Satori

Diamond turned to Singleton. “Sir, I’d like to be kept current with all phases of the operation, if you don’t mind.”

“You’ll be briefed,” Singleton assured him. “Ellis, keep him posted on everything you do.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And, Ellis, if you could stay for a moment.”

Diamond left the meeting. Nicholai Hel free, he thought in the elevator. He felt the involuntary tremor in his leg. Face it, he thought, you’re afraid of the guy, and with good reason. He’s a trained killer with a grudge against you.

And then there’s Operation X.

If there’s even the slightest chance of that getting out.

He couldn’t allow it to happen.

“Does Hel know the identity of his target?” Singleton asked Haverford.

“I haven’t told him yet.”

Singleton thought this over for a few moments, then asked, “Is there anything to what Diamond said? About Hel being a loose cannon?”

“I don’t think so,” Haverford answered. “But I’ve taken the caution of providing, to mix nautical metaphors, an anchor.”

Singleton dismissed Haverford, then checked his schedule with his secretary and saw that he had a few moments for reflection. He went into his private study, sat down at his table, and contemplated the Go board in front of him.

He’d been at this game against himself for some weeks now, and the shapes of the opposing stones were slowly becoming beautiful. They could almost be called graceful in the delicate interplay between the yin and yang of opposites. Only on the go-kang did life promise perfect balance.

Diamond would be Diamond and Haverford would be Haverford – they were virtually fixtures on the board.

But Hel…

Singleton moved a black stone.

Hel would soon learn the identity of his target and would be, shall we say, motivated.

But to do what?

How would this Go player respond? It was not an exaggeration to say that the immediate future of Asia depended on the complex persona of Nicholai Hel.

An “anchor,” Singleton mused.

How interesting.

6

SOLANGE WAS as lovely as her name.

Her hair was the color of spun gold swirling with streams of amber, her eyes as blue as a midday sea. An aquiline nose betrayed the Roman colonization of her native Languedoc, but her full lips could only have been French. A light spray of freckles disrupted an otherwise almost monotonously perfect porcelain complexion, and the soft curve of her high cheekbones prevented what might be an unfortunate severity. She was tall, just a head shy of Nicholai’s height, longlegged and full-bodied, her breasts stretching taut the simple but elegant blue dress.

But it was her voice that affected Nicholai the most. Low but gentle, with that particular Gallic softness that was simultaneously genteel and sensual. “Welcome to my home, monsieur. I hope you will be comfortable.”

“I’m sure I will be.”

Solange offered her hand to be kissed, as if most of his face weren’t obscured by bandages. He took her hand in his – her fingers were long and thin – and kissed it, the cotton of the bandage touching her skin along with his lips. “Enchante.”

“May I show you to your bedroom?”

“S’il vous plait” said Nicholai. The long flight from the United States back to Tokyo had tired him.

“S’il vous plait,” she said, gently correcting his pronunciation to hold the “a” sound a touch longer.

Nicholai accepted the criticism and repeated the phrase, echoing her enunciation. She rewarded him with a smile of approval. “Your nanny was from Tours, perhaps? The purest accent in France. But we need to give you an accent du Midi.”

“I understand that’s why I’m here.”

“I am from the south,” she told him. “Montpellier.”

“I’ve never been.”

“It is beautiful,” she said. “Sunny and warm. And the light…”

His bedroom was simple but tasteful, the walls a yellow that was cheerful without being oppressively chirpy, the spare furniture painted a middle-range blue that perfectly complemented the walls. The large bed – after the cot in his cell it looked massive – was covered with a blue duvet. A single chrysanthemum had been placed in a vase on the bedside table.

“It is a Japanese flower, no?” Solange asked.

“Yes.”

“And you have missed them?”

“Yes,” he said, feeling oddly touched. “Thank you.”

“Pas de quoi.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The proper response would be to say ‘je vous en prie,’ “she said, “but the- comment vous dites – the ‘vernacular’ would be ‘il n’y a pas de quoi’ or simply ‘pas de quoi.’ Vous voyez?”

“Tres bien.”

“Very good,” she said. “But roll your ‘r’ on your tongue, please. Comme ca.” She formed her mouth into a shape that Nicholai found rather attractive. “Tres bien.”

“Tres bien.”

“And a bit more through the nose, please.”

He repeated the words, giving the ending a nasal twang.

“Formidable,” she said. “Notice the trace of a ‘g’ at the end, but just a ghost of one, please. You don’t want to sound like a rustic, rather a cultured man of the south. Are you tired or would you like to take lunch now?”

“I am more hungry than tired.”

“I have taken the liberty of preparing something.”

She led him into a small dining room. The window gave a view onto a karesansui Japanese rock garden bordered by a high bamboo wall. The garden had been done with skill, and reminded him of the garden he had so meticulously constructed at his own home in Tokyo. He had found a measure of contentment in that home before making the decision to kill Kishikawa-sama. He asked, “Am I allowed the freedom of the garden?”

“Of course,” she said. “This is your home for as long as you are here.”

“Which is for how long, please?”

“As long as it takes you to recuperate,” she said, effortlessly deflecting the real question. Then, with a smile that was just mischievous, she added, “And to learn proper French.”

Solange gestured to a chair at the table.

He sat down as she walked into the kitchen.

The room, like the rest of the house’s interior, was completely European, and he wondered where she had acquired the furnishings. She probably hadn’t, he decided, it was more likely her American masters who provided