood in monument were all still at home right here.

  And yet there was an air of whimsy to the place, as well. There was a sitting area crowded with overstuffed chairs and couches covered in slipcovers of bubble-gum pink and lime green and baby blue. The lamp shades hovering above the end tables were of similar glowing hues. And those grave wooden floors gave way to brightly colored kilim rugs. It was as though the proprietor had designed the place both in homage to Hong Kong’s titanic ambitions, and also to gently mock them.

  A pretty Chinese woman in black pants and a white Mao jacket emerged from a coatroom to my right. “May I help you?” she asked.

  I nodded, and switched on a heavy Japanese accent. “I am Watanabe.” As though that explained everything.

  She picked up a clipboard and glanced at whatever was written on it. “Ah yes, Mr. Watanabe, the Shangri-La called to tell us you’d be visiting. Would you like me to show you around?”

  “Yes,” I said, with a half bow. “Very good.”

  The woman, whose name was May, was an excellent guide, and helpfully answered all my questions. Such as: Where are the private dining rooms? Fifteenth floor. Do you have any that would be appropriate fo
r a small party—say, four people? Yes, two such rooms. And how are the upper floors accessible? Only by the winding internal staircases.

  May’s guided tour took about ten minutes. Given the earliness of the hour, there weren’t yet any other patrons on the premises, and the staff was busy laying out silver and crystal and adjusting tablecloths and otherwise preparing for what would no doubt be another capacity-crowd evening for the club.

  When we were done, I asked May if it would be all right if I wandered around a bit by myself. She told me that would be fine, and that I if I had any additional questions I should simply ask.

  Watanabe-san gave the place a thorough examination, starting with the main dining room on the fourteenth floor and the charming Long March Bar adjacent to it. He observed the positions of the restrooms on the thirteenth and fourteenth floors, and noted that there was no restroom on fifteen, meaning that diners enjoying the private banquet rooms there would have to descend a floor to use the facilities. He wandered around the splendid library, and briefly enjoyed the view of Central from the rooftop observation deck. And of course he made sure to take a peek in all the private dining rooms, paying particular attention to the two that had been set for parties of four. In these, Watanabe stepped inside and paused for an extra moment to admire the furnishings, even running the backs of his fingers along the astonishingly thick interior doorjambs, which in each room was of more than adequate stature for the placement of a miniature audio and video transmitter.

  So that we could keep the signal weak and therefore less susceptible to bug detectors, I also placed repeaters in various places outside the private dining rooms and along the stairs down to the fourteenth floor. Before heading down to the elevators on thirteen, I ducked into the fourteenth-floor restroom. As restrooms go, this one was impressive. The floor was white marble, and I noted with satisfaction that my new Dunhill split-toes were utterly noiseless on its polished surface. To my right was a bank of sinks, all solid white ceramic. Folded terrycloth washcloths were laid out neatly on a shelf just above them in lieu of ordinary paper towels, along with an array of special soaps, lotions, and tonics. Straight ahead, a bank of urinals; like the sinks, all heavy white ceramic. To my left were stalls that could more properly be described as closets, separated as they were by marble walls and featuring floor-to-ceiling mahogany doors.