Satori by Don Winslow Page B

is an imperialist spy.”
    “No.”
    “Tell me what he said to you,” Kang demanded. “Tell me what he whispered to you in bed.”
    “Nothing.”
    A knock on the door interrupted his enjoyment.
    “What is it?” he snapped.
    “A visitor,” came the answer. “Comrade Voroshenin.”
    Kang smiled. There were so many ways of achieving power and influence. “Send him in.”

23
    T HE KEY TO THE CURRENT condition of Chinese plumbing, Nicholai decided, was never to take no for an answer.
    He tried three times to get hot water from the taps of the bathtub before he succeeded, and when it finally came, it did so with a scalding vengeance, an all-or-nothing-at-all response to his repeated entreaties.
    Gently lowering himself into the water, Nicholai was reminded of the tub he’d enjoyed at his Tokyo home in what seemed like a lifetime ago, but was barely four years. They had been happy, albeit short days, with Watanabe-san and the Tanake sisters in the garden he had carefully constructed with the goal of shibumi.
    He might have lived his whole life there quite happily, had it not been for the honor-bound necessity to kill General Kishikawa that caused his subsequent arrest, torture, and imprisonment at the hands of the Americans.
    And then the offer of freedom in exchange for this little errand.
    To terminate Yuri Voroshenin.
    Moreover, Nicholai despised nothing more than a torturer. A sadist who inflicts pain on the helpless deserves death.
    But Voroshenin was only the first torturer on Nicholai’s list.
    Next would come Diamond and his two minions who had shattered Nicholai’s body and mind and come close to destroying his spirit. He knew that the Americans didn’t expect him to survive the Voroshenin mission, but he would surprise them, and then he would surprise Diamond and the two others.
    It would mean leaving Asia, probably forever, and that thought saddened him and caused him some anxiety about what life would be like in the West. A European by ethnicity, he had never even been there. His entire life had been spent in China or Japan, and he felt more Asian than Western. Where would he live? Not in the United States, certainly, but where?
    Perhaps in France, he decided. That would please Solange. He could envision a life with her, in some quiet place.
    Nicholai pushed the thought of her out of his mind to focus on the present. Picturing a Go board in his head, he played the black stones and placed them in their current position. The point now was to push forward to gain proximity to Voroshenin. To create a position from which to get Voroshenin in a vulnerable place.
    Given the close surveillance, he couldn’t simply track the target down and find an opportune moment. No, he would have to find a way to lure Voroshenin to an isolated spot, while at the same time losing his Chinese tails.
    He studied the imaginary board to find that opportunity, but couldn’t find it. That didn’t worry him — like life, the go-kang was neither static nor unilateral. The opponent was also thinking and moving, and very often it was the opponent’s move that provided opportunity.
    Be patient, he told himself, recalling the lessons his Go master Otake-san had taught him. If your opponent is of a choleric nature, he will be unable to restrain himself. He will seek you out, and show you the open gate to his vulnerability.
    Let your enemy come to you.
    Nicholai sank deeper into the tub and enjoyed the hot water.

24
    H AVING MADE a life’s study of human weakness, Kang noticed the Russian’s fascination with the torture. It emanated from him as strongly as his body odor, which stank of stale sweat and alcohol.
    Kang didn’t judge. He was a sadist himself, it was simply his nature, and if the Russian joined him in deriving pleasure from other people’s pain, it was merely a sexual preference. The odor, however, was offensive. A man could not change his nature, but he could bathe.
    Voroshenin tore his eyes off the woman and said,