Requiem for an Assassin

centuries-old, four-and five-story brick-and-stone buildings, one joined to the next. None of the doorways was set in deeply enough to offer someone a place to hide and wait. On the right side was the mile-long green strip of Vondelpark, separated from Vossiusstraat by a spiked, wrought-iron fence. I checked the park through the bars of the fence, pausing in front of parked cars for cover as I moved, and saw nothing out of place. A few people passed me, but their hands were visible and their vibe not dangerous. In the rain, shrouded by umbrellas, they gave me not even a glance.
    I slowed and squatted with a parked car to my back as I passed number fifteen—an old, heavy wooden door with decorative carvings and a stained-glass window at its center. I looked at the exterior wall around the doorjamb, then inside the stained glass at the vestibule within. No buzzers, mailboxes, or other signs of individual units. Apparently Boezeman, or more probably the Boezeman family, owned the building, and the entranceway was theirs alone. Good to know.
    The lock was new, and might have presented an impediment. But from my initial assessment of the terrain, I thought I’d prefer to force him into the vestibule when he arrived at or left the apartment, rather than try to gain entry in advance and wait for him inside. Without more intelligence on his circumstances and habits, waiting inside would have involved too many uncertainties, primary among them the potential comings and goings of family members. By contrast, the long, narrow street, with the park on one side, created various solid opportunities for watching and waiting, and surprising him at the entrance. It was too bad, really. If I could have been here two hours earlier, maybe even only one, I might have had a chance to greet Boezeman as he left his apartment on his way to work. I didn’t know what he looked like, but how many people would be coming and going from this one apartment? It would have been improvised, ad hoc, and involved some risk, but it could have been done.
    I walked the streets for two hours more, absorbing the vibe of the area, focusing on Vossiusstraat. From Vondelpark I had a clear view of Boezeman’s apartment. That was useful, but only up to a point. I’d be able to see him coming and going, but wouldn’t be able to get to him in time to force him back into the entranceway, where I could talk to him privately. Waiting on the street itself, close to his building, was possible, but would look suspicious if I had to stay for very long.
    I wondered how security conscious he might be. Responsibility for facilities security didn’t often translate into the kind of personal awareness that might have protected him from someone like me. On the job, he would think one way; off the job, thinking himself free of enemies, his habits might be lax. With Boaz and Naftali to help, we might be able to set up a watcher at each end of the narrow street. The third person would walk up and down the street, and we would trade positions periodically to avoid being too conspicuous. If Boezeman commuted by train, he would leave the street in the morning and arrive in the evening on foot or on a bicycle. If he drove, it would be the same thing in a car. Either way, with someone posted at each end of the street, we’d be able to see him coming and get the third person in position near his apartment before he arrived.
    Assuming he didn’t carpool. Assuming he wasn’t married and didn’t leave with his wife or arrive in the evening after picking up the kids from day care. Assuming a thousand things, none of which we had time to properly screen for.
    I bought a heavy wool jacket in a Leidseplein shop, then called Boaz from a pay phone. This time he picked up.
    “Are you here?” I asked.
    “We just landed.”
    “Good. Your phone is scrambled?”
    “Yes, but I still want to be careful not to disturb the other passengers.”
    “I understand, there are people around you. All right, I’ve been having a look around. I see some possibilities. When can you meet?”
    “How about tonight, the hotel we talked about before, and, say, two hours earlier?”
    “Even earlier would be better. It would give us a window to meet Boezeman when he comes home from work.”
    “Maybe. I have a local friend who’s going to give us presents. I don’t think we’ll want to show up empty-handed.”
    He had a point. There were already so many unknowns. With guns, we’d at least improve