The Last Assassin Page 3

  I looked at her, still wanting to say more, still not knowing how.

  'A bath would be good,' I said.

  Later, Delilah lay next to Rain in the dark. Pale light from a half-moon shone through one of the windows, and she watched him sleep in that almost spookily silent way of his. Most people would be wired all night after a run-in like the one they'd had earlier — she was — but Rain had dropped off almost immediately after they got in bed.

  He could be so gentle with her when it was just the two of them that it was hard to remember what he was capable of. But she'd seen his other side before, first on Macau, then in Hong Kong, and she'd felt it surface again tonight in the Barri Gòtic. She wouldn't have told him, but she'd interceded with those drunken Brits in part because she was afraid of what Rain might do if she didn't. She'd noticed him palm something from his front pocket during the confrontation, and assumed it was a knife. She'd hurt that guy badly tonight, it was true. But she was pretty sure Rain would have killed him.

  Before going to bed, they'd made love again in the bath. She was glad of that, and took it as a good sign. They had a new situation to deal with, true, as it seemed they always did, but it didn't affect their fundamental chemistry. She hoped it wasn't the situations that were fueling the chemistry. She'd had affairs like that, where it was the illicitness, or the danger, or some similar thrill that kept the thing going. She didn't want that with Rain. She wanted something more stable. Something…

  She smiled. The word that had come to her, and that she didn't want to say, was lasting.

  She'd been aware of these feelings before meeting him here, but she hadn't fully acknowledged them. She'd been afraid to. But now that she was faced with the prospect of losing him, of another woman who'd thrown a trump card down on the. table, she couldn't hide from her hopes, either.

  She realized she was thinking in Hebrew, and that was strange. French was her default setting for matters of the heart. The one exception was Dov, and she realized with a pang that somewhere along the line Rain must have come to occupy a similar place in her consciousness, the place where she kept her first language, her first love, perhaps her first self.

  She watched him. It was good with this man lying next to her, it really was. It wasn't what she had with Dov, but how could it be? She had known Dov before she was formed, when she was guileless, even defenseless. When she was just a girl, in fact. That girl was long gone, so how could she expect a love like hers?

  But there were elements of what she had with Rain that she hadn't had with Dov, or with anyone. She and Rain were of the same world. Each understood the other's habits and didn't judge the other's past. They recognized and accepted the weight they each carried from the things they'd done. Both knew that weight irrevocably separated them from civilian society, and at the same time brought them together like some secret sign.

  On top of all of which, she couldn't deny, was some astonishing personal chemistry, and the sex that went along with it.

  But she didn't think it was love, exactly. It was more like … the possibility of love. She wondered for a moment what the difference was, or whether she would ever even know the difference, but she didn't want to think about that now.

  She doubted he was seeing things clearly, and that concerned her. His tradecraft was superb, but as far as she knew he'd never before had to use it when he was this emotionally involved. He could screw up. He could get killed. And for what?

  He was taking a risk in going to see Midori and the child. He'd acknowledged as much. And a man like Rain would never take a risk like that unless there was something serious he was hoping to gain from it.

  She considered for a moment. What do men do when they're facing a hard decision? They defer it by trying to collect more data. Maybe that's all he was up to. But it hurt to know there was even a decision to make.

  She tried always to be realistic, to keep her hopes in check. She knew she had no future in her organization. They used her for the things she was good at, but would never trust her with real power. And she'd long ago accepted that, after the things she'd done, she could never have a normal life. She could never have a family. She could never let someone get that close.

  Except… Rain had been getting that close. Which was why what he'd told her tonight hurt. Worse than hurt. It ached in a place she couldn't describe, a place she hadn't even known was part of her.

  Their reservation was for a week, but she didn't know now how long he was going to stay. She realized this could be their last time together. Even their last night.

  Maybe the child wasn't his. That was possible; he'd said so. Or the woman would otherwise reject him. Or something else would happen to make this turn out the way she wanted it to.

  She watched him sleep, and was surprised at how possessive she suddenly felt. And threatened. And angry.

  She wasn't helpless, of course. There were things she could do to create the right outcome.

  She'd gotten a little more information from Rain in the bath. Not much — just that he was going to New York. But combined with the name he'd mentioned, and a few other details she remembered from Hong Kong, it ought to be enough. She'd be looking for a Japanese female, first name Midori, who emigrated to the U.S. from Japan in the last three years, was currently residing in New York, and who gave birth to a boy, probably in New York, in the last eighteen months. Her organization had found people before with a lot less to go on than that.

  She lay there for a long time, struggling with warring impulses: hope and fear, sympathy and anger, temptation and guilt. Eventually, just before moonlight gave way to sun, she slept.

  3

  Delilah and I spent the rest of the week in Barcelona. My 'situation,' as I thought of it, wasn't on my mind as much as I would have expected, and its absence seemed linked to Delilah's presence, because I found myself thinking of it mostly when she was off doing something else and I was left alone. At those times I would be gripped by a vertiginous combination of excitement and dread, and I was always glad when we were together again.

  Of course the news had been a surprise to her, but beyond that I couldn't tell. I didn't know what I was expecting, exactly — that she would be angry with me? Argumentative? Sullen? But she wasn't. We would get up early and stay out late and make love before napping every afternoon and we didn't discuss it again.

  The only clue I had to how she might really be feeling was that she was less moody than she had been in Rio. Rio had been the first extended time we'd spent together, and it had taken me a while to get used to her periodic pouts and petulance there. But in the end I'd come to appreciate that side of her because it felt real. It told me she was comfortable with me, she wasn't acting. And now I wondered if the more consistent good cheer on display in Barcelona was deliberate, a form of overcompensation intended to obscure whatever was really going on inside her.

  The morning I left, she came with me to the airport. I shouldered my bag outside security and tried to think of something to say. She looked at me, but I couldn't read her expression.

  'I hope you're going to be careful,' she said, breaking the silence.

  That wasn't really like her. I shrugged. 'That's not a hard promise for me to make.'

  'I'm more concerned with whether you'll be able to keep it.'

  'I'll keep it.'

  She nodded. 'You going to call me?'

  That was even less like her. 'Of course,' I said, but the truth was, my mind was already half elsewhere.

  I kissed her good-bye and got into the security line. When I turned back a minute later, she was gone.

  Once I was past immigration, I used a prepaid card to call my partner, Dox, from a pay phone. The burly ex-Marine sniper had provided me with his new, sterile cell-phone number via our secure electronic bulletin board. He was stateside at the moment, visiting his parents, and to contact Midori securely I would need his help.

  The call snaked its way under the Atlantic and rang on his mobile somewhere on the other side. T
hen the irrepressible baritone rang out: 'Dox here.'

  I couldn't help smiling. When he wasn't in stealth mode, Dox was the loudest sniper I'd ever known. One of the loudest people, even. But he'd also proven himself a trustworthy friend. And, apart from certain stylistic differences that sometimes drove me to distraction, a damn capable one.

  'It's me,' I told him.

  'Who's "me"? I swear, if this is another one of those "switch to our cellular service and we'll send you a free set of steak knives…"'

  'Dox, keep it together. It's me, John.'

  He laughed. 'Don't worry, partner, no one else even knows this number, so I knew it was you. Just wanted to see if I could get you to talk a little on an open line. I see you're loosening up some, and that's all to the good.'

  'Yeah, well, I guess I owe that to you.'

  He laughed again. 'You don't have to thank me, I know how you feel. What's on your mind? Didn't expect to hear from you so soon.'

  'I've got a… situation I could use your help with. If you're interested.'

  'This one business, or personal?'

  'This one is personal. But it pays.'

  'Son, if you have a personal situation you need help with, I'm not going to take your money for it. We're partners. I'll just help you, like I know you'd help me.'

  I was so used to thinking in terms of me against the world that I was momentarily speechless at how much I could depend on this man.

  'Thank you,' I managed to say.

  'It's nothing, man. Tell me what you need.'

  'How soon can you be in New York?'

  'Shit, I can be there tomorrow if you need me.'

  'No, take the weekend with your folks. I've got a few things to do first anyway. How about if we plan to meet on Monday?'

  'Monday it is.'

  'And maybe you won't take money for this, but I'm not letting you go out of pocket. You tell me what you spend on travel, okay?'

  'Sure, I'll just take my customary suite at the Peninsula and you can settle it directly with them.'

  'That's fine. Although somewhere downtown might be more convenient.'

  'Shit, man, I'm joking. Not about the Peninsula — that's an outstanding institution. About letting you pay. You shipped me your share of the proceeds from the Hong Kong operation, remember? That ought to cover my current expenses, and then some.'

  In Hong Kong, Dox had walked away from a five-million-dollar payday to save my life. Afterward I'd given him the fee I'd collected for the op as a small way of saying thank you. He hadn't wanted to take it, but had finally agreed.

  'All right, I'm not going to argue with you,' I said.

  'Good. You can buy the beer, though. Or that fancy whiskey you like.'

  I smiled. 'I'll call you Monday.'

  4

  I wasn't pressed for time, so I flew indirectly, which is always safer. I cleared customs at Dulles, outside Washington. The Watanabe identity I had created to get me to Brazil three years earlier was still functional, and it took me through customs without a hitch. From there, it was just a short flight to New York.

  Despite my oblique approach, when I arrived at JFK, I scanned the crowd outside the arrivals area, then followed a circuitous route through the airport that would draw out any surveillance and render it visible. Arrival areas are natural choke points, typically with lots of waiting people who unintentionally offer good concealment for an ambusher, and I always go to a higher level of alertness, and engage in appropriate countermeasures, at this point when I'm traveling.

  When I was confident I was alone, I went outside. I emerged to a cold and rainy New York afternoon. The sky was lead gray, and it looked like the rain might turn to wet snow any minute.

  I hadn't been here in several years. My childhood was divided between Tokyo and upstate New York, and Manhattan was the first big American metropolitan center I ever saw or spent significant time in. Since then, I've been back on business any number of times, but never business like this.

  The cab line wasn't long. When it was my turn, I got in and told the driver to take me to the Ritz Carlton Battery Park. I'd made a reservation from Barcelona, but hadn't wanted to mention that over the phone when I was talking to Dox. Maybe I was loosening up a little, as he'd suggested. But some habits die hard.

  I watched through the fogging windows as we drove. The cab's wipers beat relentlessly, thump-thump, thump-thump, and I heard thunder in the distance. We crossed into Manhattan, and what pedestrians there were all had their heads down in the hoods of raincoats and under the canopies of umbrellas, their shoulders hunched as though by the weight of some ominous circumstance.

  I thought I was going to be excited when I arrived here, but I wasn't. Instead I felt scared.

  When you live your life in danger, you're afraid a lot of the time. But you develop a system for dealing with it. You favor certain tools, you refine your tactics, and with success you come to trust both. You learn to focus more on the approach than on the destination, and that keeps the fear at bay. Gearing up calms you down.

  So as we pulled up to the hotel, I tried to focus on how I would get to Midori, the kind of thing I'm comfortable with, and not on what I would do afterward, about which I had no idea.

  I checked in and headed to my room on the twelfth floor. I liked what I saw: spacious layout, high ceilings, and a wall-to-wall window overlooking the Statue of Liberty and New York Harbor. Somehow the location felt right: Manhattan, yes, but at a safe distance, literally the water's edge, not the tangled inland terrain where I might easily find myself confused or lost or worse. I unpacked, showered, and called housekeeping to have my laundry picked up. Then I grabbed a hotel umbrella and headed out to do a few evening errands.

  I walked north on West Street, the rain beating steadily against the umbrella. A few financial district commuters hurried past me, but the area was otherwise dark and deserted. At Vesey, I walked up a gray riser of stairs and cut east along an elevated walkway. Water dripped from the corrugated roof into puddles on the concrete. On the left, through chain mesh fencing, clusters of construction equipment lay dormant in dust and darkness. I moved to the right and paused for a moment before the metal wall like a visitor in front of a hospital curtain, then looked down through a gap. Below me, frozen in the glow of sodium arc lamps as unflinching as those of any coroner's examination room, was the enormous hole where the towers had burned. At first glance, it was just a large construction site, much like any other. And yet the air was undeniably heavy with the enormity of what had produced this amputated place and the contorted walkways around and above it. The debris had been cleared, the equipment positioned, the lights turned on… and then, it seemed, some odd rigor had taken hold. The dead had been carted away but the land had yet to be resettled, and so the area felt sad and pernicious, a purgatory, an inbetween. I looked around and noticed other people who had similarly paused to observe the strange urban absence, and realized the mood of the site was infectious. I moved on.

  I kept walking until I reached Tribeca, where the lights and laughter from restaurants and clubs pulled me from the pall that had gripped me farther south. I started to think operationally. The first item I needed was a mobile phone. Ordinarily I eschew mobiles. I've never liked the idea of carrying something that's quietly tracking and in fact broadcasting my location — especially after revelations about the NSA's post-9/11 eavesdropping program — and I prefer to rely on electronic bulletin boards and, when necessary, random pay phones. But now I needed something I could use to communicate quickly with Dox. Well, a prepaid mobile ought to be secure enough for the short time I'd be using it.

  I would have preferred to purchase a unit without identifying myself, but governments all over the world, including Uncle Sam, are cracking down on the anonymous purchase of prepaid cell phones because terrorists seem to like them. Still, using the Watanabe ID, I was able to pick up a pair of slim Nokias with five hundred prepaid minutes apiece at a Cingular store in Chinatown, along with two sets of wireless
earpieces.

  Next on my shopping list was a folding knife. I'd left the Benchmade behind in Barcelona because to get it on the plane I would have had to check a bag, which I prefer not to do. Finding a replacement in New York, however, was tricky. The local laws governing concealed knives are so stringent that I couldn't find a store that sold anything other than the small Swiss Army variety. I had just about decided to rig up a kitchen knife in a shoulder harness when I came across the right kind of street vendor, a bald black man of indeterminate age with a megawatt smile and secrets in his eyes, who sold me a Strider folder with a four-inch recurve blade.

  Next I stopped in an army/navy store and found a gray windbreaker that would be so anonymous in the city as to make me invisible. I also grabbed a plain black umbrella and dumped the blue logo-sporting Ritz Carlton model in a cluttered corner of the store. A navy baseball cap and a navy shoulder pack completed the ensemble, and, thus properly provisioned, I continued north. I adopted a steady gait, not too fast, not too slow, someone with business in whatever neighborhood I was moving through, a reason for being there, but nothing important enough to hurry over.

  Tatsu had gotten me Midori's address, an apartment on Christopher Street in the West Village. His position, high up in the Keisatsucho, had its advantages when it came to acquiring information, even if the quid pro quo was an occasional off-the-books 'favor.' Tatsu's ends were noble, but he certainly believed they justified a wide range of means.

  The last time I had seen Midori was in Tokyo, more than two years earlier. She had tracked me down to confront me over what had happened to her father, and I admitted what I had done. And somehow, in the midst of it all, her grief and rage and confusion, we had still fallen into bed one last time. I've thought about that night a lot since then. I've replayed it, dissected it, mined it for meaning. But it always ends the same way: Midori, leaning in close from above me, shuddering as she came and whispering I hate you through her tears.