Tokyo Espionage

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

I clocked off at 4.30, and headed out. My green Lotus Exige hummed to life as I pressed the ignition. It was a small car that packed a lot of punch. I put the Lotus in gear, knowing that the restaurant where the others and I were meeting was a little over a mile away.

The trumpet of an exhaust reverberated off the buildings that lined the streets. The sun had switched off for the day; the neon lights came on. My freshly waxed Exige seemed to sparkle.

I parked up a block away, then walked the rest to L’Atelier’s. The restaurant was Michelin 2 star. It’s style akin to my office: sleek, modern. The lighting was low, and the food was delicious. It had an angular design inside; the dangling lamps were cubic, the bar wasn’t round, but split at harsh angles. On spotless shelves, cased by mirrors, was all the alcohol a drunkard could ever ask for. Fortunately, we had one in our company.

I looked around at the hustle and bustle, noted the pretty Japanese waitresses, the men in jackets still doing business. Then I saw by the window, in the corner, a slender hand beckoning me - it was Lily.

I walked over, said “Hi.”

“Romeo, I wondered where o where you ‘ad gotten to.”

I checked my watch, it was 6.30, I wasn’t late.

“I’m not late.”

Ronin and Aramis completed the coterie. “Where are Natalya and Achilles?”

Ronin said in his rough London accent, “Couldn’t make it. Achilles is putting his Trojan horse to work.”

I held my hands up; I never took to his schoolboy wit. He thought it was hilarious. He was laughing hard, and nudged Lily with an elbow. She humoured him with a smile.

Aramis jumped in, “And Natalya had,” he did the air quotes, “other business.”

“No worries.” I threw my jacket on the back of a chair, and took my seat at the table. I reached for the wine, and poured myself a glass - not before noticing Rousseau’s lamentable groan. “Don’t worry, I’m sure they have more,” I said.

We called the waiter over, and ordered dinner. I went for Menu A, a five-course meal. The main was La Pintade, roasted guinea fowl in gravy. I loved meat; I loved gravy.

“How’s l’espirit de loix coming?”

Rousseau said, “Ah, that was Montesquieu, I prefer you say something like the Social Contract.” I mentally reprimanded myself: he was right, the Social Contract was Jean-Jacques Rousseau not l’espirit de loix. He continued, “But it is not coming along at all. Mon tete – my ‘ed is a fog, that mist transposes to the paper. That is all.”  He motioned to the table in front of him; as if the paper was right there, a blank page.

“Does the wine help?”

“Eh – wine always ‘elps.” Then he said, “What about you Ronin?” He rolled the R.

Ronin looked out the window. “I don’t do philosophy.”

“Does all that thinking tire you out?” The jocose Rousseau chortled.

“I do women. Far more pleasurable, and rewarding.” He paused a moment. “Is that philosophical enough for you?”

Rousseau raised a glass. “Touché mon frère.”

Lily chimed in, “So what women are in your life now?”

I was startled by her voice, and saw the gleam in her eyes. She liked Ronin, but she was 17, he was 32, I’d warned him to stay away.