Satori - Don Winslow [4]
Now Kamiko served thin tea and brought out mukozuke, a tray of light snacks — sashimi and pickled vegetables.
“The food is good,” Nicholai said in Japanese as Kamiko served.
“It’s garbage,” Haverford answered, pro forma, “but I’m afraid it’s the best I can offer. I am so sorry.”
“It’s more than enough,” Nicholai said, unconsciously slipping into Japanese manners that he had not had the opportunity to use for years.
“You are more than kind,” Haverford responded.
Aware of Kamiko’s passive attention, Nicholai asked, “Shall we switch languages?”
Haverford already knew that Hel spoke English, French, Russian, German, Chinese, Japanese, and, randomly, Basque — so there was quite a menu from which to choose. He suggested French and Nicholai accepted.
“So,” Nicholai said, “you have offered me one hundred thousand dollars, my liberty, a Costa Rican passport, and the home addresses of Major Diamond and his apprentices in exchange for my performing a service that I assume involves a murder.”
“ ‘Murder’ is an ugly word,” Haverford answered, “but you have the basic elements of the deal correct, yes.”
“Why me?”
“You have certain unique characteristics,” Haverford said, “combined with specific skills required for the assignment.”
“Such as?”
“You don’t need to know that yet.”
“When do I begin?” Nicholai asked.
“More a question of how.”
“Very well. How do I begin?”
“First,” Haverford answered, “we repair your face.”
“You find it unpalatable?” Nicholai asked, aware that his once handsome countenance was indeed a lopsided, swollen and disjointed mess from the fists and truncheons of Major Diamond and his associates.
Nicholai had worked for the Americans as a translator until he had killed Kishikawa-san; then Diamond and his goons had beaten Nicholai before subjecting him to mind-altering, horrifying experiments with psychotropic drugs. The pain had been bad enough, the disfigurement still worse, but what hurt Nicholai even more was the loss of control, the terrible helplessness, the feeling that Diamond and his disgusting little helpers had somehow stolen his very being and played with it the way a twisted and stupid child might have toyed with a captive animal.
I will deal with them in due time, he thought. Diamond, his thugs, the doctor who administered the injections and observed the results on his “patient” with cold-blooded clinical interest — they will all see me again, albeit briefly, and just before they die.
Right now I must come to terms with Haverford, who is essential to achieving my revenge. At least Haverford is interesting — impeccably dressed, obviously well educated, just as obviously a scion of what passes for the aristocracy in America.
“Not at all,” Haverford said. “I just believe that when you damage something, you should repair it. It seems only fair.”
Haverford is trying to tell me, Nicholai thought, in a quite un-American subtle way, that he is not them. But of course you are, the clothes and education are but a patina on the same cracked vessel. He asked, “What if I do not choose to be ‘repaired’?”
“Then I am afraid we would have to cancel our arrangement,” Haverford said pleasantly, glad that the French softened what would be a harsh ultimatum in English. “Your current appearance would prompt questions, the answers to which don’t match the cover we’ve taken a lot of trouble creating for you.”
“ ‘Cover’?”
“A new identity,” Haverford answered, reminded that while Hel was an efficient killer he was nevertheless a neophyte in the larger world of espionage, “replete with a fictitious personal history.”
“Which is what?” Nicholai asked.
Haverford shook his head. “You don’t need