The Detachment by Barry Eisler Page B

for it. In fact, she’d told me the missions they sent her on—to literally sleep with the enemy—made her continually suspect, even stained in the eyes of management. Which was part of the reason I found it maddening she wouldn’t quit. What did she owe them? Why was she loyal? They didn’t deserve her.
    “You going to tell me it never bothered you, her going off for a month at a time without being able to tell you where or who with? You going to tell me you never woke up alone in your big bed in the middle of the night, wondering if right then, at that very moment, she might be straining the gravy with—”
    “‘Straining the gravy’?”
    “Yeah, it means—”
    “Forget it, I can imagine.”
    “It’s all right, it means—”
    “You made your point.”
    He grinned. “I wasn’t being too oblique?”
    “No, you weren’t being too oblique.”
    The grin widened, for the most part his usual shit-eater but with some sympathy in it, too. I might have argued further, but what would have been the point? Like Kanezaki, he could think what he wanted. What mattered at the moment was, he was armed—a Wilson Combat Supergrade Compact. I’d asked him how he’d managed to procure it so soon after arriving from Bali, and he’d smiled and told me only, “The old underground redneck railroad.” It was comforting to know he had my back in the Beverly Wilshire now, amid the ambient music piped in from the high ceiling, the oblivious background chatter, the incongruous tinkling of quality silverware cutting fine food on high-end china.
    Forty minutes after I’d been seated, I saw a black man come in through the restaurant entrance. Older than I remembered, of course, his head hairless now, the body thicker with age but obviously still powerful. He spoke briefly with a hostess, who gestured to where I was sitting and then led him over. I watched as they approached, noting that he was carrying what looked like a ballistic nylon computer case but that otherwise his hands were empty, and that the red, short-sleeved, collared shirt he wore, tucked into a pair of khaki trousers, would offer relatively poor opportunities for concealed carry. He was dressed to reassure me, but I’d still check his ankles and for any telltale irregularities in the fit of his clothes, and watch the entrances to see who came in behind him.
    I stood as they came near and shook his hand when he offered it. When the hostess had moved off, he said, “John Rain. Goddamn, but I don’t think you’ve changed a bit. What’s your secret?”
    “Avoiding trouble, mostly.”
    He laughed. “You’re keeping busy, is what I hear.”
    “Not recently, no.”
    “Well, I hope we can change all that. Shame for a man like you to be idle.”
    We sat down and he placed the computer case on the table between us. He glanced around the restaurant, his gaze settling momentarily on Dox. He might have pretended not to recognize him, but because I assumed he had access to military photos, that would have put me on edge. So it was smart of him instead to say, “I imagine he’s supposed to shoot me if things here go sideways.”
    I was glad he acknowledged it. If he’d invited Dox over, I would have had to spell things out. “Something like that.”
    “An understandable precaution. But I don’t think it’ll come to that. I left my men outside, and I myself am unarmed.” He slid his seat back from the table and eased up his pants legs. Nothing but socks, from ankle to bulging calf. “Okay? I’m just here to talk.”
    It was bold of him to show up without protection, especially after losing two men in Tokyo. But I supposed he’d put himself in my position, and knew I wouldn’t take a chance on killing him before at least learning more.
    I was carrying a full spectrum portable bug detector in my pocket—all transmitter frequencies and mobile phone frequencies within five feet. It had been vibrating silently since his arrival.
    “I need you to turn off your