Requiem for an Assassin

7

DELILAH SAT AT a corner table in the brasserie of La Closerie des Lilas in Montparnasse. She liked that John wasn’t there yet. For a long time she had always been able to count on him to come early. She would ask him about it, and he would tell her he had some extra time, that he just wanted to read the paper or people-watch. She knew better, and knew he knew, too, but what was the point of saying anything? He arrived early because it was an old habit, a means of avoiding an ambush. She engaged in similar tradecraft herself, of course, but Rain was extreme.

Even when he was on time, she would sense that he’d been nearby, watching their meeting place beforehand, wanting to see her arrive first. Once she’d actually gotten in position two hours early and sure enough, she had barely arrived in time to watch him move through the area, checking the hot spots. The last one he checked was hers, and rightly so, because she had chosen a less obvious place, farther down the street, not a particularly good view. She’d given up after that, knowing that if he knew she was going to show up two hours early, he would just come an hour earlier still.

The nice thing was, he’d been getting better, to the point where every now and then he seemed comfortable arriving on time. He wasn’t going to sit with his back to a door, not soon, maybe not ever. And she knew never to come up behind him, or approach him from his blind side, not that approaching his blind side was easy because he tended not to keep his head trained in one direction for very long. She’d also learned not to stand close if she had to wake him. She’d made that mistake once, and Rain had sprung on her like a panther. He hadn’t hurt her-he’d managed to pull back in time-and although he hadn’t said anything beyond an embarrassed apology, she could tell he was horrified at what he’d very nearly done. She was careful after that, as much for his sake as for hers.

Still, he was changing. She noticed it in little things. He always had a great way of listening, with his eyes, even his whole body, a quality that made him rare among males. It was still there, but now he was more inclined to talk, too, and when he did, he gestured more with his hands. She hadn’t seen that before Paris, and knew it was part of the chameleon in him, or what a colleague of hers had once referred to as the shape-shifter, because chameleons change only color, while Rain’s ability to blend with his environment ran much deeper than that. She liked the taste he was developing in French music-Jean-Louis Murat, Patricia Kaas-and the way it was symptomatic of a more general openness to an unfamiliar culture. She wondered to what extent his ability to embrace the new, to make it part of himself and himself part of it, was attributable to his Japaneseness, and to what extent it was attributable simply to his own nature. She wanted to ask, but was afraid to, lest he become self-conscious, which might impede the very changes that pleased her so much.

It wasn’t easy for him, she could tell. While he was effecting changes, the changes were affecting him. What did Nietzsche say? “When you look into an abyss, the abyss also looks into you.” But the phenomenon expressed itself in more positive ways, too.

She wondered sometimes what had happened with Midori and Rain’s son, who as far as she knew were still living in New York. Rain had never told her exactly how the situation had been resolved, only that they were no longer in danger and that he could never see them again. Delilah was secretly pleased on both counts and recognized, from the time he told her, that the subject would be taboo. What had happened, though? Whatever it was, he seemed reconciled to it. Perhaps he was satisfied, consciously or unconsciously, that he had done the right thing in going to see them and in protecting them afterward, and simultaneously relieved that, for reasons beyond his control, he didn’t have to have them in his life. She could respect him for the first while being glad at the second.

She looked up and there he was, and the instant she saw him she knew something was seriously wrong. He was dressed nicely as always, in this case a blue cashmere blazer and a striped shirt she had bought for him at Charvet. And his features were the same, of course, Asian with a hint of something else, a nice head of dark hair with just a little gray over the ears. The difference she had immediately spotted was in his eyes. They were businesslike, almost blank, which in Rain’s case made him look dangerous for anyone attuned to such things. And his body, she realized. He kept in shape and was always light on his feet, but now he looked almost too ready, with his shoulders rolling slightly and his head swiveling, eyes logging details as he moved. It was all back, as if the months in Paris had been suddenly emptied out of him, leaving the killer ascendant.

He sat down and glanced at her, then scanned the café.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Hilger’s got Dox.”

“What do you mean, ‘got’?” she asked, feeling the blood drain from her face, already suspecting the worst.

“Rendered him. Kidnapped him. They’re holding him on a boat somewhere. I got a message from them on the bulletin board I use with Dox. I don’t know what they did to make him give it up and I’m trying not to imagine. I…”

He stopped for a moment as though confused. “I have to go. But I thought I should tell you.”

“Of course you should tell me. What were you going to do, just disappear without saying a word?” Even as she said it, she knew that was precisely what he had almost done. In fact, he had done it before. It was his realization that he had to account for himself, that he couldn’t just drop everything, that had produced his confused expression.

He didn’t say anything, and she realized he was struggling just to stay there. “Where are you going?” she asked.

“To meet Hilger.”

“Are you crazy? He might have…”

“Yes, I’ve already thought about all that. I’m taking steps to mitigate.”

“He’s got you reacting. You need to slow it down.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

“John, don’t…”

“Don’t tell me what to do. You run risks all the time, and you’ve never listened to me when I’ve asked you to get out.”

“It’s different. My country…”

“I don’t want to hear about your country. This is my friend.”

He stood up. Suddenly she was afraid, and she didn’t even know of what. She said, “At least tell me where you’re going.”

He shook his head. “I can’t.”

She stood, too. “Let me help.”

He shook his head again. “You’ve helped me too many times on too many things. This isn’t your problem.”

“I’m not offering you charity, damn it. I care about Dox, too. And my organization has a score to settle with Hilger, don’t you realize? For killing Gil. I could call Boaz. He would help.”

Boaz was a colleague, and an ally, too, a competent, dangerous field operative and bomb specialist with a deceptively easy laugh. Along with Gil, Boaz had brought Rain into the Manila op that initially had gone so wrong her organization tried to kill Rain for it.

“I don’t trust Boaz,” he said.

“I trust him.”

“I don’t want him involved, or anyone else on his end. They wouldn’t care about saving Dox. Only killing Hilger.”

“You’re wrong,” she said, but without conviction.

She wanted to argue with him, but knew if she did he would just play tit-for-tat again. He was being stupid, and childish, and she didn’t know how to get through to him.

She tried to think of something to say, some way of reasoning with him. But before she could, he turned and walked away. She watched, stunned. It was as though he’d already forgotten her.