Killing Rain (15 page)

The plane arrived ten minutes ahead of schedule, with nothing noticeably out of place in the crowd beforehand. I saw Delilah immediately as she came through. She was wearing a navy pantsuit and brown pumps, her long blond hair pulled back into a loose ponytail. A crocodile carry-on was slung across her left shoulder, the bag resting comfortably against her opposite hip. The surface brand was looks, money, confidence, style. There was a lot more to her than just that, I knew, but she wore that outward persona well.

I reached into my pocket and turned off the commo gear, then turned on the mini bug detector Harry had made for me in Tokyo and that I’ve relied on since. The former would have set off the latter, and I wanted to make sure Delilah wasn’t wearing a transmitter.

She looked around, saw me, and smiled. I felt something going on down south, like a slumbering dog stirring in response to an enticing aroma, and I thought,
Down, boy. Don’t embarrass me.

She walked over and put the bag down, then leaned in and kissed me lightly on the mouth. I put my arms around her and pulled her close. She smelled the way she did the first time I’d kissed her, clean and fresh and with a tantalizing trace of some perfume I couldn’t name. The warmth of her, the feel of her against me, her scent, it all seemed to ease in under my clothes, and in the crowded airport the embrace was suddenly private, focused, almost naked in its intimacy.

She pulled her head back and looked at me, one hand resting against the back of my neck, the other dropping gently to my chest. The dog was coming fully awake now. Another minute and the damned thing would sit up and beg. I eased away and looked at her.

She smiled, her cobalt eyes alight with good humor. “I guess this is when I’m supposed to ask, ‘Is that a gun in your pocket . . .’ ”

I felt myself blush. “No, I’m definitely just glad to see you.”

She laughed. “Where are we going?”

The bug detector slumbered peacefully in my pocket. She wasn’t wired. I struck a casual pose, my hands in my pockets. I switched the bug detector off and powered the commo gear on. I heard a slight hiss in my ear canal where the flesh-colored unit was inserted.

“A little place I know in Phuket,” I said.

“Wonderful! I’ve heard it’s beautiful, but have never been. How are things there, after the tsunami?”

“The place we’re going is elevated from the beach and did fine. Actually, most of the island is recovering nicely. How much time do you have?”

“Three days. Maybe longer. You?”

“I don’t know. I’m waiting for something. I hope it’ll take at least a few days to materialize.”

“Well, let’s not waste any time. Where do we go?”

“The other terminal. Our flight leaves in an hour.”

I eschewed the shuttle bus, instead choosing a route that required a walk through the terminal and a descent to the level below us. She knew what I was doing but didn’t comment on it. On the level below, I flagged down a cab and had it take us to the domestic terminal. A minute after we had pulled away from the curb, I heard Dox in my ear: “All right, so far, so good. It doesn’t look like anyone’s trying to stay with you. If they are, they’re sure not being obvious. I’ll head over and see if we see any familiar faces.”

The cab pulled up in front of the domestic terminal. I paid the driver, got out, and held the door for Delilah, checking behind and around us while I did. She saw what I was doing—I
wasn’t trying to be subtle, and she would have spotted it anyway—and again, she didn’t comment. I logged her failure to protest as a possible source of concern. In Rio, we had moved past the point where I was treating her as a potential threat, and I knew that my willingness to relax my guard had been important to her. That my mistrust had apparently resumed should have been the source of insult, and, I knew from experience with her occasional temper, of anger. Unless, of course, she was aware of the reasons behind the resurgence and was misguidedly trying to lull me.

We went inside the terminal and headed down to gate eight. A few minutes later, Dox moved in, keeping to the periphery. I heard him again in my ear: “Okay, partner, there is no way you were followed over here. Also I don’t see anyone here who was waiting outside international arrivals. So unless someone knew where you were headed and got here before us, you are in the clear. I think the next point of concern will be our destination. She might make a call or something, tell her people where you are after you’ve arrived. That way they wouldn’t have to give themselves away trying to follow you. If I was her, sorry, if I
were
her, I know you’re sensitive about that, and I had bad intentions, that’s the way I’d do it.”

Enough,
I thought. It’s not as though I hadn’t already worked this all through myself. In fact, Dox and I had already discussed it all. He was feeling awfully talkative.

Delilah and I made some small talk about the flight. She had flown first class and had slept the whole way, and was refreshed and ready for an evening in a tropical paradise. But Dox kept jabbering, and with Delilah right there next to me, I had no way of telling him to knock it off.

“And damn, man, I have got to tell you, that is one fine-looking woman! Why didn’t you say so? I would have understood right away why you wanted to see her. Hell, I’d have tried to see
her myself. I would have done your countersurveillance for free, partner, if I’d known she was going to be the subject, you wouldn’t even have had to pay for my vacation. Well, too late now, a deal’s a deal.”

He stopped, and I thought,
Thank God.
But a moment later it started up again: “And here I thought you’d been leading a lonely life with nothing but your tired right hand for comfort! I judged you wrong, man, and I’m big enough to admit it, too. From now on, you’re my hero, I’m taking all my romance cues from you.”

Once we were on the plane I knew I was safe, at least temporarily, and I took the earpiece out, satisfied to think that Dox would now be talking only to himself.

Delilah and I caught up some more. The conversation was largely small talk, but I was probing, as well. So far I had two pieces of data, and both pointed to a problem: the timing of her call, and her failure to react to my obvious security moves. The jury wasn’t in yet, but the evidence was piling up. It bothered me, at some level, that it had come to this. In Rio it had been good, it really had. I should have just been able to deal with it—she was a professional, and business is business—but yeah, it was bothering me.

God, she was beautiful, though. You could see why she was so effective in her work. There was something about her, an aura, a magnetism, that I’d never encountered in anyone else.

And despite my suspicions, it felt good to be with her. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe the data would start to accumulate in a more favorable direction.

The approach and landing were smooth, and a hotel car was waiting outside arrivals to take us to Amanpuri. The sun was getting low in the sky as we drove along Phuket’s two-lane, narrow roads toward the resort. I knew what she must be thinking:
This is it? It’s actually not that much.
But we were still somewhat inland. The island’s beauty doesn’t really unfold until you hit
the coast. At which time, I knew, her diminishing expectations would make Amanpuri that much more breathtaking.

We pulled in off the resort’s winding, gated drive just as the sun was setting behind the steep, Thai-style rooflines of the bungalows and pavilions and the Andaman Sea beyond them. Palm trees swayed in silhouette to a gentle ocean breeze. A teak terrace flowed from the edge of the driveway to a long, black-bottomed pool, its surface like polished onyx against the darkening sky. In the tenuous golden light, we might have been looking at a movie set.

A porter opened the car door and we got out. “Welcome to Amanpuri,” he said, pressing his palms together under his chin and bowing his head in a formal
wai,
the Thai attitude of greeting and gratitude.

Delilah looked around, then at me. Her mouth was slightly agape.

“What’s that wonderful smell?” she asked.

“Sedap malam,”
the porter said. “Brought here from Indonesia. It means ‘heavenly night’ because it offers its scent only in the evening. I think in English you call it the tuber rose.”

I smiled and looked at her. “Well? Do you like it?”

She paused for a moment, then said, “Oh, my God.”

“Does that mean yes?”

She nodded and looked around again, then back at me. Her face lit up in an enormous smile. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, it does.”

We checked in under the rafters of the open-air entrance pavilion. A woman named Aom gave us a quick tour of the facilities—the fitness center, the library, the spa. Everything was teak and stone and seemed to rise up out of the hilly terrain as indigenous as the surrounding palm trees. I noted the presence of multiple guards, all extremely discreet. Amanpuri is a celebrity magnet, and the resort takes security seriously. Which, to me, was part of the attraction. Even if Delilah informed her people of our
whereabouts, they would have a hell of a time getting in here unannounced and unobtrusive. As for Delilah herself, from what I had seen of her organization’s MO, her role was to set up the bowling pins, not to knock them down. Also, without checked bags, her ability to carry weapons would be limited. Knowing all this, and also, inevitably, influenced by the blissfully beautiful surroundings, I began to relax. I felt as though we’d been granted some sort of time-out, during which I might learn what I needed to know. Maybe I could turn the situation around, if that’s what was called for. Yeah, we’d faced a conflict of interests before and found a way to work things out. Maybe we could do it again.

Aom took us to our pavilion—number 105, with a full ocean view. The room was low-key and luxurious. The walls, floor, and simple furniture were all teak, with the porcelain of a long tub, a cotton duvet, and oversized thick towels all gleaming white by contrast. Everything seemed to glow with the golden light of the sun, which was still visible through the pavilion’s western doors.

Delilah was starving, so we decided to eat at one of the property’s two open-air restaurants. We sat along the railing overlooking the ocean. The sun was now completely below the horizon, and but for a thin line of glowing red between them the water was now as dark as the sky. The restaurant, like all Amanpuri’s facilities, wisely eschewed any piped-in music, instead allowing the breeze swaying the palm trees and the waves lapping at the beach to supply the necessary ambience.

We ordered roast duck sautéed with morning glories, soft-shelled black crab sautéed with chile paste, stir-fried mixed vegetables, and stir-fried bean sprouts with tofu and chili. I started us with a ’93 Veuve Clicquot.

“I have to tell you,” Delilah said as we ate. “I’ve been to some of the most beautiful places on earth. Post Ranch in Big Sur. The Palace in Saint-Moritz. The Serengeti Plain. But this is right up there.”

I smiled. “There aren’t many places that can make you forget everything. Everywhere you’ve been, everything you’ve done.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Where are the others? For you.”

I thought for a moment. “A few places in Tokyo, believe it or not. But they’re more like . . . enclaves. Oases. They can protect you from what’s outside, but you still know it’s there. This . . . it’s another universe.”

She took a sip of the champagne. “I know what you mean. There’s a beach in Haifa, where I grew up. Sometimes, when I’m back there, I can find a quiet spot at night. The smell of the sea, the sound of the waves . . . it makes me feel like I’m a girl again, innocent and unblemished. Like I’m alone, but in a good way, if you know what I mean.”

“To be unaccompanied by constant memories,” I said, quoting something a friend had once said to me, “is to find a state of grace.”

“Grace?” she asked, taking the reference literally. “Do you believe in God?”

I paused, thinking of my conversation with Dox, then said, “I try not to.”

“Does that help?”

I shrugged. “Not really. But what difference does it make, what you believe? Things are what they are.”

“What you believe makes all the difference in the world.”

I looked at her. We’d been down this road before, and I didn’t like the implicit criticism, maybe even condescension, in her comment. Then or now.

“Then you better be careful about what you believe in,” I said. “And about what it might cost you.”

She looked away for a moment. I wasn’t sure if it was a flinch.

We finished the champagne and I ordered a ’99 Lafon Volnay Santenots. Delilah had a disciplined mind, I knew, but no one does as well in the presence of wine and jet lag as in their
absence. And if she were here for something “nefarious,” as Dox had put it, the discord between her feelings for me from before and her intentions for me now would be producing a strain. I wanted to do everything I could to turn that strain into a fault line, the fault line into a widening crack.

We talked more about this and that. She never let on that she knew anything about Manny, or that the botched hit in Manila had anything to do with her presence here now. And as the evening wore on, I realized I couldn’t accept that the timing of her contact had been a coincidence. So the absence of any acknowledgment had to be an omission. A deliberate omission.

If she had been anyone else, and if this had all happened just a year or two earlier, I would have accepted the truth of what I knew. I would have acted on it. Doing so would have protected my body, albeit at some cost to my soul. But sitting across the table from her, no doubt affected by the wine, as well as by the surroundings and the feelings I still had for her, I found myself looking for a different way. Something less direct, less irredeemable, something that might have as its basis hope instead of only fear.