“Yes,” he sighs.
“So of Tokyo, Sydney and LA, where would Cromwell have the least influence?” Central America is out of the question—wildcatting resource-extraction companies, nocturnal temperatures in the hundred twenties, the states tantamount to legal fictions.
“Tokyo,” he says without hesitation. “In LA, shooters are plentiful and cheap and the police are disorganized. In Sydney they’re still trying but the writ of law only holds in certain neighborhoods and the map keeps changing. In Japan, though, xenophobia is your friend—there are no guns and certainly no mercs allowed on the islands, and they’d take a dim view of some gaijin warlord coming in and flexing his muscles.”
“Thank you,” she says. “How’d you like to meet me in Japan at the Imperial Tokyo Hotel?”
*
Packed again, she checks in the bathroom and under the bed for overlooked things.
She’s getting low on cash. She’s got bank accounts all over the world, three in Switzerland alone, but Crédit Nuage is the most secure and discreet. She goes to its site on her phone, enters her account number and passcode.
Her money is gone.
55
Form on the Water
Nothing but water, jungle, grey skies, sand. No passing drones, no distant planes, no sound but Kern’s breathing and the waves. Here and there the skeletal, silted branches of drowned trees pierce the surface of the sea. An hour ago he’d tripped on what was once a pipe, is now a solid mass of flaking rust, the only proof that this isn’t new creation. Bugs orbit him, but he’s seen worse, and mosquitoes have never liked him.
Hours since Akemi spoke a word. He tells himself not to mind—who knows what’s going on with her—though with the risks he’s taking, you’d think she could check in. “I’d like to know more,” he says, out of the blue, hoping she’s listening. “Where I’m going. What it is I’m supposed to do. This all seems … conjectural.”
No response. He takes off the earpiece and stares into the tiny lens, hoping it will be like meeting her eyes, but there’s no sense of connection. At least for the moment he knows where he’s going, and you can’t get lost following a coastline.
He reminds himself that if Hiro finds him he can’t let himself be taken; if it comes to that, he has to force them to shoot. It’s a hard thing to face, but this is where his choices have led. Resigned, he feels lighter than ever.
*
Evening is falling when he sees stellate lights burning on the eaves of huts down the beach. Breaking surf rolls whitely, and a black shape on the water becomes a wetsuit-clad surfer standing up to catch a wave and immediately wiping out. He thinks of Bo from the training camp, wonders what he’s doing.
On the side of the nearest hut is a placard for Singha beer, weathered almost past legibility. Music from inside. Breakers roll around its stairs; he times them, gets up the stairs dry.
The decor runs to driftwood and coconut shells; the bartender, who’s your basic sun-ravaged vegan in a coral necklace, glances at him and goes back to his phone. Kern fingers the money in his pocket, wonders how much boats cost, and feels a pang of regret for his suit, which made him feel like someone else but will surely soon be ruined.
“Nice evening,” says the only other customer, smiling, his voice vaguely British though he looks Chinese. He might be twenty-five, is about Kern’s size, and even though he’s wearing damp board shorts and a frayed T-shirt he has the air of a toff, the slumming son of someone important. Empty glasses arrayed on his table, like he’s settled in for the night.
“How’d you like to own a genuine Mr. Li suit?” asks Kern.
“I’d love to,” the man laughs, “but he’s booked out fifteen months in advance. Why, do you have an in?”
Kern opens his bag, brings out the suit, which is wrinkled but otherwise okay. “No, but I’ve got one of his suits, and I’m looking to sell.”
The man’s hands run competently over the cloth, checking inside the sleeves, lapels, collar. “This is very nice,” says the man. “And most unexpected. A beautiful suit, and a story to match. How much would you like for it?”
“I’m open to offers,” Kern says, having no idea.
The man takes out a glossy leather wallet, riffles through a sheaf of pink yuan, shrugs, proffers it all. “I’m afraid this is all I have with me,” he says. “Consider it a down payment? I’d be happy to get more and meet you back here tomorrow.”
“Actually, this will do.”
“It’s really far short of the true value. You’d be losing out.”
“That’s okay. I don’t need a suit where I’m going,” Kern says, which is probably true but sounds portentous.
“If you’ll forgive my asking, where’s that?”
“Fishing,” Kern says. “Tonight.” On impulse he adds, “If you think you still owe me, want to help me find a boat?”
“I’d be happy to help you find a fishing boat,” the man says, pleased, a rich boy having an adventure, and he radiates a lack of awareness that Kern could have any other reason for wanting a boat. “My name’s Yi Chen, by the way,” he says, offering his hand.
*
They follow a creek up into the trees in the fading light. Night birds sing invisibly, and clouds of gnats rise with every step. It feels peaceful, but not safe, and he’s starting to worry that it might be a setup when a dog starts barking and a light comes on over the porch of a dilapidated hut.
A man regards them from a hammock, a rope-muscled Chinese in disintegrating basketball shorts, his teeth as brown as his deeply tanned skin. He’s nothing like Yi Chen, but they seem happy to see each other, and start talking in rapid-fire Mandarin.
The man heaves himself out of his hammock, scratches his stomach with oil-blackened nails and leads them around the hut to a rotting dock where a small blue-and-white motorboat is tied up, bobbing in the creek.
“Will this do?” asks Yi Chen, the light of his cell phone wandering over the hull while the other man loads it with jerrycans of fuel.
“Sure,” says Kern, but then notices pinpoints of light moving inside the boat as Yi Chen moves his cell. He kneels, runs his hand over the hull, finds a cluster of holes in the fiberglass, each the width of a small-arms round, their edges warped inward.
“Piracy has been known to occur in these waters,” Yi Chen says gravely, almost smiling. “But the boat is perfectly seaworthy—Yu Long here has been out hundreds of times.”
Yu Long says something, at which Yi Chen frowns and says, “I’m afraid there are only the four cans of diesel. We could get more, if you were willing to wait until morning…” He trails off.
In his ear Akemi says, “Take what they have and go now.”
*
He loses the shore as the last light leaves the sky. The village becomes a stain of light on the clouds, then is gone.