Requiem for an Assassin (29 page)

A
S THE TAXI PULLED
into the parking lot of the Republic of Singapore Yacht Club, Hilger saw the flashing police lights and the gawkers lined up in front of the club entrance. He instantly understood and accepted what it all meant. His heartbeat kicked up a notch, but he didn’t show anything.

“Oh my God, I can’t believe this,” he said to the driver. “I left my laptop at the hotel. Can you take me back right away?”

The driver swung around. Hilger punched some digits into his mobile phone but never pressed the “Call” button. He waited a moment, and then, for the driver’s benefit, said, “Hi, I was just using the computer center and I think I left my…oh, you found it? Oh, thank God. Yes, I’ll be there in five minutes to pick it up.”

Next, he called Guthrie’s mobile. No response. That was bad; Guthrie was always reachable. He tried Pancho next. Again, no answer.

He clicked off. The first thing he thought was that he’d have to ditch the phone right away. The number would show up in the call logs of Pancho’s and Guthrie’s units.

He knew they were dead. He didn’t know how Rain found the boat, but somehow he had. It was the same as in Hong Kong. He’d known Rain would be looking for a way to counterattack, of course, but he thought with the boat as a shell game, and with Dox as a hostage, Rain would be neutralized. Everything he knew about Rain indicated that Dox was his only partner. But Rain couldn’t have tracked him like this without help, and Hilger wondered for a moment where it might have come from.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

He breathed in and out, slowly and deeply, calming himself, focusing. If Rain had learned about the boat, could he have learned about the Rotterdam op? Not that Rain would care about the op itself; the man was a mercenary and nothing more. But he might use its existence as a way to track Hilger again. Or he might share his knowledge with someone else who might be inclined to interfere. It didn’t seem likely, but neither had the calamity that had just occurred here on Singapore.

For one bad second, he was gripped with self-doubt. Maybe he’d made a mistake in treating Rain like an enemy. Maybe he should have just tried to recruit the man, and Dox, too, even after what had happened in Hong Kong. He wondered if he’d let his anger about that blown op color his judgment, the personal interfere with the professional. After all, it wasn’t as though Rain had affiliations, or stupid loyalties, or anything else that would have inhibited him from working with Hilger. Maybe if he understood the importance of Hilger’s work, he could have taken it up for himself. Nihilism was unnatural. Maybe the right cause could have brought Rain around.

He squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. Or maybe not. Because almost nobody else really got it. Where were the realists in the government, the men who would do what was necessary? Instead, we had a bunch of chicken hawks peddling fantasy solutions to imaginary problems, who called their solution the “Patriot Act” and sold it to an ignorant public eager to believe the tough talkers were actually protecting them. It made Hilger want to puke.

Well, he would take care of it, take care of all of it. He was so close now.

He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing again. Slowly, in and out.

All right. Assume the op is blown. Assume Rain knows about Boezeman. Hard to imagine how, but still…what does Rain do with the information?

Hilger smiled. He knew Rain now. It had taken him a while and cost him a lot, but now he knew his enemy. Rain would use the information to track Hilger. It was the predator in him, the relentlessness he’d seen in Rain’s eyes in Saigon and in his actions everywhere else. Lots of other things were uncertain, but this one Hilger knew he could take to the bank.

Two courses of action immediately presented themselves. One was an imperative; the other, an opportunity.

The imperative: get to Amsterdam immediately. On a chartered jet if there was nothing immediately available commercially. Meet Boezeman, access the device, ensure proper placement, arm the detonator.

The opportunity: stay in Amsterdam for just a short while after, to double back on the man, or men, who he was certain would be tracking him there.

Maybe he was miscalculating again. Maybe Rain, and Dox, too, if they were together, would get the better of him. Certainly not impossible to imagine; they were skilled, they were ruthless, and they were pissed.

But he would take that chance. As soon as he finished his business with Boezeman, nothing would be able to stop the operation, and the operation was always what mattered. More than the lives of any of his men. More, of course, even than his own.

If it came to that.

As the taxi pulled into the hotel parking lot, Hilger’s mind felt as cool and clear as a pristine mountain stream. He knew exactly what he needed to do, and he knew exactly how to do it.

K
ANEZAKI HAD
the Marine pilot take us to Hong Kong. Along the way, he used a satellite phone to make various arrangements: a doctor for Dox, a 12:25
A.M
. first-class Cathay Pacific flight to Amsterdam for me.

“I can’t get you the kind of hardware you like in Amsterdam,” Kanezaki told me, just after we’d landed. “My reach outside Asia isn’t great.”

I thought of the way he’d handled his pilot, the way he reminded me of Tatsu. “It will be,” I said.

“Why do you say that?” he asked.

I smiled. “Just a feeling. Anyway, I expect Boaz and Naftali will be carrying enough hardware to make them clank when they walk.”

“Sounds like you’ve been to Amsterdam, am I right?”

“I know the general layout. But I haven’t been to Rotterdam at all.”

“Well, our man lives near Vondelpark in Amsterdam, if you know where that is. A duplex at 15 Vossiusstraat. Commutes to work in Rotterdam.”

“I know Vondelpark.”

“I’ll upload the dossier to the bulletin board. It’ll be waiting for you when you arrive.”

“Good.”

He hesitated, then said, “Tatsu would be proud of you.”

I nodded. Maybe it was manipulation; maybe it was heartfelt. Either way, I suspected it was true. “He was a good influence,” I said. “On both of us.”

I shook his hand, then turned to Dox. The big sniper was lying on his back on some folded blankets on the cabin floor, zonked from the morphine we’d been administering. I squatted down and took his hand. “Enjoy your vacation, you malingerer.”

He groaned. “You know there’s nowhere I’d rather be going right now than to Amsterdam. You put him down good, all right?”

I squeezed his hand. “I will. I’ll see you soon.”

An ambulance was pulling up even as I got off the plane. I walked across the tarmac and then through the airport, and by the time I reached the Cathay Pacific counter, I was Taro Yamada again, and checked in for my flight without a hitch.

I thought about calling Delilah. I was still unsettled by what she had said to me. I didn’t know how I felt, or even how to respond, and felt stupid for it. Just a few days earlier, I had decided the whole thing was ridiculous, unsustainable. And then there was that night at the Bel-Air, and…shit, I just didn’t know.

But in the end, the thought of Delilah getting a report from Boaz and radio silence from me was just too uncomfortable. I didn’t want to seem to disrespect her. Because I did respect her, I was grateful to her, I…ah, Jesus Christ. I found a pay phone and called her.

She picked up immediately.
“Allo?”

“It’s me. We got him. He’s safe.”

“Oh, John.”

“Yeah, it’s all right. He’s going to be okay.”

“When are you coming back here?”

“Soon. There’s just one thing I have to finish first.” Under the circumstances, she would know what that thing was.

There was a pause. “Are you sure it’s…necessary?”

“I have no choice. He’ll come after us if I don’t.”

“Let me help you, then.”

“No, it’s not a good idea.”

“I’m afraid.”

That threw me.

“What are you afraid of? You’re never afraid.”

“I’m afraid you’ve been pushing your luck. I want to be with you on this.”

I paused, trying to think of what to say, of a way to explain.

“I don’t want you involved,” I said. “I don’t want you to come into the place I’m in, the place where I have to be. I think…you’re the only thing that can pull me out.”

“John…”

“Okay? I have help. Talk to your people, you’ll see. Don’t come. I need you after.”

I hung up then, afraid of what I might say next. I stood there for a long time, my eyes closed, wondering about what I had just said to her and where the words had come from. So much was happening, I couldn’t stay on top of it. I wanted to find some dark, safe place where I could hide from everything and try to figure it all out.

But I had to stay focused. I had to finish this. I had no choice.

I was practically comatose on the thirteen-hour flight to Amsterdam, arriving at six-thirty in the morning local time. I doubted Boaz and Naftali could have made it as fast, but I bought a prepaid card and tried Boaz from a pay phone anyway. No answer. Yeah, they were probably in the air.

I used the Cathay Pacific arrivals lounge to shower and change. Kanezaki had given me the second Dragon Skin vest, and I put it on now, half for protection, half against the likely cold outside. I took the usual precautions leaving the airport, then caught the train to Amsterdam’s Centraal Station.

I arrived to find a rainy, chilly, gloomy morning. Commuters shuffled past me on the slick pavement, umbrellas dripping, chins tucked into scarves. I was struck by the relative absence of conversation. Maybe it was the hour, maybe the chill, but the mood of the area was quiet, even dour.

I bought a hat, scarf, gloves, an umbrella, and a map at a station shop. None of the shops that were open sold jackets—or knives, which I wanted almost as much. I’d have to wait until something opened later, when I could outfit myself properly. In the meantime, I was going to be cold again.

I took the GVB tram to Leidseplein, near Vondelpark, where Boezeman lived. I knew the square was a lively spot at night, but it wasn’t quite nine in the morning now, and the dozens of bars and restaurants and coffee shops were shuttered. I paused on a bridge over one of the antique canals that circled back from the harbor like concentric strands on a spider’s web, looking down briefly at the wet leaves floating on the murky water, a pair of geese gliding by, improbably white and pure in contrast to the Stygian waters around them. Cars passed me, their headlights weak against the wet winter morning gloom, their tires spraying water from giant puddles onto the sidewalks. Bicyclists pedaled stoically through the chill rain.

Vossiusstraat was only a five-minute walk from the tram stop. I found the street, a narrow, one-way, cobblestoned thoroughfare, and walked down it. I was entering an area where Hilger might anticipate me, and my alertness sharpened.

On the left side of the street was a long row of centuries-old, four-and five-story brick-and-stone buildings, one joined to the next. None of the doorways was set in deeply enough to offer someone a place to hide and wait. On the right side was the mile-long green strip of Vondelpark, separated from Vossiusstraat by a spiked, wrought-iron fence. I checked the park through the bars of the fence, pausing in front of parked cars for cover as I moved, and saw nothing out of place. A few people passed me, but their hands were visible and their vibe not dangerous. In the rain, shrouded by umbrellas, they gave me not even a glance.

I slowed and squatted with a parked car to my back as I passed number fifteen—an old, heavy wooden door with decorative carvings and a stained-glass window at its center. I looked at the exterior wall around the doorjamb, then inside the stained glass at the vestibule within. No buzzers, mailboxes, or other signs of individual units. Apparently Boezeman, or more probably the Boezeman family, owned the building, and the entranceway was theirs alone. Good to know.

The lock was new, and might have presented an impediment. But from my initial assessment of the terrain, I thought I’d prefer to force him into the vestibule when he arrived at or left the apartment, rather than try to gain entry in advance and wait for him inside. Without more intelligence on his circumstances and habits, waiting inside would have involved too many uncertainties, primary among them the potential comings and goings of family members. By contrast, the long, narrow street, with the park on one side, created various solid opportunities for watching and waiting, and surprising him at the entrance. It was too bad, really. If I could have been here two hours earlier, maybe even only one, I might have had a chance to greet Boezeman as he left his apartment on his way to work. I didn’t know what he looked like, but how many people would be coming and going from this one apartment? It would have been improvised, ad hoc, and involved some risk, but it could have been done.

I walked the streets for two hours more, absorbing the vibe of the area, focusing on Vossiusstraat. From Vondelpark I had a clear view of Boezeman’s apartment. That was useful, but only up to a point. I’d be able to see him coming and going, but wouldn’t be able to get to him in time to force him back into the entranceway, where I could talk to him privately. Waiting on the street itself, close to his building, was possible, but would look suspicious if I had to stay for very long.

I wondered how security conscious he might be. Responsibility for facilities security didn’t often translate into the kind of personal awareness that might have protected him from someone like me. On the job, he would think one way; off the job, thinking himself free of enemies, his habits might be lax. With Boaz and Naftali to help, we might be able to set up a watcher at each end of the narrow street. The third person would walk up and down the street, and we would trade positions periodically to avoid being too conspicuous. If Boezeman commuted by train, he would leave the street in the morning and arrive in the evening on foot or on a bicycle. If he drove, it would be the same thing in a car. Either way, with someone posted at each end of the street, we’d be able to see him coming and get the third person in position near his apartment before he arrived.

Assuming he didn’t carpool. Assuming he wasn’t married and didn’t leave with his wife or arrive in the evening after picking up the kids from day care. Assuming a thousand things, none of which we had time to properly screen for.

I bought a heavy wool jacket in a Leidseplein shop, then called Boaz from a pay phone. This time he picked up.

“Are you here?” I asked.

“We just landed.”

“Good. Your phone is scrambled?”

“Yes, but I still want to be careful not to disturb the other passengers.”

“I understand, there are people around you. All right, I’ve been having a look around. I see some possibilities. When can you meet?”

“How about tonight, the hotel we talked about before, and, say, two hours earlier?”

“Even earlier would be better. It would give us a window to meet Boezeman when he comes home from work.”

“Maybe. I have a local friend who’s going to give us presents. I don’t think we’ll want to show up empty-handed.”

He had a point. There were already so many unknowns. With guns, we’d at least improve our chances of quietly getting Boezeman into his apartment, of controlling him and anyone else we found there, and of establishing the necessary fear that might induce the proper talkativeness. And there were other tools we would probably need to track Hilger, if in fact he were in town.

“I’ll call you again at fifteen hundred,” I said. “We’ll see how far along you are then.”

I found an Internet coffee shop, or
koffieshop,
as the locals knew them, a place called Get Down To It, on a side street off Leidseplein, and descended the stairs to find a terminal and see what Kanezaki had for me. Halfway down, the rich, heady smell of cannabis enveloped me, and for the second time in not much more than a week I was back in Saigon, a young man this time, a boy, really, on leave and smoking the Thai Stick an enterprising rear-echelon type had smuggled in on a military flight from Bangkok. The iceman breathed it in, exulting in an almost physical sense of recall, the memory of what it was to be a teenager with skills and a license to use them, ten thousand miles from home and making it up as we went along, knowing no one had ever been here before us, like Neil Armstrong on the moon but better, juiced with hormones and adrenaline, excitement and fear, an adolescent’s curious mind and a predator’s deadly instincts. We knew we were special, anointed for our role, baptized by our experience, our childhoods shed, as lost and useless to us now as empty snakeskins. Everything else would come later—the horror, the cost of it, the regret. But on leave in Saigon, in the back of a dark Dong Khoi bar, high on Thai Stick and our status as gods, we had no idea what was being mortgaged, or what we would have to pay for it.

The
koffieshop
was a quietly lit space with a low beamed ceiling and a red-tiled floor, the walls darkened by years of accumulated smoke. There was a pinball machine, pool tables, a dark wood bar and a handful of black stools in front of it. In one corner were cushioned seats, a half-dozen young people sitting on them, absorbed in their smoking and conversation; in the other, three Internet terminals, all empty. Soft house music played in the background. I used one of the terminals to access the Kanezaki bulletin board. As promised, he had left me a full dossier on Boezeman, including photographs. I wrote down what I needed to and memorized the rest. Then I purged the browser and, without really thinking, took a seat at the bar. A sign was taped to the counter:

SPECIAL OFFER
:
WHITE WIDOW AND SUPER PALM POWER HASH
, 24
EUROS
.
DUTCH
, 12
EUROS
.
THAI
, 3
GRAMS
, 12
EUROS
.

Thai, huh. That shit was still around.

I looked at my watch. Close to five hours until I needed to call Boaz.

The bartender came over, a tall guy with thinning brown hair. “What can I get you?”

Fuck it.
“Thai,” I said. “And some papers.”

I rolled a single joint.
Just a little,
I thought.
Just to see what it feels like after so long away.

I took a very small hit and coughed anyway, and the bartender smiled. Not the first time he’d seen a coughing patron, no doubt. He brought over a glass of water and moved off again.

The iceman liked it, I could tell. I gave him another small one, which went down easier, and then a third.

What the fuck are you doing?
I thought. I looked at the joint with horror and stubbed it out. I was exhausted, I’d let my guard down, but shit, I was in the middle of an op. Was I trying to get myself killed?

Amazing, though, the association of the smell, and now the taste, with Saigon. I’d never smoked dope before or after. It was purely a Vietnam thing for me.