Requiem for an Assassin

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