Requiem for an Assassin

are you now?”
    “I…” I started to say. Then, “I don’t know where I am.”
    “I want to see you. Just tell me where.”
    “I’m in California. But…”
    “I have some time off. Tell me where on the bulletin board. I’ll fly out.”
    I wanted her, and yet I didn’t. “You shouldn’t come,” I said. “You don’t want to be mixed up in this.”
    “You told me you feel tied to me. Did you mean it?”
    I sighed. “Christ, you’re stubborn.”
    “Did you mean it?”
    I didn’t say anything for a moment. Then: “You know I did.”
    “Then I’m coming to see you. Just tell me where.”
    “I’ve only got two days…”
    “Post it now and I can be there tomorrow afternoon.”
    A dozen more protestations came to mind. But I said only, “I need to get to a computer.”
    “Okay. And give me the name you’re using. I’ll make a reservation somewhere and tell them to let you in. If you show them ID, you won’t have to wait for me.”
    We were quiet for a moment. I said, “What are you wearing?”
    She gave me a small laugh. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
    My gut roiled with conflicting emotions. I waited, wanting to say something more, for her to say something more, but she had already clicked off.
    I found an Internet café in West Hollywood and told Delilah I was in L.A. Then I went to the hotel. I used their business center to check the Air France website—a safe bet Delilah would be flying the national carrier if she wanted her choice of nonstops. There were two flights she could use. One got in at 3:50 in the afternoon, the next, a few hours later at 6:55.
    I lay in bed for a long time, thinking, trying to unwind. I wanted to see her, but at the same time I was afraid to. Afraid of what she’d make of me. Which was stupid, of course. Why should I even care what she thought, or anyone else? And if anyone could understand…
    No one can understand. No one.
    Lying in another anonymous bed in another random hotel room, back in the life as though I’d never left it, I thought I should just let Delilah go. Already my relationship with her felt improbable, inapplicable, absurd. What could I have with her, anyway? Separate apartments in a foreign city, thoughts and lives that we couldn’t discuss?
    It didn’t matter. Whatever we had, it was gone, another moment alchemized to memory. I should just accept that. I should just move on, alone. It was all I was ever good for. It was all I could really trust.

18
    D ELILAH ARRIVED at LAX at a little before four in the afternoon California time. It was almost one in the morning now in Paris, but she’d napped on the flight and didn’t feel tired at all. Flying west was easy. It was the trip back that could be a little rough.
    She was carrying only a shoulder bag, a dark brown Bottega Veneta in classic woven leather, and was in a cab less than twenty minutes after touching down. She told the driver, a twentysomething with a nice smile who she guessed was from West Africa, to take her to the Beverly Wilshire, although the reservation she’d made was in fact at the Bel-Air. Unlikely anyone was waiting at the airport to try to follow her, but she wanted a chance to confirm anyway before going on to her true destination.
    “And let’s stay on Sepulveda to Jefferson Boulevard,” she added.
    “Are you sure, miss? The four-oh-five would be faster.”
    She knew that, which was exactly why she wanted to go through the city. In L.A. freeway traffic, it would be impossible to know whether anyone was following them; there could be fifty cars between the cab and a tail. The city route, by contrast, would have fewer cars and more local traffic. Every time the cab turned, Delilah would be able to check behind to see if anyone had stayed with them. A few instances of a car going the same way could be a coincidence. All the way from the airport to Beverly Hills would be a different matter.
    “I’d just like to see the city,” Delilah said.
    The driver furrowed his brow and smiled. “Of course, of course. You…live in L.A.?”
    Delilah understood what he was thinking. She obviously knew the city well, but if she lived here, why would she want to take the scenic route? And with her looks, he was wondering if she was a celebrity he couldn’t quite place. Her clothes fit the celebrity theory, too: a classic Burberry trench coat, open now in the relative warmth of the southern California afternoon; a cream-colored, scoop-necked cashmere sweater, set off by a