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with hips that had grown somewhat broader than she would have liked over the years. Strong, almost mannish shoulders from decades of physical training made it difficult to find a yukata that fit correctly. She had all her clothing custom tailored, preferring the older methods and styles that pleased the man she loved, or at least had pleased him at one time.
    Now, with graying hair dyed black, a powdered face, and the hydraulic maladies of age wrenching at her joints, she doubted there was much she could do that would please him.
    Still, such things couldn’t be helped, and it was not in her nature to let him go without some sort of a fight.
    Breathing deeply, rhythmically, she took up the ivory pen and consulted the notebook, while the phone rang.
    “Yes,” the voice on the other end answered. There was no polite hello in the greeting, only demands.
    She introduced herself, using her best Arabic.
    “ As-salam alaykum .” Peace be unto you.
    “Do not even try,” he snapped. “It is not given for a believer to answer such a greeting by an infidel. Your pronunciation is so bad you could be wishing me death.”
    Shimoyama sighed to herself. So much for pleasantries.
    “Why do I not deal with your superior?” The voice clicked and popped with educated Punjabi English. It was the voice Shimoyama heard in her mind when she’d read Rudyard Kipling in school—before her life had turned so upside down.
    “He has asked that I keep you informed,” she said. Accustomed to a more formal structure in matters with superiors, subordinates, and even victims, Shimoyama grimaced at the abrupt nature of this man. She much preferred dealing with others who understood the niceties of simply being Japanese. Even feudal samurai had been polite in their brutality when they struck down someone of lower class.
    Kiri-sute-gomen , they would say: I kill you, I discard you, I am sorry .
    Had it been up to Shimoyama, she would not have accepted this assignment—no matter how much it paid. These men were devils, erratic in their behavior, completely unrefined.
    Nevertheless, the job had been accepted, and now honor demanded it be done well. Honor—reputation—was everything.
    “We are on schedule,” she said.
    “Good.” The voice on the other end had an aggravated whine to it, like a gearbox winding down. “And, the business in Colorado?”
    “The first phase is complete,” Shimoyama said. She placed a small check in the column of her notebook. It was important to keep track of the items on which she’d briefed her superiors and clients. “Our friend is on the way to see to the next portion of her assignment.”
    “Very well,” the man said. The voice grew more distant, as if he was engaged in something else as he spoke.
    “I must point out.” Shimoyama hesitated. “This does not come without some degree of risk . . .”
    “We are aware of the risk.” The man inhaled sharply. “You would do well to focus on your own tasks rather than worry over something you know little about.”
    “Of course,” Shimoyama demurred. “I only hope to be of the most assistance possible. If you will recall, we have more than one asset in place. That alone makes for—”
    “Recall?” the man said, taking a long, nasal breath. “I will tell you what I recall . I recall hearing of some nonsense in Virginia that very nearly brought the Black Mist into the light of day.”
    Shimoyama recoiled at the mention of the organization’s name. Black Mist. Kuroi kiri , in Japanese. No one associated with it would ever dare speak the title aloud and certainly not on the phone.
    “I remember that incident very well.” She glanced down at the inflamed nub on her left hand, where her pinkie finger should have been. The skin was raw and just beginning to heal over the bone at her first joint. Her right hand bore a similar nubbin, though this one was well healed and from long ago. She had run out of little fingers. The next time, penance would be