Free Simple Simon by Ryne Douglas Pearson Page B

thoughts might be of pleasure.
    “Mitsuo, don’t imagine yourself with me,” Keiko said without looking to him. “Imagination is the second most dangerous thing a man has.”
    Heiji snickered a bit, nervously. He had been too obvious in his musings. “The second, is it?”
    “Yes.”
    “What is the first?”
    “A heartbeat,” she answered while turning back to face him. A bulge rolled down his throat.
    “Again, I must convey that your methods are of concern to Mr. Kimodo.”
    “I got what he wanted,” Keiko said with quiet authority. Twelve pages of drivel that the American had offered quite freely after she’d crushed one of his testicles in her hand; the second she popped between her teeth just prior to gutting him alive, during the course of which he’d had the sense to die. Twelve pages of words . Trade policy decisions. Commerce Department needs. Tasks ahead and information desired by his superiors. Words . To Kimodo the business tycoon they were gold, but Keiko knew she’d felt the American’s true worth spill over her naked body in a spout from his open belly. She had come soon after that.
    “But the remnants of your…success are quite graphic,” Heiji persisted, choosing his words haltingly at times, but with care. “These things are not public, of course, but to anger the Americans with a…distasteful display of one of their own is not wise.” He felt her stare harden, and added quickly, “In Mr. Kimodo’s eyes. Perhaps it would be wise to conclude your…sessions as you did with Mr. Hashimoto last year. You succeeded then, and left no…untidiness.”
    There was no need to leave Yoshihiro Hashimoto, the son of one of Kimodo’s business rivals, in any state other than dead and slightly damaged. He was not of the taste Keiko desired in playthings. Those had to be at least Caucasian, and, if the gods were smiling, white Americans. Ever since defiling that American in the Bekaa Valley for her onetime Hezbollah comrades, that kind was all she could think of. All she wanted. “I do my job in the manner I see fit. Please inform Mr. Kimodo of that. Now, when are we turning back?”
    Heiji collected himself and removed an envelope from inside his coat. “In a moment.” He handed it across to Keiko. Her nails were short and painted blue, he noticed when she took it from him. “Mr. Kimodo requires your assistance in a new matter.”
    So soon …. Keiko thought longingly. “Go on.”
    “The particulars are in the envelope, but Mr. Kimodo requires that you travel to America. An individual there may be able to provide some very valuable information. Concerning their top code.”
    “Top code?” Keiko probed. “What is that?”
    “The particulars are in writing.”
    Keiko let her fingers caress the coarse package. Some things were so much better spoken than coldly read. “An individual?”
    Heiji hesitated briefly when a flash of pity ran through him. “A young man. It is in writing, and you will have a contact in America.”
    A young man . That was an enticingly large spectrum. “America, you say.”
    “Our trusted ally,” Heiji commented. He noticed Keiko shift slightly where she sat. It was almost as though she were squirming.
    Keiko heard Kimodo’s lackey speak, but she was looking out the window again, watching the first sheets of grey begin to fall upon the fields in the distance, wanting to think of the crops and the farmers and anything other than the one thought that kept repeating in her head: young man, young man, young man, young man . They would meet soon, she knew, but soon always seemed an eternity.
    Then again, with deprivation her hunger would rise to glorious heights, and it would be all the sweeter a sacrifice that quenched it.
    “A young man, you say?” She just had to hear it one more time.
    Heiji nodded and noticed that Keiko recrossed her legs very, very slowly. “Yes, a young man.”
    The limousine exited and reentered the motorway heading back to Tokyo. Keiko