Killing Rain Part 32

I walked out and did a bit of shopping in the area: traditional j.a.panese sweets like daif.u.ku and sakura-mochi and kas.h.i.+wa-mochi; a kimono and geta slippers; several packages of high-end calligraphy paper. Each store wrapped the items exquisitely-after all, they were obviously gifts-and placed them in a elegant bag.

My shopping completed, I stopped in a Kinko's, where I cut down the contents of one of the calligraphy paper packages so it would accommodate the bricks of cash. I resealed the package and placed it back in the appropriate bag.

I checked out of the hotel early the next morning and caught a flight to Manila. I arrived at nine-thirty and had no trouble pa.s.sing through customs along with the dozens of other visiting businessmen from Tokyo, all of us bearing traditional gifts from exotic j.a.pan. I took a cab to the Mandarin Oriental in Makati. I explained to them that, although I wasn't a guest, I had business in town and would like to rent a car and driver for half the day. I would of course pay cash. They told me that would be fine, and I was immediately provided with a Mercedes E230 and driver. I gave him the address and we set off.

The weather was hot and sticky, as it usually is in the region, and the sky was full of the kind of pollution that almost begs to be washed away in some violent thunderstorm to come. While we drove, I replaced the innocuous contents of the attache with the four bricks of cash.

The urban knot of Metro Manila unraveled as we drove, and soon we were moving past rice paddies and coconut groves. I had seen the same countryside just a few days earlier, but today it felt different. Unwelcoming, maybe. Maybe unforgiving.

I looked out the window at the fields and farm animals and wondered whether the woman would have learned of Manny's demise. It had been only a few days, and I supposed it wasn't impossible that somehow the news wouldn't yet have reached her.

The roads we drove on became narrower, with more frequent and deeper potholes. Twice the driver had to stop and ask for directions. But eventually we pulled up in front of a low-slung, ramshackle dwelling at the end of a dirt road with paddies all around. A few gaunt cows swished their tails near the house, and chickens and small dogs ran freely. There were a dozen people sitting out front in plastic chairs. An extended family, I sensed, but more than could be living in this small dwelling. Something had happened, some tragedy, you might have guessed, and the visitors were here to offer support, to help the survivors make it through.

I saw Manny's wife, seated across from two other young women who might have been her sisters. The boy sat listlessly on the lap of an older woman, perhaps his grandmother. I knew the scene well, and for a moment my resolve faltered. And then, ironically, the same icy blinders that had moved in to allow me to finish Manny started to close again, and enabled me to move forward this time, as well.

I got out of the car. Conversation, I noticed, had come to a halt. The a.s.sembled people eyed me curiously. I took the attache and walked confidently over to Manny's wife. I bowed my head before speaking.

"I am an attorney, representing the estate of Manheim Lavi," I said to her. In the suit, carrying the attache, I felt I looked the part. And if the average lawyer carries himself stiffly at moments like this one, then that part of the act was spot-on, too, because I was having a hard time even looking at her.

She came to her feet. She was pet.i.te and very pretty, and, like many Filipinas, looked younger than she probably was.

"Yes?" she asked, in lightly accented English.

"Mr. Lavi left clear instructions with my firm, to be carried out in the event of his death. That certain funds were to be transferred to you, for the benefit of . . . your son."

I knew Manny might already have provided for them. Although, with a primary family back in Johannesburg, he might not have. I didn't care. That wasn't the point.

The little boy ran over from his grandmother. He must have gotten spooked seeing his mother talking to a stranger. His arms were outstretched and he was saying, "Mama, Mama."

The woman picked him up with some effort and he clutched her tightly. He had regressed, I noted, from the trauma of the news he must have just received. That's normal, I told myself. That's normal.

She shook her head. "Funds?"

I cleared my throat. "Yes. From Mr. Lavi's estate. Here."

I went to hand her the attache, but she couldn't take it with the boy in her arms.

I felt oddly light-headed. Maybe it was the heat, the humidity.

"This is yours," I said, setting the case down in front of her. I cleared my throat again. "I hope . . . my firm hopes it will be helpful. And I am very sorry for your loss."

The boy started to cry weakly. The woman stroked his back. I swallowed, bowed my head again, and turned to walk back to the car.

Christ, I almost felt sick. Yeah, it must have been the heat. I got in the car. As we drove away I looked back. They were all watching me.

We drove past the paddies, the indifferent farm animals. I sat slumped in the seat. In my head, the boy cried out, Mama, Mama, again and again, and I thought I might never stop hearing his voice.

We drove. The potholes in the road felt like craters.

"Stop," I said to the driver. "Stop the car."

He pulled over to the side of the dirt road. I opened the door and stumbled out, barely making it in time. I clutched the side of the door and leaned forward and everything inside me came up, everything. Tears were streaming down my face and snot was running out of my nose and I felt like my stomach itself might tear loose from its moorings and make its way onto the potholed road I stood on.

Finally it subsided. I stood for a moment, sucking air, then wiped my face, spat, and got back in the car. The driver asked me if I was all right. I nodded. It was the climate, I said. You'd think I'd be used to it, but I'm not.

I had him take me to the airport. I didn't know where I would go from there. Wherever it was, I knew that everything I've done, it would all be coming with me.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

John Rain's fans seem to think he keeps getting better (I, of course, prefer the phrase "even better") as he goes along. To the extent this is so, I owe much to the advice and other support I continue to receive from a number of good people. My thanks to: My agents, Nat Sobel and Judith Weber of Sobel Weber a.s.sociates, and my editor, David Highfill at Putnam, for helping me find the true notes and eliminate the false ones.

Michael Barson (master of Yubiwaza), Dan Harvey, and Megan Millenky at Putnam, for doing such an amazing job of getting out the word on John Rain.

Dexter Domingo, for giving me multiple insider's tours of Manila; Yannette Edwards, for her suggestion that Rain should visit the Philippines, which jump-started the entire book; and Doug and Susan Patteson, for getting Rain better acquainted with Manila and other Southeast Asian environs, for otherwise drawing on their extensive experience in the region to help me refine not just the locales, but the entire story, and for their insights into all things Rain.

Jim Dunn, who came to know and love Bangkok during his service in the Vietnam War, for sharing his historical perspective on the city and refres.h.i.+ng Rain's recollections thereby; David Gibbons, for sharing his extensive knowledge of Thailand and for being the best guide an author could ever ask for through Bangkok and p.h.u.ket; novelist Christopher G. Moore, for sharing his insights about life in Bangkok and Thai culture; novelist Marcus Wynne, for sharing his experiences with Bangkok, knives, and the Special Ops community; and Bangkokbob-whoever you are, www.bangkokbob.net is a wonderful resource.

Ma.s.sad Ayoob of the Lethal Force Inst.i.tute, for sharing his awe-inspiring knowledge of and experience with firearms tools and tactics, and for helpful comments on the ma.n.u.script.

Tony Blauer, for again sharing with Rain his profound knowledge of the psychology, physiology, and tactics of violence.

The dreaded Carl, who thank G.o.d is still out there, for teaching me so much, for being the inspiration behind Dox, and for sharing his thoughts about "catch and release" programs.

Again and always, sensei Koichiro f.u.kasawa of Wasabi Communications, a singular window on everything j.a.pan and j.a.panese, for years of insight, humor, and friends.h.i.+p, and for helpful comments on the ma.n.u.script.

Matt Furey, for providing the Combat Conditioning bodyweight exercises that Rain uses in this book to stay in top shape (and that his author uses, too).

Lori Kupfer, for years of friends.h.i.+p, for continued insights into what sophisticated, s.e.xy women like Delilah wear and how they think, and for helpful comments on the ma.n.u.script.

Janelle McCuen, Miss Creative Force, for making sure that Rain knows his telephoto lenses.

Matt Powers, for once again ensuring that Rain knows his wines, for leading the good fight against "like" and "you know," and for helpful comments on the ma.n.u.script.

Evan Rosen, M.D. Ph.D., and Peter Zimetbaum, M.D., for once again offering (reluctant) expert advice on some of the killing techniques in this book, and for helpful comments on the ma.n.u.script. Actually, I don't think the advice is so reluctant anymore. I think they're starting to enjoy it.

Ernie Tibaldi, a thirty-one-year veteran agent of the FBI, for continuing to generously share his encyclopedic knowledge of law enforcement and personal safety issues, and for helpful comments on the ma.n.u.script.

William Scott Wilson, for The Lone Samurai: The Life of Miyamoto Musas.h.i.+, a book that represents a significant part of John Rain's emerging philosophy.

The extraordinarily eclectic group of philosophers, bada.s.ses (mostly retired), and deviants who hang out at Marc Mac Young's and Dianna Gordon's www.nononsenseselfdefense.com. The amount I've learned from you all is hard to put in words, and you're all great company during those long lonely nights of approaching deadlines, too. In particular, thanks to Dave Bean, for sharing his knowledge of firearms and for steering me to backstory sources for various aspects of this book; Jack "Spook" Finch, Mr. Lawsey, Lawsey himself, veteran of the Vietnam War's Easter Offensive, Operation Just Cause, Operation Desert Storm, and Silver Star awardee, for sharing his experiences with "the cost of it," for making Rain a Kimber man, and for helpful comments on the ma.n.u.script; Frank "Pancho" Garza, ex-Marine, for showing by his example what it's like to be one of the toughest hombres out there and yet with a heart as soft as beaver fur; Dianna "Mrs. Velociraptor" Gordon, for "defending my readers" by helping me hone everything from punctuation to backstory to character, and for teaching Dox to be a gentleman around Delilah; Montie Guthrie, for sharing his knowledge of and experience with firearm tools and tactics, for teaching Rain that "nothing good can come of this," and that, for the bad guy, "it is never your turn," and for helpful comments on the ma.n.u.script; Drew Anderson, Wim "Chimpy" Demeere, Ed Fanning, Michael "Mama Duck" Johnson, and David Organ, for sharing their thoughts on invisibility in crowds; Marc "Animal" Mac Young, the Tiresius of civilization and the street, for deepening my understanding of urban survival tactics, how crowds react to violence, how operators carry themselves, how Klingons decloak and Predators conceal themselves, and for helpful comments on the ma.n.u.script; Slugg, for sharing his insights on what permits men to do bad things for good purposes and how they live with it after, on how high-pressure interrogations are conducted and resisted, for demonstrating by his presence how a big man can disappear, and for helpful comments on the ma.n.u.script; Tristan Sutrisno, former Army Special Forces, Vietnam veteran, and keeper of the dreaded Nessie, for sharing his experience with combat and killing and on living with it after. A special thank you to Terry Trahan, a man who has seen the darkness and now lives in the light, for sharing the experiences that inspired this story, for getting me up to speed on knives and related matters, and for helpful comments on the ma.n.u.script.

My friends at Cafe Borrone in Menlo Park, California, for serving the best breakfasts-and especially coffee-that any writer could ask for.

Naomi Andrews and Dan Levin, Eve Bridberg, Vivian Brown, Alan Eisler, Judy Eisler, Shari Gersten and David Rosenblatt, Tom Hayes, novelist Joe Konrath, Owen and Sandy Rennert, Ted Schlein, Hank s.h.i.+ffman, and Caryn Wiseman, for helpful comments on the ma.n.u.script and many valuable suggestions and insights along the way.

Most of all, to my wife, Laura, for more than I can put in words. And the research on the "love scenes" was great, too.

AUTHOR'S NOTE.

The Manila, Bangkok, p.h.u.ket, Hong Kong, Kowloon, Tokyo, and Batangas locales that appear in this book are described, as always, as I have found them. The backstory on A. Q. Khan and the CIA is real.

ALSO BY BARRY EISLER.

Rain Fall.

Hard Rain.

Rain Storm.