RainStorm Read Free

brought back to Paris but did not take as his wife. Illegitimate
    status hadn't seemed to slow Belghazi down, though,
    and he had excelled in school, both academically and athletically,
    making a name for himself afterward as a photojournalism His fluent
    Arabic had made him a natural for covering conflicts in the
    Arab world: the Palestinian refugee camps, the Mujahideen in
    Afghanistan, the first Gulf war. Playing on his contacts among the
    combatants, and on those he developed at the same time among
    foreign military and intelligence services, Belghazi had become a
    conduit for small arms deliveries to various Middle Eastern hot
    spots. His operation had grown organically as his supply-side and
    customer-side contacts broadened and deepened. His latest efforts
    were concentrated in Southeast Asia, where various emerging fundamentalist
    and separatist groups within the region's sizeable Muslim
    populations provided a growing customer base. He was known
    to have a taste for the finer things, too, along "with a serious gambling
    habit.
    He was with two large men, also in suits and similarly swarthy,
    whom I made as bodyguards. One of them started a visual security
    sweep, but Belghazi didn't rely on him. Instead, he did his own
    evaluation of the room and its occupants. I watched in my peripheral
    vision and, when I saw that he was finished and had turned his
    attention to the front desk, I looked over again.
    A striking blonde had just come through the front doors. She
    was wearing a black pants suit and pumps. Practical, but classy.
    What you'd see on a traveler carrying a first-class ticket. She was
    tall, too, maybe five-nine, five-ten, with long legs that looked good
    even in pants, and a ripe, voluptuous body. A porter followed her
    in, gripping a pair of large Vuitton bags. He paused near her and
    leaned forward to ask something. She raised a hand to indicate that
    he should wait, then started her own visual sweep of the room. I
    hadn't expected that, and quickly returned my attention to Keiko
    until the blonde's gaze had passed over us. When I glanced over
    again, she was standing beside Belghazi, her arm linked through his.
    Something about her presence was as relaxed and, in its way, as
    commanding as his. Everything about her seemed natural: her hair,
    her face, the curves beneath her clothes.
    A
    minute later she, the porter, and one of the bodyguards headed toward the elevators. Belghazi and the other bodyguard remained
    at the front desk, discussing something with the receptionist.
    The front door opened again. I glanced up and saw Karate.
    Christ, I thought. The gang's all here. I wondered half-consciously
    whether he'd been tipped off somehow.
    Karate walked slowly through the lobby. I saw his gaze move to
    Belghazi, saw his eyes harden in a way that would mean nothing to
    most people but that meant a great deal to me. From this gaze I understood
    that Karate wasn't looking at a man. No. What I saw instead
    was a hunter acquiring a target.
    And, I knew, but for my long-practiced self-control, had anyone
    been watching me as I confirmed my suspicions about why Karate
    was here, they would have seen an identical involuntary atavism
    ripple across my own features.
    A few minutes passed. Belghazi and his man finished at the front
    desk and made their way to the elevator. I gave them four minutes,
    then told Keiko I needed to use the restroom and would be right
    back.
    I went to a house phone and asked the operator to connect me
    to the Oriental Suite. There were only two suites in the hotel--the
    Oriental and the Macau--and, judging from his file, I had a feeling
    Belghazi would be occupying one of them.
    No answer at the Oriental. I tried again, this time asking for the
    Macau.
    "Hello," a man's voice answered.
    "Hello, this is the front desk," I said, doing a passable imitation
    of a local Chinese accent. "Is there anything we can do to make
    Mr. Belghazi's stay with us more comfortable?"
    "No, we're fine," the