Barry Eisler - Requiem for an Assassin

“But did he give you any indication?” I said. “Did he say he was leaving town, or that he would meet you later, anything like that?”

“He has to come back tomorrow,” Boezeman said. “He told me…he couldn’t move everything all at once. He had a big duffel bag, and it was full when he left.”

“Probably with newspaper,” I said. “They shipped it over with the bomb so you would think he was carrying something important out of the container. But he told you he had to come back?”

“Yes, to pick up the rest.”

“There is no rest. The only reason he hasn’t detonated the bomb yet is because he needs to kill you first. Where did you last see him? Someplace public?”

“Yes, it was…outside the gate. There were guards near. And he tried to…he wanted…”

“What?”

“He wanted me to come to the station with him. But I couldn’t.”

“He was looking for someplace private enough to kill you. That’s all.”

“But if he wants to kill me, and he knows I’m here, why doesn’t he just…”

“It’s not that kind of bomb,” Boaz said. “The conventional explosion is small. It might not kill anybody. It’s the radiation that does all the damage, mostly by causing panic.”

Boezeman moaned softly, but said nothing.

I put myself in Hilger’s shoes for a moment. The bomb is armed; all that’s left is to silence Boezeman. How do I get to him? Time and place…

“Mister Boezeman. Did Hilger ask you any questions about what time you leave work, what time you get home, how you commute, that sort of thing?”

For a moment, he didn’t answer. Then he said, “Yes. All those things. I thought…”

“That he was just making conversation, learning about life in the Netherlands, yes. Tell me exactly what you told him. Be specific.”

“I told him…I’m usually home by six o’clock. That I commute by car.”

That was all I needed. With a nod of my head toward Boaz, I said, “Can you get this man into the container?”

“Not again, I don’t…”

“This man is a bomb-disposal expert. If he can disarm the bomb, you walk away from this without anyone ever even knowing. You can even keep whatever Hilger paid you. If the bomb goes off, you burn in hell.”

Boezeman stood there, struggling not to hyperventilate. “I…all right, I can take him.”

Boaz looked at me. “Go. Take the car.”

“You…”

“You take care of Hilger. I’ll take care of the bomb.”

Naftali got out of the Mercedes. The keys were in and the engine was still running. I looked at my watch. It was five o’clock. With luck, I could intercept Hilger. With luck, Boaz wasn’t about to die in a radiological explosion.

With luck.

RUSH-HOUR TRAFFIC wasn’t kind to me, and I didn’t make it back to Leidseplein until six-thirty. I hoped Hilger, who knew he would get another try tomorrow, hadn’t given up for the night. But I had a feeling he’d stick it out for a while longer. Silencing Boezeman was important, and he’d want to do it as soon as possible so he could complete the op.

The real question wasn’t whether, but where. I put myself in his shoes again.

No need for anything to look natural. Just a bullet in the back of the head, or a knife in the liver, ideally while he’s going in his own front door.

But you couldn’t wait right by his front door. There were too many apartments, too many passersby. It would be too suspicious. The end of the street? Similar problem. You might miss the target entirely.

Vondelpark would be ideal. It was big, dark, and had lots of bushes and trees for concealment. You could lurk there for hours, with a view of Boezeman’s apartment. If you had a sniper rifle, all you’d need would be line of sight. With a pistol, maybe you could drop the target from just on the other side of the Vondelpark fence. With a knife, the trick would be getting from the park to Boezeman’s door before he got inside. At a run, it would take ninety seconds, considerably longer than it takes a man to let himself in with a key.

Unless, of course, someone’s broken off something inside the lock.

That was it. That’s how I would do it. Even with a rifle, you’d want to slow the target down, give yourself extra time for the shot.

I parked the car and set off, pulling my wool hat down low over my ears and turning up the coat collar as I walked.

I started walking down Overtoom street, thinking I would enter the park from Van Baerlestraat, the northwest side of the eastern quadrant of the park, and a good distance from Boezeman’s apartment. That would maximize my chances of seeing Hilger while he was focused on spotting Boezeman, before he had a chance to see me.

It made sense, but suddenly it felt wrong. The iceman didn’t like it, and he was trying to tell me why.

And then I knew. I’d considered the possibility that Hilger would be here. Why couldn’t he, with all his experience, have come to similar, mirror-image conclusions? Sure, by all means, jam Boezeman’s lock. But then monitor the door some other way, from somewhere else in the park-from where he could ambush me.

I thought for a moment. What about another man? I doubted he had any left. Dox had said four on that first phone call. After New York and Singapore, that left Hilger.

A camera, then? A magnetic mount, or even duct tape, on the iron fence would work. And then he could wait anywhere. He could set up at Van Baerlestraat, the direction from which he knew I would hunt him. Lie flat on the ground, the muzzle of the gun up, waiting and watching.

I changed direction and entered the park from Stadhouderskade, the eastern end. As soon as I was inside the gate, I moved off the path and into a line of trees. I dropped into a squat, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the dark. There were a few people about, all with umbrellas, all hurrying through the rain, doubtless on their way home from work. I saw no one loitering anywhere.

I moved slowly along the trees at the northeastern edge of the park, knees and elbows the whole way, my face an inch from the sodden ground. It felt like coming home. I paused frequently to check my surroundings. A few bicyclists went by on the path to my left, but that was all.

A hundred yards in, I stopped. Straight ahead of me was a thick cluster of trees. It was where I would have waited for me. I crept closer. There, at the base of the thickest of them. Prone on the ground. Hilger.

I waited and watched him. He was on the eastern side of the tree, taking cover and concealment from anyone approaching from the west. It was as I’d thought: he’d anticipated me. Only I, and the iceman, had played one step further ahead.

It was hard to tell in the dim light, but it looked like he was holding a pistol in his right hand. Something glowed periodically on his left. A small monitor, maybe a mobile phone. I’d been right about the camera setup, too, which meant he had no one with him.

Slowly, painstakingly, I circled behind him, and then gradually moved in. The rain muffled sound, but I didn’t need it. If there was one thing my body had learned and would never forget, it was how to move silently through the mud. Hilger had said his conflict had been in the desert. Too bad for him.

Twelve yards. Ten. It was easy to get overeager at the moment of the kill, and I forced myself to stay slow and steady.

“Don’t move,” I heard from behind me, in a commanding tone.

It was Hilger’s voice. I froze and didn’t try to turn. The person on the ground in front of me remained still.

“Very slowly, place the gun on the ground, far from your body. Then get your hands up high, fingers spread.”

I did as he had asked, then snuck a glance back. I couldn’t see much more than a silhouette holding a pistol, ten feet away. The muzzle was abnormally long, and I realized it was a suppressor. With the gun on me, it was too far to rush him. If he shot center mass, the Dragon Skin might carry the day. But if he aimed low or high, I’d be done.