Requiem for an Assassin

when it’s done,” I said.
    He nodded. “I know.”
    I turned and walked away. He could damn well pay for the spring rolls himself.

10
    D OX SAT ON the cot in the cramped, windowless boat cabin, the lights off, his eyes closed, a small smile on his face. He’d long since told himself every joke he’d ever known, three times over, four or five for his favorites. He’d recollected the layout of his childhood house, and imagined himself building it, starting with the foundation, then brick by brick, all the way to the roof and the detail work. Now he was trying to remember the name of every girl he’d ever slept with, but it just wasn’t possible because, well, there had been quite a few. The first ten were easy to come up with, even though it had been a long time ago, but once he got up into the double digits, things got tricky. He tried a different tack, focusing only on the ones who’d been lucky enough to surrender him their virginity, but the truth was, that was a reasonably lengthy list, too. He knew he’d never remember them all, and that was sad, but still it was fun to try, and it wasn’t like he had anything else to occupy his mind here.
    He was shackled like a federal prisoner: leg irons, wrist manacles, and a chain connecting the two. They weren’t being overly generous about the length of chain involved, either. He couldn’t so much walk as shuffle along, bent over like an old man. If he got an itch on his nose, the only way to scratch it was to push his face against the wall and rub. The room had its own head, and he supposed he ought to be grateful for that, but wiping his ass chained as he was wasn’t exactly the high point of his day. He was half-tempted to beat the bishop, more than half-tempted, if the truth be told, especially with all these thoughts of girls he’d deflowered, and with his hands stuck right in front of his crotch, he could have, too. But the possibility of his captors sniggering at the sounds of his chains clanking in the dark would be an unbearable indignity. Besides, how the hell would he clean up the mess.
    The one thing he wanted to do more than anything when he got out of this, well, besides standing up straight and stretching, that was the main thing, but besides that, the thing he wanted most was just to brush his teeth. The last time he’d had a chance had been the morning they’d grabbed him, and at this point it felt like he had a moss forest growing in his mouth.
    He’d considered every variety of possible escape, but he couldn’t see a way out. The door was always locked. He’d tested it with his shoulder and knew it was heavy and solid. Unshackled, he might have been able to bust it open, although it opened inward so maybe not, but in these chains he could develop all the momentum of a pregnant penguin, and he certainly couldn’t kick. The door had a small window, too, and they were careful always to look in on him before entering. But hell, they could come in blindfolded and what could he do, shuffle over and head-butt them in the shoulders like the friggin’ Black Knight in Monty Python and the Holy Grail ? Call them dirty names?
    He might have tried bellowing like a madman when he sensed they were in port, but he doubted anyone would hear. He didn’t know how big the boat was—they’d kept him blindfolded while they were moving him about—but they’d taken him down some steps and then across a short corridor to put him in this room, so he knew he was on a lower level and almost certainly in an interior room. No, the chances of any good coming from shouting were awfully remote, while the chances of someone coming in and smacking him in the guts with a truncheon and duct-taping his mouth shut and hooding him after for good measure were fairly high. It just wasn’t a percentage move.
    He hadn’t been much mistreated, he had to admit, if he was willing to discount that initial waterboarding and some electric shock they’d applied to his feet after to get him to scream over the phone for Rain’s benefit. Jesus Christ almighty, the waterboarding was flat-out awful. The hell of it was how short-lived the effects were. One second you’re pissing-your-pants-panicked, and then a minute later you’re rational again, swearing you won’t break this time. Except you do. It was unnerving to be swept away by blind fear that way—it was like losing control of your bowels or something, but a hundred times worse. Hilger was right, going through it at