Other
contenders included “Outback,” “Matilda,” “Billabong,” and “New Oz.” International
favorite “Botany Bay” received less than one percent of the vote.
San José, Republic of Tecolote, Entente
“Mercer,” Irene Gomez barked. “Come with me.”
Her manner was so brusque Neil considered simply refusing.
It was the morning after the party, and Neil had just walked through the
security door into the consulate’s office. He hadn’t slept well; he had lain
awake, trying to parse his exchange with Conrad, wondering whether he had
screwed it up somehow.
But he couldn’t think of any particular reason to match
Gomez’s hostility, so, as she passed by him, he wordlessly spun on one foot, a
mildly silly and deliberately sarcastic move that both Lindsay Trujillo and
Martina Bandi witnessed and chuckled at.
In silence, Gomez drove Neil to their destination. She
turned into a parking lot outside a nondescript two-story building and stopped
the car.
“I know you met with President Conrad last night. I’m not
sure what exactly happened, but I want you to tell the people we are going to
meet with about it.”
“Who are we going to meet with?”
“The Japanese intelligence operative on the island. His name
is Akita Tadeshi – Akita is his family name. You should just address him as
Akita-sama, and he’s happy. I think he’s the only Saki intel officer in Tecolote,
and he’s a Koancho, not a Jetro.”
Then he must be Kitsune, Neil thought. Koancho was
what English-speakers called the Japanese foreign intelligence agency with
duties most similar to that of the NSS. Jetro was the commercial intelligence
service, which ostensibly protected Japanese copyrights and trade secrets, although
its powers stretched well beyond that.
“Do you want me to tell you about the meeting first?” Neil
asked.
Gomez sighed. “I’m trying to build some trust with this guy,
so I’ve told him he is getting the first report. He’ll be scanning me to see if
I’m lying. He’ll be scanning you, too.” She paused. “Don’t respond to this, but
I am going to assume there isn’t anything that would damage U.S. national
security in regards to Japan.”
Neil didn’t respond.
Gomez didn’t nod or otherwise acknowledge his silence. She
said, “So go ahead and tell him what you know. You might be able to be evasive
and fool his software by not lying directly, but these guys are our allies, so
don’t bother.”
“What do you know about Kit … about Akita?” Neil said.
“He’s supposed to be one of their heavy hitters. I’m not
entirely sure why he’s here in Tecolote, though.”
They went inside the building. It was a nightclub called
“Dietrich’s” in morning-after mode, with bright sunlight streaming in to
illuminate dirty corners meant to be lit only by momentary strobes. Along one
wall, rods that would glow in electric purples and greens as music thrashed in
darkness now looked artificial and sallow.
A young woman with short spiky black hair sat behind the
largest of the many bars in the place, reading her handheld. She looked up at
Neil and Irene Gomez and pointed to a door on the far side of the dance floor.
Beyond was some kind of VIP lounge, with another bar and
some plush red couches. Sitting on one of them was Akita Tadeshi.
He was approaching middle age, handsome, a picture-perfect
gentleman spy in a shiny maroon suit, cut in the severe style popular in Tokyo
and, lately, New York. He smiled warmly and motioned for Gomez and Neil to sit.
They did so, with Gomez taking a high-backed leather chair,
leaving Neil to sink into a love seat placed at a right angle to Akita’s couch.
It was far too comfortable for such a meeting, and Neil struggled to maintain a
rigid, formal posture.
“This place is owned by President Conrad’s daughter,” Akita
said in a lyric baritone. “Smartest club in town for a couple of years, but
there’s a new place down in the docks district that’s surpassed
contenders included “Outback,” “Matilda,” “Billabong,” and “New Oz.” International
favorite “Botany Bay” received less than one percent of the vote.
San José, Republic of Tecolote, Entente
“Mercer,” Irene Gomez barked. “Come with me.”
Her manner was so brusque Neil considered simply refusing.
It was the morning after the party, and Neil had just walked through the
security door into the consulate’s office. He hadn’t slept well; he had lain
awake, trying to parse his exchange with Conrad, wondering whether he had
screwed it up somehow.
But he couldn’t think of any particular reason to match
Gomez’s hostility, so, as she passed by him, he wordlessly spun on one foot, a
mildly silly and deliberately sarcastic move that both Lindsay Trujillo and
Martina Bandi witnessed and chuckled at.
In silence, Gomez drove Neil to their destination. She
turned into a parking lot outside a nondescript two-story building and stopped
the car.
“I know you met with President Conrad last night. I’m not
sure what exactly happened, but I want you to tell the people we are going to
meet with about it.”
“Who are we going to meet with?”
“The Japanese intelligence operative on the island. His name
is Akita Tadeshi – Akita is his family name. You should just address him as
Akita-sama, and he’s happy. I think he’s the only Saki intel officer in Tecolote,
and he’s a Koancho, not a Jetro.”
Then he must be Kitsune, Neil thought. Koancho was
what English-speakers called the Japanese foreign intelligence agency with
duties most similar to that of the NSS. Jetro was the commercial intelligence
service, which ostensibly protected Japanese copyrights and trade secrets, although
its powers stretched well beyond that.
“Do you want me to tell you about the meeting first?” Neil
asked.
Gomez sighed. “I’m trying to build some trust with this guy,
so I’ve told him he is getting the first report. He’ll be scanning me to see if
I’m lying. He’ll be scanning you, too.” She paused. “Don’t respond to this, but
I am going to assume there isn’t anything that would damage U.S. national
security in regards to Japan.”
Neil didn’t respond.
Gomez didn’t nod or otherwise acknowledge his silence. She
said, “So go ahead and tell him what you know. You might be able to be evasive
and fool his software by not lying directly, but these guys are our allies, so
don’t bother.”
“What do you know about Kit … about Akita?” Neil said.
“He’s supposed to be one of their heavy hitters. I’m not
entirely sure why he’s here in Tecolote, though.”
They went inside the building. It was a nightclub called
“Dietrich’s” in morning-after mode, with bright sunlight streaming in to
illuminate dirty corners meant to be lit only by momentary strobes. Along one
wall, rods that would glow in electric purples and greens as music thrashed in
darkness now looked artificial and sallow.
A young woman with short spiky black hair sat behind the
largest of the many bars in the place, reading her handheld. She looked up at
Neil and Irene Gomez and pointed to a door on the far side of the dance floor.
Beyond was some kind of VIP lounge, with another bar and
some plush red couches. Sitting on one of them was Akita Tadeshi.
He was approaching middle age, handsome, a picture-perfect
gentleman spy in a shiny maroon suit, cut in the severe style popular in Tokyo
and, lately, New York. He smiled warmly and motioned for Gomez and Neil to sit.
They did so, with Gomez taking a high-backed leather chair,
leaving Neil to sink into a love seat placed at a right angle to Akita’s couch.
It was far too comfortable for such a meeting, and Neil struggled to maintain a
rigid, formal posture.
“This place is owned by President Conrad’s daughter,” Akita
said in a lyric baritone. “Smartest club in town for a couple of years, but
there’s a new place down in the docks district that’s surpassed
Similar Books
