The Last Assassin (12 page)

W
HEN I ARRIVED
in Shinagawa, I was initially bewildered. The area, once a seedy backwater reeking of meat processing, had been gentrified. South of the station, everything was brand-new: glass high-rises, sparkling esplanades, expensive-looking restaurants. Christ, there was even a Dean & DeLuca at the station entrance.

I found the Starbucks Dox had described, on a terrace inside the station, overlooking a passenger walkway. Dox was already up there, sitting by the railing, looking down at the crowds, doubtless enjoying the feeling of holding the high ground with an unobstructed field of fire. He spotted me and nodded once to let me know it was safe to approach.

I went to the counter and ordered an herbal tea. I was tired from the trip and the time change, but wanted to maximize my chances of a decent night's sleep.

I took the tea and joined Dox at the table. “Figured you'd get here early,” he said. “So to save time, I came early, too.”

Over the last year or so, he'd learned my habits, of course, and this was an opportunity to tweak me. I was getting used to it. “That was thoughtful of you,” I said.

“I'm a thoughtful guy. In fact, I brought you a present. And, at the risk of disappointing you, I'll tell you now it ain't a kimono or dainty silk undergarments.”

He put a paper bag on the table and I looked inside. I saw a black folding knife and slid it out. I opened it under the table.

“That there is a Benchmade Presidio 520S,” he said. “Three-and-a-half-inch blade and a combo edge. Thought you might like it.”

“I like it a lot,” I said, closing it and sliding it into my pocket. “Thanks.”

He nodded. “What did you hear from your friend?”

I briefed him on what I'd learned from Tatsu. When I was done, he said, “If the meet is the night after tomorrow, we're going to have to scramble. Can your friend get us the equipment we're going to need?”

“No. To do this right, we're going to need some unusual stuff.”

He smiled. “Well, I reckon we know where to go for the specialty items.”

I nodded. He was referring to Tomohisa Kanezaki, of course, a Japanese-American CIA officer based at the embassy in Tokyo. Dox and I had both worked with Kanezaki over the years. Some of the things he used us for were official; others were undertaken pursuant to a slightly more entrepreneurial initiative. At this point he was more a friend than an enemy, although you never want to get overly distracted by classifications like those. In the end, business is business.

“I'll call him,” I said. “But I'm going to leave your involvement out of it. The less he knows, the better.”

“Agreed on that.”

“Let's be ready to roll at oh-six-hundred the day after tomorrow. Check-in at the inn where Yamaoto's men are staying is at two o'clock, and I want to get there before they do.”

“We're staying there, too?”

“I'm staying there. Already made a reservation. But you we're going to have to keep under wraps. There aren't many white faces in those parts, and we don't want to do anything to be remembered.”

“Am I going to be camping out? I don't mind, just want to know what to bring.”

“I'll rent a van. We'll need it operationally, but it'll also be a mobile home, if you follow me.”

“I follow you. All right, I'll do a little shopping tomorrow for gear. Looks like I'll be enjoying a last couple of nights of luxury here at the Prince and roughing it after that.”

I nodded. “Let's figure out what we need, and I'll call Kanezaki.”

We went through everything, starting with what we wanted to accomplish and working backward from there. When we were done, Dox went back to the Prince and I found a pay phone in front of the station.

Kanezaki picked up on the first ring, a habit I knew he had acquired from Tatsu.
“Hai,”
he said curtly, also in imitation of the older man.

“Hey,” I said.

There was a pause. He said, “What, are you living in Tokyo at this point?”

I smiled. Caller ID was exactly why I'd used a pay phone. I wanted to keep the cell phone sterile for as long as I could.

“I've got some business here,” I told him. “Nothing that would displease you if you knew about it. I could use your help.”

“Okay.”

“Your phone secure?”

“Yes.”

“One tranquilizer rifle with a night vision scope and a minimum of ten darts; two suppressed pistols each with infrared laser and night sights, spare magazine, a hundred rounds of hollow point, and a right-side tactical thigh rig for carry; two pairs of night-vision goggles; one GPS vehicle tracking system with magnetic mounts.”

“That's it?”

I heard the sarcasm. “Yeah.”

“Is this for Christmas? I don't know if I can get it all in a stocking…”

“I need it by tomorrow night.”

“John, come on.”

Kanezaki liked to play up the difficulty of whatever favor he was asked, as a way of extracting greater concessions in return. He might have been doing it now. Or my request might really have posed a problem. It didn't matter. I didn't have time to screw around.

“Can you do this?” I asked. “If you can't, I'll figure something else out.”

“I'm not saying I can't do it…”

“Then what are you saying?”

“Look, don't get short with me. Checking out that kind of hardware isn't like borrowing a few yen from petty cash.”

“I imagine it's not.”

“If I can do this, you're going to owe me.”

“Owe you what?”

“A favor. A job.”

Your soul,
I heard. My hopes for Midori and Koichiro seemed to recede in the distance, like the light going out on a television screen.

Well, I shouldn't have been surprised. I could have argued with him, but there were things more important than my soul in play at the moment.

“If that's the way you want to do it,” I said. My voice sounded far away.

“Is that a yes?”

I suddenly and badly wanted to tell him
Fuck you.
Tell him in person, in my own special way.

Instead I simply said, “Yes.”

“Okay. How long are you going to need this stuff?”

“Seventy-two hours, if that.”

A pause. “Is any of this going to come back to bite me on the ass?”

“Not if it goes well.”

He laughed. “God, I feel so much better now.”

“Yeah, me too,” I said.

“Let me see what I can do. Call me tomorrow afternoon.”

“I'll post it on the bulletin board, too. Just to make sure you've got it all.”

“Good enough.”

I hung up and, out of habit, wiped down the phone.

I stopped by an Internet café and posted the shopping list on the bulletin board we used. After that, there was nothing to do except try to sleep.

I went back to the hotel and took a molten bath. It cooked the tension out of my muscles, and afterward, as I lay in bed, my body was almost rubbery with relaxation. But my mind refused to shut down. I kept picturing Koichiro's face, and remembering the way he had nuzzled closer when I held him. I stared at the ceiling for a long time, and at some point I realized that, like Tatsu, I was whispering
Onegai shimasu,
over and over. Please. Please.

D
ELILAH WOKE FROM
a nap in her room at the Mercer Hotel in SoHo Friday night. She hadn't slept at all on the flight over, but had dropped off instantly at the hotel after checking in and unpacking. It was early morning back in Paris now, and her body felt ready to go.

She opened the curtains and looked out onto what the hotel called a “courtyard view.” Actually, the view wasn't bad. There really was a courtyard, pretty in the light of a gibbous moon, and she would rather face a quiet courtyard than a noisy street.

She liked the hotel. It was a little on the hip side—aspiring-actor doormen in black turtlenecks, a condom provided along with the cotton swabs in the bathroom, that kind of thing—but this was SoHo, after all, and it felt right.

She showered, blow-dried her hair, and put on just a little makeup—mascara, blush, a hint of liner for drama, that's all. Then a few drops of her favorite perfume—something she'd had made just for her at Guerlain and which happened to be what she wore for Rain. She knew he liked it, and that knowledge would feel good in the back of her mind.

She walked into the bedroom, laid out the clothes she was thinking about, and looked them over: dark, snug jeans, definitely. Her favorite boots, mahogany brown with high heels, definitely. Now the top. Hmm, there was the vintage silk Chanel jacket she had picked up at Les 3 Marches de Catherine B on the Rue Guisarde; that was certainly gorgeous. But…no, maybe the glass-beaded detailing would be a bit
too
fabulous for a jazz bar in SoHo. So…yes, better to go with the Santa Eulalia bolero. It was a lush, chocolate brown that looked great with her hair and would work with the jeans, too. Rain had just bought it for her in Passeig de Gràcia in Barcelona…that would also feel good tonight. And underneath…yes, the Sabbia Rosa dark brown silk camisole and matching bra and thong panties; they were sexy even just lying there on the bed. Okay.

She was more used to dressing for men than for women, but when she'd put it all on and checked herself in the mirror, she felt she'd gotten it just right. The look was sexy, but in a quiet way, like something she would do more to please herself than out of concern for anyone else.

She grabbed the Jekel shearling coat she had brought and took the elevator down to the lobby. Some of the hipsters chatting there eyed her as she passed, probably wondering whether she was one of the celebrities the hotel was known for. She was used to that kind of reaction and ordinarily it barely registered, but this time it felt good. She kept moving without returning any of the looks.

According to Midori's Web site, tonight was the last of four consecutive shows at a nearby bar called Zinc. So there was a little over an hour to kill before the second set. Just enough time for a bite to eat. Delilah found a place called The Cupping Room, on West Broadway and Broome, which had exactly the kind of quiet, low-key atmosphere she wanted. She ordered a salad and marinated baby lamb chops and a glass of the house red. She thought while she ate, but arrived at no conclusions.

When she was done, she walked the few blocks to Zinc. She looked around inside but the second set hadn't started yet and Midori must have been somewhere in back. She half-expected to see Rain. She didn't know when he was leaving for Tokyo. Well, if he showed up, the hell with it, he could just sort out the situation himself. She had as much right to be here as he did.

The place was mostly full, but there was an open seat at the front of the room, near the stage, and she took it. Her heart was beating moderately hard and she realized she was nervous. It almost made her laugh. She'd handled assignments where if she'd slipped, or if anyone had otherwise caught on to her, she would have been killed without question. But here she was, with the stakes trivial by comparison, and she had an amateur's shakes. It was ridiculous. She ordered another red wine.

She felt men at some of the tables watching her, and knew a few of them would be trying to get up their courage to approach. It was like that whenever she went out by herself. Invariably one man would come forward. If she liked him, which was rare, she would have a companion. If she didn't like him, she would send him off and after that the others would all be afraid to try.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw someone get up two tables down.
The one with the short dark hair and stubble in the beat-up leather jacket,
she predicted. She had noticed him on the way in, as she was scoping the room for any problems.

She was right. The man stood a respectful but not timorous distance from her table and said, “Excuse me.”

Delilah looked at him and raised her eyebrows.

“You're probably waiting for someone,” he went on, with a smile, “but if you're not, my friends and I would love to have you join us at our table. Are you a fan of Midori's?”

Actually, he was kind of cute. She liked the jacket and he had an appealing bad-boy smile. But not tonight.

“I'm just getting to know her,” Delilah said. “And I am waiting for someone. But that was nice of you. Thanks.”

The man nodded. “Well, if for some reason he loses his mind and doesn't show up, we're two tables down.”

Delilah said, “Thank you.” This time the thanks was a dismissal. The man gave her another smile and left.

A moment later, Midori and two young men came out from the back. They were all wearing black, but on Midori, as opposed to some of the poseurs at the Mercer, it looked unpretentious. God, unpretentious was the least of it, alongside that black hair and white skin it looked fantastic. The words
she has a child with him
flashed across her mind, and she was surprised by the intensity of jealousy that accompanied the thought.

Midori sat at the piano; the men, at the bass guitar and drums. The lights went down and they started to play. Delilah didn't know jazz the way Rain did, but she recognized the piece they began with, Bill Evans's “Detour Ahead.”

Sure,
she thought.
But for whom?

A waiter brought her the wine she had ordered. By the time she was halfway through it, some of her earlier jumpiness had started to smooth out. She realized why she was nervous: she wasn't pretending to be someone else. On assignment, she was always undercover. Cover, that was the perfect word. Something you could hide behind, something that would protect you. Something without which you would feel naked.

She'd come here with only a vague notion of what she wanted to do. Warn Midori off, scare her, say something or do something that would poison whatever was happening between her and Rain. But that was just crude reflex. Her ego wanted it so badly that it was blinding her to other possibilities.

Information, that was the thing. There was a lot she wanted to know. And she wasn't going to get it by being the hurt, angry, resentful woman she felt like. No. She would get it by putting all that aside tonight and being someone else. Someone Midori would feel comfortable with, even drawn to, someone she would talk to and open up with.

By the time the set ended and the applause was over an hour later, her nervousness was long gone. She knew who she was tonight, she knew what she wanted, she knew how she was going to get it.

Some of the patrons were lining up to exchange a word with Midori or her band. A few had bought CDs up front and were waiting to have them signed. Delilah watched. The woman was friendly and gracious with her fans, but Delilah could tell there was a professional façade she stood behind while chatting with them. The façade wasn't fake, exactly, the warmth was certainly real enough—but it wasn't the real woman, either. Delilah smiled slightly. Seeing the public display would make it that much easier to know when she had burrowed through to the private person beneath.

The guy in the leather jacket came over and said, “Looks like whoever he was, he did lose his mind. You feel like a drink?”

Delilah smiled. She knew he'd been watching, and that he'd noticed she was still alone. She liked that he asked again. Someone with a little less confidence might have just sent a drink over at some point. She got that all the time and hated it. It was so lame, a way of trying to force an obligation on someone from a safe distance.

“Thanks for asking,” Delilah said. “But I'm going to meet him now. I just want to talk to Midori first.”

“Okay…” he said, that nice smile lingering, hoping for more.

Delilah smiled back to let him know she was flattered—he deserved that. But she also dipped her head to let him know the answer was final. He said a gracious good night and they were done.

When the line had dwindled, Delilah got up and walked over. She knew Midori had noticed her during the performance, and then afterward, and now the woman offered a smile, part welcome, part apology for having kept her waiting, part curiosity about who this attractive woman alone might be.

Delilah smiled back and said in a heavier than usual Parisian accent, “I have to tell you, you play beautifully. I'm so glad I had to come to New York on the same night you were performing.”

Midori said, “Thank you. Where are you from?”

“Paris.”

“You've heard of me in France? I'm flattered.”

Yes, that was the idea.

“I have friends all over the world who recommend music to me,” Delilah said. “A girlfriend in Tokyo told me I would like you, so I went online and bought your CD
Another Time.
I love it. I come to Manhattan a few times a year, but this is the first time we've overlapped.”

There, a few more brushstrokes to fill in the canvas. Friends all over the world: cosmopolitan. Interested in music: sophisticated. Frequent trips abroad: wealth, status, an important job, perhaps? With that conjoining
we
at the end subtly implying that Delilah's intriguing international existence might extend also to Midori.

And of course Delilah had as always researched all these points: the name of Midori's album, online availability, etc. She was even ready to talk about her friend in Tokyo, but Midori didn't follow up on that. Instead she asked, “What brings you to Manhattan from Paris?”

“I'm a fashion scout for some of the boutiques there. I travel around and photograph native clothing styles, art…anything that inspires the Paris designers. The business meetings are usually in New York, Milan…”

The story was true, too. Delilah really did have relationships with some of the Paris designers, and they really did use her photos. A cover wasn't worth much if you didn't live it.

“Wow,” Midori said. “That sounds like a fabulous job.”

“I can't complain. But it feels boring compared to what you do.”

Midori laughed. “I don't know about that.”

“Really. I would kill to have a talent like yours.”

“Well, I guess I can't complain, either.”

“Where did you learn to play? And why jazz? Did you know when you were a child that…I'm sorry. You must get this all the time.”

Right. Gorgeous, sophisticated, intriguing women who were ten times more interested in talking about Midori than they were about themselves? Delilah doubted it.

Midori laughed again. “Not really, no.”

“Well, I'd love to hear more. Look, I know it's late, and you probably get this all the time, too, but…is there somewhere around here we could get a drink? I would really enjoy that. My name is Laure, by the way.”

Midori paused, then said, “Sure, why not. Let me just call the nanny first, make sure she can stay a little longer.”

Delilah raised her eyebrows innocently. “Oh, you have kids?”

Midori nodded. “Baby boy. Hang on.” She pulled out a mobile phone and walked a little way off. After a moment, she came back. “Okay, we're fine. How about L'Angolo, right next door? It's a neighborhood kind of place, if you like.”

“That sounds great.”

“Just give me a few minutes, then.”

Delilah nodded. Midori disappeared in back for a moment, then came out in a waist-length black leather jacket. They headed for the door. A few more patrons thanked Midori on the way out. She got hugs from the bassist and the drummer. The bartender waved and the bouncer gave her a European double kiss. She was obviously liked here, and at ease. It was her world.

They walked over to the bar Midori had in mind. Delilah unobtrusively checked their surroundings as they moved. She noted that Midori did not.

The bar was nice—a neighborhood place, as Midori had said. It was old and dark, with couches and other upholstered furniture arranged in clusters across an expanse of white tiled floor. The sounds of conversation and music were nicely balanced. You could talk here without shouting.

They sat at a table in one of the corners. Delilah took one end of a couch, her back to the wall; Midori, an overstuffed adjacent chair, her back to the window. Delilah paused for a moment to listen, then said, “Good song. Oystein Sevag. Learned about him from a friend in Oslo.”

“So it's not just jazz, then?”