Barry Eisler - Requiem for an Assassin

On foot now, I headed west on Canal, then north on Eldridge, then west again on Hester and into the park. As I walked, I pulled off the balaclava and the shades and stripped off the peacoat. Underneath, I was wearing my new shirt, sport jacket, and tie. Shorn of the bulky coat, my build now appeared considerably slimmer. I carried myself differently, too, imagining myself as a professional, a man who wore a tie and jacket every day and worked in an office. Anyone looking for a bike messenger now would go right by me. I took the gloves off last, and left everything on the ground near a trash can. There were homeless men in the park, and I expected the remnants of my bike messenger persona would disappear no less quickly than the bike itself.

I pulled out the second pair of sunglasses, the round ones, from inside the jacket and slipped them on, then checked the iPhone to see where Accinelli had parked. The Bowery lot, the same place I’d seen him the first time. A little closer to Mott Street than I would have liked, but no one was going to make me now. Regardless, I couldn’t leave the transmitter under his car. Probably no one would find it, and even if someone did, no one could trace it back to me, but…the way I saw it, there was still a slim chance Accinelli’s death could be ruled accidental. Maybe a heart attack from the fright of witnessing a bloody murder not ten steps from where he stood, something like that. Not likely, but…things were happening too fast for me to consider it all right now. I didn’t want to leave behind evidence suggesting Accinelli had been targeted. I’d stick with the original plan and figure out the rest later.

I heard sirens from west on Prince Street, and glanced over as I came to the Bowery lot. There was a police barricade in place, a uniformed cop directing traffic from in front of it. The lot attendant was standing outside his booth, watching.

“Excuse me,” I said, walking over. “I think I dropped my MP3 player the last time I parked here. Can I take a quick look?”

“Sure, man,” he said, barely glancing away from the spectacle west on Prince. I thanked him and went to Accinelli’s car. I squatted down, quickly retrieved and pocketed the equipment, and slipped away without another word.

I drove back to Great Neck. Once I was out of the city and the immediate exigency had passed, I got the shakes-the usual aftereffect of an overdose of adrenaline, this time compounded by my awareness of how close I had just come to dying. I pulled over at a rest stop to wait for it to pass.

I sat in the car for almost an hour. When the shaking was no more than a slight vibration in my fingertips, I started thinking. I needed to consider three things: How Hilger had gotten to me. Why. And what it meant for Dox.

How was the easiest. He must have known about Accinelli’s mistress. If he knew about her, he would be aware of the unfavorable home and work terrain, as well. Not so difficult to anticipate that I’d learn of the mistress, too, and that I’d make my move at her apartment. Mr. Blond had probably been setting up there for days, maybe in a van a block or two north, watching the area in front of her apartment through binoculars. When he saw me go in after Accinelli, he knew what I was there for. At which point, he gets out of the van to intercept me and take me out. It was a good plan. If I hadn’t seen him in Saigon, and remembered that smooth gait, it might have been me right now, lying on the cold sidewalk in a pool of my own blood.

Why was harder. By killing me in the immediate vicinity of Accinelli’s cooling body, Hilger would have significantly reduced the chances that Accinelli’s death would be viewed as natural causes. Two deaths so close together is a hell of a coincidence. That meant that the naturalness of Accinelli’s demise wasn’t a priority for Hilger. Which raised the question of why he wanted me for the job in the first place.

There was another thing. The third job was bullshit. There was no third job: it was just an illusion, a way to get me to drop my guard.

Finally, Dox. I wanted to worry, knowing Hilger might already have killed him, but the iceman wouldn’t permit it. Just work the problem, a voice in my mind said. Be cool. Be analytical. The rest won’t help you, or Dox, either.

I put myself in Hilger’s shoes. He was smart. How would he plot this out?

There are only two targets. As soon as the second one is done, Mr. Blond takes out Rain. Kill Dox first? Risky. What if Rain demands to talk to him again before the Accinelli hit? And what if something goes wrong with the hit on Rain? Without Dox, I’ll have lost all my leverage. Better to wait. When Mr. Blond confirms Rain is done, I put Dox to sleep right after.

That felt right. It’s how I would have done it. Which meant Dox was still okay.

Probably.

I rubbed my eyes. Now that the adrenaline surge was depleted, the inevitable parasympathetic backlash was kicking in. My mind felt dull, and I badly wanted to sleep.

How to handle this. That was the only other thing I needed to figure out now. If I did things right, Dox still had a chance. If I fucked it up, he was done.

One way or the other, I needed to contact Hilger. I had to keep him moving, keep trying to generate new datapoints until there were enough for a breakthrough.

How. How.

I could pretend everything went fine. Accinelli is dead, apparently of an embolism. Let me talk to Dox. Give me the particulars on the third target.

But no, that would unsettle him. He’d learn soon enough about Mr. Blond. He might already suspect the worst, because his man sure as hell hadn’t reported in since I’d last seen him. He’d know I was gaming him somehow if I didn’t acknowledge what had happened.

Play it straight, then. Accuse him, threaten him, fly off the handle. That’s what he’d be expecting, what he’d be ready for. If I gave him the predictable stimulus, he’d give me the predictable response.

Which would be…what? I wasn’t sure. Some form of denying everything, stalling for time, finding a way to get at me again. He didn’t know I’d seen Mr. Blond in Saigon-if he did, he would have sent someone else to ambush me in New York-so he would probably believe he could bluff his way through.

I’d insist on talking to Dox again, of course. And if Hilger wouldn’t let me? Well, that would mean only one thing. And I would spend the rest of my life finding a way to make him pay for it.

I drove to the Great Neck Public Library and posted an update to Kanezaki. Then I called him from a pay phone. It wasn’t yet five in the morning there. Well, he was going to start his day early.

The phone rang only once, then I heard his voice: “Yeah.”

“What, do you sleep with that thing on your pillow?”

“Sometimes.”

“You need to check the bulletin board right away. All the particulars for the second person on the list are there now. But he’s already been taken care of. Things are moving fast.”

“Already been…you did it again. You waited to tell me.”

“I don’t have time to argue with you now. Remember the blond guy in the photos I sent you?”

“Of course. I haven’t been able to find out anything.”

“You’ll be able to now. He had a bad accident in New York City not two hours ago.”

“Oh, God.”

“Yeah, our friend sent him to anticipate me. I got lucky.”

“Our friend…that means…”

“Right. There’s no number three on the list. Or rather, I was number three.”

“What about…”

“I don’t know yet. But I’m hoping he’s still okay. He’s our friend’s leverage, remember? I’m going to set up another call to find out. But we’ll get to that in a minute. Are you up now? Are you listening?”

“Of course,” he said, sounding as though my question might have offended his dignity.