Requiem for an Assassin (14 page)

I looked up and saw three husky college kids watching from five yards away. White, dressed like gangsta wannabes. I realized they had stopped because of my outburst.

“Chill, dude,” one of them said.

I stood perfectly still. Inside, a war raged: the need to avoid trouble so I could focus on Dox; the overwhelming urge to slaughter the three creatures looking at me like I was an animal in the zoo. I imagined myself tearing into them like a lawn mower up on its back wheels, slashing, ripping, gutting. I could almost hear their high-pitched wails of terror and surprise, could practically smell the hot blood pouring out of them. I gritted my teeth into an insane smile and stood staring at them, panting with the effort of holding back, praying for one of them to say something, do something, to tip the balance and make me lose control.

One of them smacked Mr. Chill on the back of the head and gave him a shove. “Let’s go, man,” he said. And Mr. Chill, perhaps guided by some reptile-brain recognition of the image of a predator just before it pounces, nodded and silently complied. The three of them walked away, and somehow I managed to let them.

I glanced around. A few other people in the area were studiously looking elsewhere. Goddamnit, I’d drawn attention to myself. Stupid. I pulled out a handkerchief and wiped down the phone receiver, obscuring the act with my torso, then walked away, keeping my head down.

I found another pay phone and called the toll-free number for Hilton hotels. Their property in Beverly Hills had a room available tonight, did I want that? I told them I did, and would be there shortly. One night was fine. I was just passing through.

I had the car for a week anyway, so I decided to hold on to it. It beat figuring out the bus system, or trying to get around by cabs. I had nowhere to go for two days. I might as well stay here.

The nav system took me onto the Santa Monica Boulevard and east toward Beverly Hills. I drove through alternating patches of feeble yellow light and serene urban darkness, the interior of the Mercedes strobing weakly with each passing lamppost. Fragments without were illuminated, revealed, then gone again: a shuffling homeless man, glancing up at me as indifferently as a sea creature outside a passing bathysphere. Shuttered storefronts, graffitied walls, construction sites suffocating under profusions of slapped-on posters. A homeless woman, sunk to her side in the shadows, her head in her hands, another soul swallowed up by the city.

A few miles from the hotel, as concrete gave way to palm trees and graffiti to the shiny windows of boutiques, I turned on my old cell phone to check the voice-mail account. Part of me hoped for a message from Delilah. Part of me dreaded it.

What I got, though, wasn’t a message. Just a second after I fired up the phone, it buzzed. I checked the readout, surprised, and saw that Delilah was calling me right then.

I hesitated for two full rings. Then I picked up and said, “Hey.”

“You’re hard to reach,” she said. “And you don’t return calls.”

I thought of several things to say. What came out was just, “Sorry.”

“You know how many times I’ve called you, hoping I’d catch you with your phone on?”

“A lot, I’m getting the feeling.”

“Any news?”

“Some. He’s okay for now.”

“Did you meet with…”

“I met him.”

“And?”

“I learned a few things. But not enough.”

“Where are you now?”

“I…” I started to say. Then, “I don’t know where I am.”

“I want to see you. Just tell me where.”

“I’m in California. But…”

“I have some time off. Tell me where on the bulletin board. I’ll fly out.”

I wanted her, and yet I didn’t. “You shouldn’t come,” I said. “You don’t want to be mixed up in this.”

“You told me you feel tied to me. Did you mean it?”

I sighed. “Christ, you’re stubborn.”

“Did you mean it?”

I didn’t say anything for a moment. Then: “You know I did.”

“Then I’m coming to see you. Just tell me where.”

“I’ve only got two days…”

“Post it now and I can be there tomorrow afternoon.”

A dozen more protestations came to mind. But I said only, “I need to get to a computer.”

“Okay. And give me the name you’re using. I’ll make a reservation somewhere and tell them to let you in. If you show them ID, you won’t have to wait for me.”

We were quiet for a moment. I said, “What are you wearing?”

She gave me a small laugh. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

My gut roiled with conflicting emotions. I waited, wanting to say something more, for her to say something more, but she had already clicked off.

I found an Internet café in West Hollywood and told Delilah I was in L.A. Then I went to the hotel. I used their business center to check the Air France website—a safe bet Delilah would be flying the national carrier if she wanted her choice of nonstops. There were two flights she could use. One got in at 3:50 in the afternoon, the next, a few hours later at 6:55.

I lay in bed for a long time, thinking, trying to unwind. I wanted to see her, but at the same time I was afraid to. Afraid of what she’d make of me. Which was stupid, of course. Why should I even care what she thought, or anyone else? And if anyone could understand…

No one can understand. No one.

Lying in another anonymous bed in another random hotel room, back in the life as though I’d never left it, I thought I should just let Delilah go. Already my relationship with her felt improbable, inapplicable, absurd. What could I have with her, anyway? Separate apartments in a foreign city, thoughts and lives that we couldn’t discuss?

It didn’t matter. Whatever we had, it was gone, another moment alchemized to memory. I should just accept that. I should just move on, alone. It was all I was ever good for. It was all I could really trust.

D
ELILAH ARRIVED
at LAX at a little before four in the afternoon California time. It was almost one in the morning now in Paris, but she’d napped on the flight and didn’t feel tired at all. Flying west was easy. It was the trip back that could be a little rough.

She was carrying only a shoulder bag, a dark brown Bottega Veneta in classic woven leather, and was in a cab less than twenty minutes after touching down. She told the driver, a twentysomething with a nice smile who she guessed was from West Africa, to take her to the Beverly Wilshire, although the reservation she’d made was in fact at the Bel-Air. Unlikely anyone was waiting at the airport to try to follow her, but she wanted a chance to confirm anyway before going on to her true destination.

“And let’s stay on Sepulveda to Jefferson Boulevard,” she added.

“Are you sure, miss? The four-oh-five would be faster.”

She knew that, which was exactly why she wanted to go through the city. In L.A. freeway traffic, it would be impossible to know whether anyone was following them; there could be fifty cars between the cab and a tail. The city route, by contrast, would have fewer cars and more local traffic. Every time the cab turned, Delilah would be able to check behind to see if anyone had stayed with them. A few instances of a car going the same way could be a coincidence. All the way from the airport to Beverly Hills would be a different matter.

“I’d just like to see the city,” Delilah said.

The driver furrowed his brow and smiled. “Of course, of course. You…live in L.A.?”

Delilah understood what he was thinking. She obviously knew the city well, but if she lived here, why would she want to take the scenic route? And with her looks, he was wondering if she was a celebrity he couldn’t quite place. Her clothes fit the celebrity theory, too: a classic Burberry trench coat, open now in the relative warmth of the southern California afternoon; a cream-colored, scoop-necked cashmere sweater, set off by a long, gold Faraone Mennella chain-link necklace; chocolate brown, platform-heeled boots worn over slim-cut jeans. She got that quizzical “Is she a celebrity?” look a lot. It neither gratified nor displeased her, but was occasionally something she could use.

“I’ve spent time here,” she said, glancing behind as they turned onto Sepulveda, marking the cars that followed them.

“Oh, of course,” the driver said, and she knew he would take the glance behind them as alertness for paparazzi, or, if not that, then wariness about being followed to an assignation with her lover. The second interpretation, she realized, wasn’t so much inaccurate as it was incomplete.

She thought of John on the way, and Dox. She was worried about both of them: Dox, for obvious reasons; Rain, because she knew that precisely because he was hell-bent on helping his friend, his judgment was likely to be impaired. Look at the way he had blundered into surveillance last year when he’d gone to see Midori and their child. Delilah had tried to warn him then, too, and he had ignored her. She wondered what it was about men that wed them more to a way of doing things than to achieving their ostensible goals. She loved them, loved nothing more, but she had to admit the world would be a better place if it were run by women.

By the time they got to the Beverly Wilshire, she knew she was clean. Still, she wanted to do a foot route to be absolutely sure. She freshened up in a restroom, then strolled through Beverly Hills as the sun set, using a variety of countersurveillance moves to make certain she was alone. After an hour, she was satisfied, and found another cab.

When she had checked the bulletin board before leaving Paris and learned that Rain was in L.A., she immediately thought of the Bel-Air, her favorite hotel in southern California. She’d stayed there twice, and loved it: a luxurious but low-key oasis of pink stucco Mission-style buildings, improbably secluded in the heart of the city among acres of flower and herb gardens, quietly trickling fountains, and the canopies of ancient trees. The hotel had been popular with stars since opening in 1946 because it was so serene, secure, and, of course, discreet. She had posted John the name and location, and the name she would be using.
Just say you’re with Laure Kupfer,
she had written,
and they’ll check you in.
Then she had called the hotel, paid in advance for the Garden Suite, and explained that they should give a key to a Mr. Ken, who might arrive before she did and ask to be let into her room.

The cab let her out on the quiet, residential street that fronted the property. She crossed a covered stone bridge to the main building within and was instantly enveloped by the beauty of the place. Water trickled somewhere in the dark beneath the bridge; to one side, the twisting branches of ancient sycamores were illuminated by spotlights from below. She caught the scent of orange blossoms and basil and suddenly realized she was ravenous.

The check-in area was furnished like a comfortable, tasteful living room, all upholstered furniture, landscape paintings in gilded frames, unostentatious objets d’art. The light was just right, not too bright, not too dim, and the room had a welcoming hush to it, along with a faint scent of wood and cut flowers. A fire crackled in an open fireplace.

Delilah walked over to the front desk and told them she was Laure Kupfer. Of course, Ms. Kupfer, welcome, they told her. Mr. Ken had already arrived; would she like to be escorted to the Garden Suite? She thanked them and told them no, she would rather just stroll over alone.

She walked along a porticoed terrace, her footfalls echoing quietly. She heard the sounds of conversation and quiet laughter from a few people dining under the heat lamps on the patio outside the restaurant, but other than that, Delilah enjoyed the delicious sense that she had the place to herself.

She came to the Garden Suite, unlocked the door, and stepped into the living room. The lights were on, but she didn’t see Rain. “John?” she called out.

There was no answer. A fire was burning in the stone fireplace, and she caught a faint, pleasant trace of smoke in the air. A thick contemporary Oriental rug with a floral design was spread across the expansive Saltillo-tiled floor. The upholstered chairs and couch arranged around a wooden coffee table at the center of the rug were all empty: not a newspaper, not a tossed-aside jacket, not an empty glass. Other than the lights and the fire, in fact, there was no sign that anyone had been using the room.

Suddenly, she was concerned. Rain had sophisticated enemies, and look what had happened to Dox. What if someone had…

Then she told herself she was being ridiculous. The hotel’s security was designed to protect Hollywood glitterati. They were safe here. And even if his judgment were off, Rain was still the most thorough, cautious, paranoid tactician she’d ever known. He was just out—taking a swim, or using the gym, or maybe strolling in one of the gardens.

She walked into the bedroom, scanning reflexively. Still no sign of him—no clothes lying around, not even an impression in the bedspread where he might have been sitting. Ah, there, on one of the dressers—a bottle of 1971 Glenmorangie. A good single malt, that was John. She glanced inside the walk-in closet, and saw a navy cashmere blazer on a hanger, and a pair of Camper loafers she recognized as his tucked neatly into a corner. She smiled. She knew there were women who would kill to have a man so neat, but it could be a little spooky at times. It was in Rain’s nature to move, and to live, without leaving sign.

She walked into the enormous bathroom with its soft white tile and mirrors and sensible light, and found a few toiletries in a drawer. And then, next to one of the sinks, a note. Okay. She picked it up.

On the grounds,
the note read.
Back by 7:00.

She looked at her watch. It was 6:15 now. She was mildly annoyed that he wasn’t waiting for her, and wondered what he was doing. She recognized the note itself was a concession: he didn’t like revealing anything that might enable someone to anticipate him, whether it was a restaurant reservation or a simple note describing his whereabouts. The vague reference was a compromise, but because she knew him, she could probably fill in the blanks, as he knew.

She guessed a workout. The gym was right around the corner. If he wasn’t there, she would just wait for him here. She peeked out at the private patio—half security habit, half curiosity—and liked what she saw: a hot tub sunken among the flagstones, rising steam illuminated by an underwater light; a pair of chaise longues, surrounded by ferns and hibiscus flowers; a high brick wall surrounding it all. She imagined the hot tub with John later and it gave her a little shiver. She took a quick shower and went out to find him.

The gym was a large former cottage that had been gutted, carpeted, and outfitted with the latest equipment. It had a high ceiling and large windows. Delilah glanced inside, and immediately saw Rain. He was in a corner, barefoot, in shorts and a tee-shirt, doing squats. She watched, fascinated. She knew he worked out and he’d told her a bit about his solo routines, but she’d never seen him. He was going fast now, squat, stand, squat, stand, occasionally brushing a wet strand of hair back from his eyes. She didn’t know how many he’d done before she started watching, but she counted two hundred and fifty, and then fifty more where at the end of every rep he leaped into the air.

He paused for a moment, and she sensed he was going to scan the windows. She stepped to the side and waited for a moment so he wouldn’t see her. She wanted to keep watching.

After a few seconds, she looked back inside. Rain was doing handstand push-ups, freestanding, not against the wall. Slowly this time: up, down onto his forehead, hold, then up again. She counted ten, and then he dropped over into a back bridge and did fifty more push-ups, inverted. A dark line of sweat ran down the front of his tee-shirt.

He flipped over and stood, and Delilah moved out of the way again. When she looked back inside, he was hanging from the horizontal bar of one of the machines, his hands spaced widely. She looked more closely…was he using just his fingertips? Yes, he was. He did twenty pull-ups, then dropped down and shadowboxed in front of the mirror. No, it wasn’t just shadow boxing, she realized; he was incorporating other elements, ripping and grappling movements she recognized, like some kind of customized karate kata. As he circled around, she caught a glimpse of his face. His eyes were closed, and she was surprised, even disconcerted, at the intensity of his expression. This was no dance for him, she knew; the movements were techniques he could use, had used, to kill. She wondered what, or whom, he was picturing right then that would produce such mimed ferocity, and imagined it must be Hilger.

She knew there was a dark skein of intensity deep in Rain’s nature, something that only rarely revealed itself at the surface. It was a quality that intrigued her, and, she had to admit, was part of what attracted her to him, but he never let her see it, and her only previous glimpses had been brief and inadvertent. She wondered why he was letting himself cut loose like this now, in a room with so many windows. It must have been the sense of privacy the hotel grounds fostered. Then she realized she had probably posed the wrong question: maybe he wasn’t letting himself. Maybe right now he couldn’t help it. Regardless, this was the longest she’d ever watched him unbeknownst, and it fascinated and excited her in equal measure.

After five minutes of the drills, Rain started stretching, and Delilah knew he was warming down. She eased away from the window and returned to the room.

A short while later, sitting in front of the fireplace, the lights turned low, she heard the key in the lock. She stood and watched the door open a crack, then swing wider when Rain saw it was her.

“Hey,” he said, looking her over. He was pumped from the workout and she liked the way the tee-shirt clung to him.

“Hey,” she said, smiling. She had planned on giving him a hard time about not being there when she arrived, but now she was just glad to see him.

He bolted the door, then walked over and kissed her lightly. She reached around for the back of his head, holding him there, prolonging the greeting, letting it turn into something more.

He raised his glistening arms like a doctor prepping for surgery. “I’m all wet,” he said.

She let out a little laugh. “Me, too. But I’m starving…why don’t you shower and we’ll get something to eat?”

They decided on the low-key lounge rather than the more formal dining room, and sat adjacent to each other at a corner table amid dark paneling, low light, and a wood fire. He looked good to her after a week away, casual in faded jeans, a checked oxford cloth shirt, and the cashmere blazer, his dark hair still wet from the shower. Delilah ordered filet of beef with Stilton; Rain, roast chicken with polenta, and they shared terrine of foie gras and a lobster corn custard. Rain chose a bottle of ’89 Lynch-Bages Bordeaux, and while they ate and drank, she asked him questions, and worked to sift through the responses.

“What does Hilger want?” she asked, quietly. “Why is he doing this?”

For almost a minute, Rain was silent, rolling the stem of his wineglass through his fingers, his eyes on the liquid inside. Just as Delilah thought he wasn’t going to answer, he said, “He wants me to do three jobs.”

There was no need to ask what the jobs would consist of. And she knew he wouldn’t tell her the details. In fact, she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

Again he was silent for a long time. Then he said, “If I don’t do the jobs, Hilger will kill Dox. If I do the jobs, he’ll kill Dox as soon as I’m done.”

“Not just that. He might…”

“Yes, he’ll probably be using one of the jobs as a setup to take me out, too. I know. That’s why I have to find out where Dox is being held, and free him. There’s no other way he’s coming out of this alive.”

She couldn’t disagree with his assessment. She said, “You’re playing for time, then.”

Rain nodded. “Time, and information. Part of the reason I wanted to see Hilger in person was to make him move. Tracking someone who’s frozen is hard. Moving, he’ll leave a trail.”