Requiem for an Assassin

least not exactly. We know he’s on a boat, still probably within reasonable proximity to the last place he called from. Get going now, you’ll be that much closer when we have his position. Wait in a hub city, a place nearby with a lot of flight connections. It’ll save time.”
    “You’re right,” I said. “I’m tired, I should have seen that.”
    “Yeah, well, apparently nobody’s perfect.”
    I laughed, glad to see he was counterpunching. “All right, I’ll set up that call and then catch a plane. I’m going to need a few items from you, though.”
    “Let me guess. Something from Santa.”
    “Right. Same kind of toys he brought down the chimney last year, minus the tranq gun. You remember, or do you want me to post it?”
    The “toys” I was talking about included a suppressed pistol with infrared laser and night sights, spare magazine, a hundred rounds of hollow point, a tactical thigh rig for carry, and night-vision goggles. I might have some refinements once I knew the terrain—assuming we learned the terrain in advance—but it paid to get him moving on the fundamentals now.
    “I remember,” he said.
    “Smaller this time, too, more concealable. I’m probably going to be operating in an urban environment. Body armor, too. And a medical kit. I don’t know what kind of shape my buddy’s going to be in.”
    “Got it.”
    I thought for another moment, feeling I was missing something. Then I realized.
    “Papers,” I said. “I doubt my buddy’s been traveling with a passport, and wherever he is, most likely he’s going to have to clear customs in a country he hasn’t officially entered.”
    “I can take care of that.”
    “Good, good. All right, as soon as you have anything on those family members or anything else, post it. And I’ll be in touch as soon as I hear from our friend.”
    “Okay. Good luck.”
    I checked online. The only nonstop flight I could find from the East Coast to Southeast Asia was on Singapore Air, Newark to Singapore Changi, leaving at eleven o’clock that night, arriving in Singapore eighteen hours, forty minutes later, at 6:40 A.M . local time. Long flight, but it would save time compared to changing planes on the West Coast or in Tokyo or Hong Kong. Besides, the way I felt just then, if I could snag a first-class seat, I could probably sleep the entire way. And Singapore would put me within an hour flight, two at most, of the likely radius of Hilger’s boat.
    I called the airline on the way back to the hotel. I was in luck—first class was available that evening. At over twelve grand for a round-trip ticket, I was surprised they sold any at all. I didn’t know about their other customers, but for me the extra comfort would be worth the expense. In my line of work, the difference between arriving exhausted from a nineteen-hour flight and arriving well rested could easily turn out to be a life-or-death thing.
    I checked out of the hotel and found another Internet café, where I left Hilger a message:
    If you were hoping to hear from Mr. Blond, you might have to wait for a while. He wasn’t doing well last time I saw him.
    You have one chance to live through this. Let Dox go. Now.
    I hoped it was the right message. I thought it would engage him the way I wanted, but I couldn’t be sure. It was possible he’d double down: kill Dox, come at me with everything he had, try to finish the game that way.
    But I didn’t worry about it. Not really. I was too tired, for one thing. For another, I wasn’t in charge. The iceman was running this show now, and the word worry had never been part of his lexicon. After all, to worry, at a minimum you have to care.

26
    H ILGER SAT ON THE FLYBRIDGE, flanked by Pancho and Guthrie. They’d made port in Singapore the day before and were docked now in a berth at the Republic of Singapore Yacht Club. It was past one in the morning, though still hot and humid, and the other seventy boats berthed around them were all silent, rising and falling on the harbor swells as though breathing in their sleep.
    Demeere had called fifteen minutes earlier, just before noon New York time. He’d spotted Rain at the Mott Street apartment. No surprise there; they’d known Rain was in New York from the bulletin board access, just as they’d known he was in California before that and Paris originally. So far, so good.
    Accinelli had shown up five minutes later. Demeere told them Rain had followed Accinelli in, and they all knew that meant