Satori - Don Winslow [8]
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. “Enchanté.”
“May I show you to your bedroom?”
“S’il vous plaît” said Nicholai. The long flight from the United States back to Tokyo had tired him.
“S’il vous plaît,” 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?”
“Très bien.”
“Very good,” she said. “But roll your ‘r’ on your tongue, please. Comme ça.” She