Free John Rain 08: Graveyard of Memories by Barry Eisler Page B

being polite, but after a few moments, I started to wonder if he might have a point. I knew there were tradecraft things I’d been missing. Why wouldn’t there be everyday things, as well? What would it cost to become more heedful of those things…and would the practice of becoming more heedful of one naturally cause me to become more heedful of the other? I thought this nen was an attitude worth cultivating. Not just to appreciate the things that make life worth living. But to be attuned to the things that can keep you alive.
    When we were halfway through the tea, and he still hadn’t mentioned why he had contacted me, I thought it was time to nudge him. “So,” I said, “what’s on your mind?”
    He nodded emphatically as though he’d almost forgotten and was grateful for my reminding him. “Ah, an embarrassing situation,” he said, setting down his cup. “Although I have an opportunity to resolve it.”
    “All right.”
    “The…funds we exchange. They are provided to various grateful recipients according to a formula designed and implemented by people far worthier than I.”
    “Okay.”
    “And, it seems, one of these recipients is less grateful than would be proper. He has made unfortunate threats about revealing the existence of this…assistance program that so many other people understand and value. As a gesture of goodwill, those other people attempted to propitiate him.”
    “And that didn’t work.”
    “It did for a while, it seems. But having gotten his way seems also to have encouraged him. He is making threats again.”
    “That’s regrettable,” I said, mirroring his formal style, thinking that would make him more comfortable.
    “Indeed. But I’m sure it will be dealt with. In fact, that’s precisely what I have been given the opportunity to arrange.”
    I said nothing.
    “What would be helpful, and most appreciated, is if someone could make this troublesome problem go away. For ten thousand U.S. dollars, and with no questions asked.”
    Well, his diction might have been the soul of refinement, but the message was blunt enough. And not entirely surprising, given the conversation that led up to it.
    I wondered if it was just a coincidence. Or karma. Or something about my demeanor that was suddenly making everyone swoon for my apparent potential as a contract killer.
    “Forgive my directness,” I said, “but this is a pretty…sensitive thing we’re talking about. Why did they put you in charge of it? I thought you were carrying a bag because you’re on someone’s shit list.”
    “Oh, I most certainly am. This is like the new Clint Eastwood movie, Dirty Harry . ‘Every dirty job that comes along.’ That’s me.”
    “They’re having you take care of this so you can take a fall after?”
    “Only if something unforeseen were to occur. I would of course prefer that such a thing not come to pass. That’s why I hope to rely on you. I know you. I feel I can trust you. And…from our conversations, I think you have the kind of experience I think would be relevant.”
    I didn’t pause to consider whether those earlier, seemingly innocent conversations over coffee had in fact been more akin to job interviews. Nor did I wonder if we ever recognize the forks in the road we sometimes come to. They’re not common in life, and they’re never marked. Certainly, I didn’t recognize this one. Or maybe I just didn’t want to.
    “I’m honored you would consider me for something this important,” I said. “But my experience was all in war. In a dozen ways, as you know, that’s different.”
    “Yes, but—”
    “But that’s only part of it. More important, this just isn’t the kind of job I want. I don’t know what’s next for me, but…it’s not going to be that.”
    “Perhaps it doesn’t have to really be a ‘next.’ You could think of it as a one-time-only opportunity. With a generous cash bonus attached, of course.”
    “Yes, it is generous, and perhaps if I were a little