Dragonfly

“What?”

“A gun in the stomach is so much more interesting than a plain old handshake.”

“Huh?”

“A saying of Confucius.”

He stared at her.

“Ah, and you're so articulate!”

He blinked. “Who are you?”

“Lee Ann Tanaka. Or would you like me to be someone else?”

“But…”

“Yes?”

He looked at her face carefully and saw that she fit the description that McAlister had given him. A tiny scar marked the left corner of her upper lip — although it was only as wide as a hair and half an inch long, certainly not a souvenir of a fight to the death with broken bottles. High on her left cheek there was a tiny black beauty mark: the “mole” for which McAlister had advised him to look. Finally, her hair was full, rich, and as black as raven wings. McAlister's only sin was one of omission.

“Are you going to kill me?” she asked.

“Of course not.”

“Oh, then you were worried about my heart.”

“What are you talking about?”

“My heart.”

He shook his head.

She said, “Fear is good for the heart. Speeds it up. Gives the heart muscles much-needed exercise. Cleans out the system. How nice of you to be worried about my heart, Mr. Canning.”

He put the pistol back in his holster. ''I'm sorry.”

“But my heart needed the exercise!” she said.

“I'm sorry for almost shooting you.”

“Was it that close?”

“Close enough.”

She put one hand to her breast. “Now you're giving my heart too damned much exercise.” She stepped back a pace and said, “Do you have any luggage?”

“Two pieces.”

“Bring it.”

He fetched the suitcases and followed her into the adjoining room. It was a large, airy bedchamber decorated with imitations of old Japanese rice-paper water-colors and with genuine eighteenth-century Japanese furniture.

“This won't be good enough,” he said.

In the middle of the room she stopped and turned to look back at him. “What won't be good enough?”

“Someone will be watching the door to my room.”

“Right you are, Mr. Canning. You're under surveillance.”

“If I don't come out and make a target of myself, sooner than later there are some goons who'll break in there and try to get me.”

“Break right into your room?”

“One way or the other.”

“What is Japan coming to? It's as bad here as in the States.”

“And if I'm not in my room,” Canning said, “they'll know that I didn't go out the front door. And they'll know I couldn't have climbed out onto the window ledge with two heavy suitcases. So the first place they'll look is in here.”

She clapped her hands. “Marvelous!”

“What's marvelous?”

“Your magnificent exhibition of deductive reasoning,” she said brightly. She gave him a big, very pretty smile.

He felt as if he had stepped into a whirlwind. He didn't quite know how to deal with her, and he couldn't understand why McAlister had put him in the hands of a woman, any woman, and especially this woman. “Look, Miss Tanaka, when these men don't find me next door, they'll simply come over here. They'll find me here. And they'll shoot me.”

“Ah, I have confidence in you,” she said. “You're much too fast on the draw for them.” She rubbed her stomach where he'd held the gun on her.

“Miss Tanaka—”

“They won't shoot you,” she said. “Because you won't be here.” She turned and walked toward what he thought was the bathroom door. Over her shoulder she said, “Come along.”

“Where to?”

“You'll see.”

He followed her out of the bedroom onto a narrow railed deck that overlooked the first-floor living room of a two-floor suite. A bathroom and another bedroom opened onto the deck, and a carpeted spiral staircase wound down to one corner of the living room. A huge crystal chandelier hung from the roof of the gallery.

Downstairs, she turned to him and said, “They will not be expecting you to enter a room on one floor and immediately come out of a room on the floor below.”

“I believe you've got something,” he said.

“Charm,” she said.

“Excuse me?”

“Come along.”

At the front door of the suite, she reached for the brass knob, then let go of it, turned, and put her back to the door. She held one finger beside her lips. “Sssshh!”

He put down his suitcases and listened to the voices in the hotel corridor.

“Don't go for your gun,” she said, grinning at him. “It's just the bellhop moving new guests into the room across the hall. Killing them might be exciting, but it would accomplish nothing.” She closed her eyes and listened to the voices beyond the door.

He was standing no more than two feet away from her, and he did not close his eyes. For the first time since he'd seen her upstairs, he had an opportunity to study her face, to look beyond the hair-line scar on her upper lip and the beauty mark on her left cheek. Her forehead was broad and seamless. Her eyebrows were two natural black crescents, and her eyes were deeply set for an oriental face. She had a pert nose, very straight along the bridge, delicate nostrils; and her breathing was as quiet as the flight of a moth. With her high perfect cheekbones, aristocratic haughtiness, and shockingly ripe mouth, she might have been one of those high-priced fashion models who periodically took Manhattan, Paris, and London by storm. Her flawless complexion was the shade of aged book paper, and the sight of it somehow made him feel all warm and loose inside.

And what of the body that went with a face like that? he thought.

He looked down at the rest of her. But she was wearing a long belted trenchcoat that concealed everything except the crudely defined thrust of her breasts and the tininess of her waist. When he looked up again, he found that she was watching him.

Her eyes were large and clear. The irises were as black as her hair. They fixed on his eyes and seemed to bore straight through him, pinning him like an insect to a velvet specimen tray.

He blinked.

She didn't blink.

Suddenly his heart was beating so hard that he could hear it. His mouth was dry. He wanted to sit down somewhere with a drink and knit his nerves together again.

“Now,” she said.

“Now what?”

“Time to go.”

“Oh,” he said quickly.