Requiem for an Assassin

in my application. I just wanted the bike to look old, or as though someone had tried to make it a less enticing target for theft. Later, in a more private setting, I would file down the serial number until there was a hole in the metal beneath.
    I ran the brush back and forth, back and forth, letting my mind drift. Of course it was impossible not to think of Koichiro. To have just seen him, to know that he was so near. To be within earshot now of all these young mothers with their children, hearing them laugh and chat and gossip about goings-on in the neighborhood. To have read of the fallout, the consequences, of what I’d done to Jannick.
    I opened the can of brown and kept at it, the sun providing a hint of warmth to the otherwise chill air. Midori’s parents were dead, and she had no brothers or sisters. If something happened to her, who would take care of Koichiro? No one but Midori knew I was his father. Even if someone did, there was no way to find me. What would happen to my son? Who would step forward?
    My hand stopped in midstroke and I stood completely still for a moment, frozen by sudden insight. It had been right in front of me, and I’d missed it. I’d been too focused on the CIA funding of Jannick’s company, that was the problem. It seemed like a connection. But it wasn’t impossible that it was nothing but a distracting coincidence.
    Who would step forward? The article said Jannick’s wife and children were being cared for by relatives. Who, though? Grandparents? Brothers? Sisters? Uncles? Aunts? Whoever they were, they were like pieces on a chessboard, and Jannick’s death had rearranged their positions. Maybe that new positioning was what Hilger was really after.
    I finished the bike. As soon as it was dry, I threw it in the trunk and drove to the Great Neck Public Library, where I posted a message to Kanezaki: What relatives are staying with Jannick’s family now? Parents, siblings, whoever. Names, addresses, most of all, their jobs. Cross-reference with everything else we have. Hilger might have been after a secondary effect.

    T HE NEXT FORTY-EIGHT HOURS were uneventful. I continued to tail Accinelli, but he never left the office during the day and always went straight home at night. I figured he was too busy for an assignation, or couldn’t come up with a believable excuse. I heard from Kanezaki. He told me he was running down the leads I had sent him, but that was all.
    I started to get concerned. Hilger had given me five days, and I had only one left. I thought about contacting him, insisting on talking to Dox again. But I decided not to. Hilger wouldn’t have done anything yet: he needed Dox, at least until I was finished with Accinelli. Besides, right now, it would be too easy for him to say no. I wasn’t devoid of leverage, but what I had, I needed to use sparingly.

    O N THE MORNING of the deadline, I was waiting in the BMW near Sara D. Roosevelt Park, about ten blocks from the Mott Street apartment, watching the readout on the iPhone. I’d been there since following Accinelli to his office as always, and so far he hadn’t moved. It was past eleven now, and I was beginning to think I might have to contact Hilger and tell him I needed more time. And then, just like that, the little light that represented Accinelli’s car on the phone started moving. Come on, I thought. Come this way. A little afternoon delight.
    I watched as he headed west on the LIE, then the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. When I saw him approaching the Williamsburg Bridge, I was sure.
    I affixed the little side-view mirror to the shades I had on and stepped out of the car. Almost every inch of me was covered in something: thermal underwear, work boots, the wool turtleneck sweater, the peacoat, the balaclava, the neoprene gloves. I put the chain over my neck, secured the bike helmet over the balaclava, and set the box of styrofoam peanuts on the ground. I took the bike out of the trunk, propped it against the car, and looked around. There were a couple of pickup basketball games going on at the park. Construction on a nearby street. No one was paying me any attention. I waited for a break in the traffic, for the intermittent clusters of passing pedestrians to thin, and then picked up the box by a plastic strap across its top and walked the bike away from the car. The box was large and awkward, but with only styrofoam peanuts inside, it weighed almost nothing. I had stripped off all the labeling; the box was