Requiem for an Assassin (7 page)

I smiled. Maybe I was giving them too much credit. Maybe they were just too busy making money to care.

I found a store that sold knives, where for ten dollars I bought a nameless folder with a four-inch blade. I would have preferred something higher-quality, but I had to settle for what was available. I slapped the spine of the blade against my palm a few times, and was satisfied the lock was adequate. Certainly the edge was sharp enough, at least for the time being. Dox, who could be almost fetishistic about what he carried, probably would have sneered at it. But I tend to be a meat-and-potatoes guy about blades: insert pointy end in target. Repeat as necessary. It’s always worked for me before.

The thought of the burly sniper bore down on me. I didn’t want to think of him just now—there was nothing I could do for him, so the thinking was a distraction, a waste. But for a moment, the sound of that last scream echoed in my mind, and my worry broke through. I paused and concentrated on where I was, what I was planning, until the emotion had passed.

As the night grew late, fatigue crept closer. Darkness softened the contours of the city around me, and my emboldened memories emerged like insistent stars in a fading sky. Kids, ten thousand miles from home and fresh from the jungle, delirious with sudden freedom and the absence of fear, loosed upon the city and looking for booze, girls, any kind of trouble. Crazy Jake, in a bar on Dong Khoi, berserking on a navy guy who’d said something stupid to him, then denying everything to the MPs after the guy had been ambulanced off, persuading them, his shark’s smile and the insanity in his eyes letting them know
you fuck with me you better be ready to die.
Everyone laughing nervously after the MPs had acknowledged their mistake and shoved off, everyone but Crazy Jake himself, who’d been ready to die right then, who’d actually expected it, and maybe was disappointed that yet again it hadn’t happened, that the gods of war had plans for him far from the artifice of the city with its lights and laughter and otherworldly rules.

I hadn’t thought of Crazy Jake in years. He had thrived on the madness of war, going deeper and deeper into that heart of darkness until he was possessed by it, until it infused his sinews and coursed in his veins. I was the only remaining person he trusted, and that’s why they sent me for him. He knew. I couldn’t have done it if he hadn’t let me. He couldn’t kill what he’d become. Someone else had to do it for him.

All at once I wanted badly to have four plain walls around me and to sleep, especially to sleep. I caught a ride on a motorcycle cab to the New World hotel, which my guidebook had informed me was large, anonymous, and popular with Japanese tour groups. I took a hot bath, fell into the adequate but unspectacular bed, and was gone as instantly as if I’d been humping a sixty-pound ruck through the jungle, rather than wandering streets haunted by the restless ghosts of that earlier time.

T
HE NEXT DAY,
I continued to familiarize myself with the terrain: the patterns of traffic (there weren’t any); presence of security (in front of banks, jewelry stores, and higher-end hotels); the best vantage points (the Rex, Saigon Tax, some of the hotel restaurants). I looked for anything out of place, any signs of a setup. I experimented with different personas. As an American, and carrying a map, I was assailed with offers of rides on motorcycles and in cyclos; as a Japanese, less so; when I’d bought some local clothes and started imitating the walk, the posture, the expressions of the natives, I was left alone entirely.

I had a lunch of
pho
noodle soup and watermelon juice, then bought a camera tripod to augment the Nikon D70 digital SLR I had brought with me. I finished mapping things out and was satisfied. After that, I had nothing to do but wait.

A
T SIX O’CLOCK
that evening, the sun had set, but the air was still hot and wet. The back and chest of my shirt were dark with sweat, the shifting crowds and insectile drone of motorcycles close upon me. I stopped in an ice cream shop around the corner from the Rex to rest and wait. I bought a cone and enjoyed it, along with the scant, periodic relief offered by a lone oscillating ceiling fan. Thirty people were crammed into the seats around me, but they paid me no heed. I’d picked up the local vibe and faded right into it.

My phone buzzed. I glanced at the readout—Dox’s mobile—and picked up. “Yeah.”

“I’m here,” Hilger said. “In the city. Where are you?”

I put a fifty-thousand dong note on the table and started moving. “District One. You?”

“The same. Where are we going to do this?”

I kept moving, watching the sidewalk and street. “You know the HSBC building?”

“No, but I’m sure I can find it.”

“Ask anyone. You can see it from most of District One—there aren’t many high-rises. There’s a coffee shop on the ground floor. Meet me there in ten minutes.”

I clicked off and headed into the Rex. Two minutes later, I was in my third-floor balcony perch. No one had fixed the lightbulb. I set up the camera and tripod, then looked down at the statue of Ho through the 400mm telephoto lens. I could see every detail. If anyone asked, I was just a Japanese photography hobbyist, trying to capture the essence of the plaza below me. But I didn’t expect to be challenged. The Rex was never that kind of place.

Ten minutes later, my phone rang again. It was Hilger. “You’re not here,” he said.

“I got nervous. I wanted something more public.”

There was a pause. “Don’t fuck with me, Rain. If I abort this meeting, your friend is going to die.”

That was a bluff. Whatever he wanted from me, he wanted it badly enough to have come this far. I could safely take him along a little farther.

“I’m not fucking with you,” I said. “Just walk to the City Hall, the huge French building a block south of you. There’s a plaza in front of the building with a statue of Ho Chi Minh. Lots of people around. Meet me in front of the statue.”

Two minutes later, he showed. Through the camera lens, I could see everything in the brightly lit plaza, even the beads of perspiration on Hilger’s face. His right side was to me. I didn’t see an earpiece. So far, so good.

This time I called him. “Are you there yet?” I asked.

He looked around. “Yeah, I’m here. Why aren’t you?”

“I’m being careful.”

“You’re being too careful. You’re going to blow this whole thing.”

“How do I know you’re not setting me up?

“You’re the one who asked for this meeting, remember?”

There was a pause. I said, “There’s a shopping center right in front of you, if your back is to City Hall. Saigon Tax, the one with the big Motorola sign on the façade, across the street from the Sheraton. With a Citibank building visible behind it. I’m inside, in the Góc Saigon café. Rooftop of the shopping center. Come on up and you can find me.”

I watched him glance behind, then to the sides, then up at the buildings around him. I waited, and was rewarded with a close view of his left ear—empty, like his right. His eyes swept right over the dark spot where I stood.
That’s right,
I thought.
I might be here. Or in Saigon Tax. Or in a room at the Sheraton. Or maybe I set up video in one of the vans in front of the Rex and I’m watching you remotely. Or I’m not watching you at all. The point is, you don’t fucking know.

He clicked off without a word and headed up the plaza, toward Saigon Tax. I tracked him through the camera for a moment, then watched the plaza unaided.

A few seconds later, I spotted a burly blond guy moving casually behind Hilger and in the same direction. I looked through the camera and saw that his eyes were everywhere, taking in all the details, his head tracking slowly left and right as he walked. The visual alertness was out of sync with the casual gait, and I made him as Hilger’s backup. I made him so fast, in fact, that I wondered for a moment whether he was supposed to serve not just as backup, but also as a distraction. The idea is, the opposition knows you’re looking for backup, or for surveillance, or whatever, so it serves up exactly what you expect. And because you’ve now spotted the danger you knew was going to be there, your mind unconsciously closes to other, less obvious possibilities.
I knew there was going to be something…oh, there it is!
is the mindset of amateurs and others without much hope of longevity in this business.
I knew there was going to be something…there’s one, now where are the others?
is the mindset of survivors.

The guy kept gliding forward like a panther, confident, balanced. He was wearing rectangular, wireless glasses, and felt vaguely European to me. I wondered if he was the one who had picked up the phone when I first called from Paris. There was a readiness about him, not just in his alertness but in his balance, his stride. If I had to take him out, I would definitely use a tool, along with as much surprise as I could muster.

I snapped a dozen photos, then examined the plaza for any other possibles in Hilger’s wake. This was the hotel district, and there were foreigners around, but none of them tickled my radar. They were either too old, or too flabby, or with women and children. Most relevantly, none of them had that quality, no matter how subtle, of exceptional awareness that’s almost impossible to conceal when you’re moving and operational. I folded up the tripod, put it in my backpack, and headed up to the Rex’s rooftop bar. Concealed behind a garden that hadn’t existed back in the day, I had a perfect view of the sidewalk in front of Saigon Tax. Mr. Blond was waiting on the sidewalk outside.

If Hilger was willing to let Mr. Blond drift that far behind him, he really must have been confident I wouldn’t try to take him out while he held Dox. Or else Mr. Blond really was a distraction, in which case someone more subtle would shortly follow Hilger into the building. I waited, but saw no one I identified as a problem.

I headed down an internal staircase, cut southwest on Le Loi, then crossed the street with fifty other pedestrians, motorcycles buzzing around us. On the other side of the street was a parking garage with its own entrance into Saigon Tax. I slipped inside, checking hot spots as I moved. Nothing rubbed me the wrong way. I turned a corner and waited. No one came in behind me. I waited for another minute, making sure Hilger had time to get to the restaurant ahead of me.

I entered Saigon Tax and used one of the internal staircases, pausing at the balcony of each successive floor to look above and below. Still nothing out of place. I continued to the fourth floor, where I cut across to the northeast side of the building, scanning as I moved. Still clear.

I came to the stairs that led to the Góc Saigon. I took one last look around. All clear. Okay.

I turned off my phone and turned on the other miniature bit of electronics I was carrying, a bug detector my martyred friend Harry, a hacker adept at kluging together all kinds of improvised devices, had made for me in Tokyo. If Hilger was wired, the detector would vibrate in my pocket and let me know. I headed up the steps to the restaurant.

The place sprawled out in an L shape, partly under a roof, mostly under the dark Saigon sky. Wood floors, slatted wooden tables and chairs, twinkling lights strung out across plantings like Christmas ornaments. Diners, but only a handful because it was still early, and none who appeared to have just arrived.

A hostess approached. I glanced at her, saw she wasn’t a threat, and went back to scanning the restaurant. The woman offered to seat me. I shook my head but otherwise ignored her and kept moving.

I hadn’t seen Hilger yet, so if he was here, he must be around the corner, in the short end of the L. I kept close to the inner wall, came to the edge, and snuck a quick peek around. There he was, sitting in the corner, his back to the concrete wall, his feet planted under him, ready to move, his head up and his eyes alive. The surrounding tables were all empty, this end of the L momentarily deserted.

He stood when he saw me coming and took a step back from the table, but slowly, showing me his hands. They were empty, the fingers splayed slightly. I approached him in the same nonthreatening way.

I moved toward him until I was in front of his table, then turned and faced him so my side was to the corner of the L. I wanted to be able to see anyone who came in after me and still have time to react.

He angled slightly away from me so that I was facing more of his left side than his front. He rubbed his chin with his left hand, the forearm vertical across his body, the other hand touching his elbow. I noted from the stance that he was right-handed, confirming my recollection of what I’d learned while witnessing his pistol craft at the China Club and at Kwai Chung the last two times we’d crossed paths. Although it was intended to look thoughtful and nonthreatening, the stance covered up most of his vital points. He was concerned I might attack. He was right to be.

Not for the first time, it occurred to me that he must be highly motivated to incur the risks he was running. I wondered what he was after, and who he could be working for.

“Let’s go,” I said.

He looked doubtful. “Where?”

“Someplace else. You might have called someone and told him where we are.”

“I’m alone.”

I wasn’t going to tip my hand by asking about Mr. Blond. “That’s good to hear,” I said. “Indulge me anyway.”

I’m not getting any younger, but I have still two advantages. First, I’ve always been unusually quick—partly the result of genetics, partly of obsessive training. Second, I can go from stonelike stillness to explosive violence without any of the usual precursors. The signs people know to look for—obvious ones, like shouting, gesticulating, and other posturing, and less obvious ones, like the face going white and the pupils dilating—I don’t exhibit, or have learned to mask. I can hurt you, or worse, and the only sign you’ll have of what’s coming is that I was close enough to do it.

Hilger didn’t know that. I was close, sure, but the sum total of his experience would be telling him that there’d be some warning, some noticeable transition, and that therefore he would have the necessary moment to react. So it really wasn’t his fault that he wasn’t ready for what happened next.

“You need to…” he started to say.

I closed the distance with one long step, my lead hand feinting for his face. His eyes popped open in surprise and his arms flinched upward—away from my trailing knee, which arced up and slightly around on the way to its abrupt run-in with his balls. He made a sound you might describe as
vomitus interruptus
and doubled over into me. I shoved him into the wall and had the folder open against his neck in an instant. The edge might not have offered longevity, but it was plenty sharp at the moment, and I pressed it against his carotid, the pressure just short of breaking the skin, my fist in his Adam’s apple, my left hand securing his right wrist and keeping it away from anything he might have in his pocket.

“Hands up, shitbag,” I breathed. “Against the wall, alongside your head. Move for a weapon and I’ll open you down to your spine.”

Beyond my substantive need to check him for weapons, it was important that I give him an option other than resistance or death. If he were convinced I was going to kill him, I couldn’t expect cooperation. As it was, he decided to comply. He grimaced and slowly got his arms up against the wall. His head was pressed back, his chin tucked in against my fist, his nostrils flaring with his breathing. His eyes were narrowed to slits, coldly observing me.

I stared back at him, and realized with a start how close I was to doing it. Grab his hair, shove his head to the left, rip right, sidestep to avoid the spray. Walk outside, fillet Mr. Blond before he had a chance to react. Go Keyser Söze on them, let the remnants of Hilger’s team understand who they were fucking with and what was coming for them next.

“I don’t check in, my men do Dox,” he said, as though reading my thoughts. “It’s automatic.”

Maybe,
I thought.
Or maybe your men let Dox go at that point, to mollify me. What good is he to them, anyway, if you’re dead? Yeah, let him go. A quitclaim, a peace offering.

Jesus. I wanted to kill him so badly I was actually panting a little. And rationalizing everything else, even Dox’s life, to give myself permission.

Do it. Just fucking do it. End it now and you can walk away.

I imagined Dox, helpless somewhere, cut off, in pain, and somehow the thought stayed my hand. My whole body trembling with ambivalence, I turned Hilger around and patted him down. He was carrying two knives, a folder and a belt unit. I pocketed both. Next, Dox’s mobile phone. I turned it off and pocketed it, too. Other than a roll of dong and greenbacks, he was carrying nothing else, not even a wallet.

I backed away from him, closing the knife as I moved. I put it back in my pants, noting that Harry’s bug detector had stopped vibrating the moment I had turned off Dox’s phone. Hilger was clean.