They didn't know because none of that mattered when your mother was dying, and you needed a job that paid cash tips the same night you walked in the door. Iris tied her apron in the service hallway. Black fabric, knee-length, the Meridian's logo stitched in silver thread over her left chest. She checked her reflection in the steel door of the walk-in cooler, white-colored shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow, black trousers, black flats.
No jewelry, no nail polish. House rules for fine dining. She looked like every other server on the floor. That was the point.
Raymond handed her the table chart. Table nine, window seat. They'll arrive at 7:00. The interpreter sits between the two principals, keep the wine flowing, don't speak unless spoken to, and whatever happens, smile.
Iris folded the chart into her apron pocket. Got it. She walked toward the dining floor, past the kitchen's controlled chaos, past the polished bar where a bartender was slicing lemon twists thin enough to read through. Table nine, window seat, sterling silver, white candles.
She had no idea what was coming. But then again, neither did Takeshi Nakamura. They arrived at exactly 7:00, not 6:58, not 7:02, exactly 7:00. Takeshi Nakamura walked through the Meridians entrance like he owned the building.
Silver hair slicked back without a strand out of place. Charcoal three-piece Brioni suit, single-breasted, tailored so precisely the fabric barely moved when he did. White dress shirt with a stiff collar, dark blue silk tie pinned with a gold clip. A Patek Philippe on his left wrist, white face crocodile leather strap.
Black Oxford shoes polished to a mirror finish. A belt buckle engraved with the letter N. He was 58 years old. He looked like a man who had never been told no.
Half a step behind him walked Kenji Sato, 34, thin face, wire-rimmed glasses, black hair parted to the left. He wore a black suit that was visibly cheaper than his boss's, slightly loose at the shoulders, the fabric a shade too shiny. White shirt, plain black tie, the uniform of a man whose job was to agree. He carried a a leather briefcase in his right hand and a folder of documents under his left arm.
Kenji pulled out Nakamura's chair, arranged a stack of papers on the table, placed the briefcase on the floor beside his own chair, then set a second folder, thick bound with a rubber band, on the table between his water glass and the bread plate. Internal documents. Japanese text on the cover. The kind of thing no one at this table could read.
Except one person. But they didn't know that yet. Behind them came Yuki Hamada, 30 years old, fair skin, round face, soft features, black hair pulled into a low ponytail. She wore a light gray blazer over a white blouse, a black pencil skirt that ended at the knee, and low heels, 3 cm.