Redback. Lindy Cameron

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СКАЧАТЬ the real and surreal, it was with his writer's sensibility that Scott Dreher registered the suited-salarymen, Manga clones, tourists, kimonoed or mini-skirted women, and gangs of blonde Japanese Goths. This was Blade Runner territory without the flying taxis, faux animals and blimps advertising off-world employment, and Scott was revelling in every cold and drizzly moment of it.

      He was even starting to think that, if he gave up his futile little quest he could do this all the time.

      If he gave up the things that made him serious, for a life of serious living, he could enjoy foreign or familiar moments for what they were. He could sit at the edge of the rain in a noodle bar like this one, or a café or park anywhere in the world and just soak up the ambience - for the hell of it. Somewhere public would be a place to sit solo, or meet friends to eat or drink, instead of what it had become for him: a safe environment to wait for a clandestine reason that had nothing to do with food, local culture or friendship.

      It had been six years since he'd written a story where his name wasn't the first or only reason for its publication; where the issue itself was worth paying attention to, regardless of who wrote about it.

      Scott Dreher: political and social analyst extraordinaire - a name to be reckoned with.

      Well, now he had the story of his career and he couldn't write it. Not yet anyway.

      It was more valuable - in terms of newsworthiness - than nearly everything he'd had published in the last decade. Even his book was 'after the fact'. He rubbed his face in frustration. But, going public too soon could risk lives, his own even, and he was pretty sure his own was worth hanging on to.

      Conversely, waiting too long might have dire consequences for three or four countries, not to mention several specific individuals. It was just a pity he didn't yet know who, or when, or where in the world.

      Scott nodded his thanks to the waiter who pushed a bowl of udon noodles and a Sapporo beer across the counter to him. Then he scanned the street for his contact again. There was still no sign of him.

      Five feral-haired girls, giggling over a magazine with an excessively-tattooed boy band on the cover, surged by and into the establishment next door for a Big Mac and fries. Man! Talk about cultural train wreck.

      Now there's an idea. He could go back to writing about the things that people really care about, instead of the things they should. Or think they should. He could be a travel writer instead of a foreign correspondent, a tourist instead of an analyst, an anonymous chronicler rather than a famous reporter. Hell, take up active participation, instead of objective bystanding. Yeah right. Scott tasted the noodles, burnt his tongue and reached for his beer. He could give up the political and live the personal. Now that'd be an adventure worth telling the world to get stuffed over. He'd be bored in a week.

       And someone is watching me.

      He pretended his attention had been caught by a passing curiosity and casually swivelled on his stool. He still couldn't see anyone who resembled the magazine photo he'd seen of his contact, but twice now, when the passing crowds allowed a view, he had glimpsed someone staring his way.

       Ah, there. A woman? Now that's a surprise.

      She caught him catching her out, looked startled and stepped back out of view.

      Scott kept his gaze on the doorway across the street, casually dangling his beer bottle between his fingers. Sure enough, a moment later, she reappeared. She pulled the collar of her huge coat up around her ears, glanced around nervously, and began crossing the wet street towards him.

      He'd assumed she was Japanese but on ever-closer inspection it was apparent she was something else as well, something Western. Without a word she sat down on the stool next to him and turned her gaze, as he had, to the street. She was attractive. She was nervous. And she'd been crying.

      Scott offered her his beer.

      'Thank you, Mr Dreher,' she said, 'but I would prefer Vodka: double and neat.'

      Scott took care of the drink order, and then remained facing the counter. The woman didn't turn to join him until her drink arrived.

      'May I see some identification please?' she finally said.

      'You already seem to know who I am,' Scott noted.

      'No. I only know who was meant to be here.' Her English was good, but with a bar-mix accent of French, Japanese and, bizarrely, Australian. Or maybe Kiwi - he still had trouble picking the difference.

      Scott shrugged. 'You, however, are not who I was waiting for,' he pointed out, loosening his belt one notch so he could get his hand inside the front of his jeans. 'Money belt,' he added, catching her frown, as he retrieved his passport.

      She opened his warm and well-worn official ID and compared the photo with the actual face of Scott Andrew Dreher, born Boston, Massachusetts, 40 years ago.

      'You need a shave.'

      'That I do,' Scott agreed, scratching his bristly chin. 'I also need a name, and a reason: yours, both.'

      'I am Kaisha. And we should not stay here too long.'

      'Really,' Scott said flatly, 'and why is that?'

      She glanced, nervously, up and down the street.

      No, not nervously, melodramatically. He smiled, indulging her. I've seen this movie, sweetheart!

      'The man you were to meet…' Kaisha let her sentence hang, as if still not sure Scott was kosher.

      Or maybe she's not kosher. Scott cocked his head, waiting for her to name the person he'd been expecting. After several seconds he realised she was swallowing more than the vodka. She was choking back emotion. And fairly heavy-duty stuff too, judging by what her right index finger had done to the drink coaster.

      'Okay, I'll bite. 'Are you all right?'

      She shook her head and turned to face him. 'Hiro - he is dead.'

      Hiro? Scott frowned, not understanding. But a shake of his head and 'Who' was all he managed before his incoming-bad-feeling sense started kicking him like a frigging mule. Oh shit.

      'Hiroyuki is dead?' he whispered. 'Hiroyuki Kaga?'

      She nodded.

      'How? What happened?'

      Kaisha's chin was trembling. 'He was murdered. I,' she took a breath, 'I found him.'

      'Oh Christ! When?' Several bad thoughts jostled for Scott's attention, making it difficult to grasp her statement as reality. He'd never met the man, but this was too terrible. The ramifications were, were…

       Fuck, what where they? Was this part of the conspiracy? Or was it unrelated to the Plot?

      Kaisha checked her watch. 'About an hour ago,' Her hands were shaking. 'I found him bleeding. I could do nothing. There was so much blood.'

      Scott leant in, close enough to get a scent of jasmine. 'Forgive me Kaisha, but who are you?'

      I am,' she wiped her teary eyes with her coat sleeve, 'I was his mistress. I couldn't help СКАЧАТЬ