The Last Assassin

help?”
    An announcement blared—last call for my flight. I said, “My plane is leaving.”
    “Wait. There’s something I want to tell you about New York…” she started to say.
    “Not now. We’ll have another chance.”
    “But…”
    “I promise,” I said, and shut down the phone.

51
    T HE TWELVE-HOUR FLIGHT to New York was torture. I couldn’t sleep, but I wasn’t fully conscious, either. Mostly I stared out the window into the darkness and tried not to think. I felt like Schrödinger’s cat, trapped in a steel box, neither dead nor alive, waiting for the intervention of some outside event to resolve my ambiguous state once and for all and deliver me from purgatory.
    I emerged from JFK customs and into the arrivals lounge, dragging my carry-on behind me. I scanned the crowds, just a guy coming off a flight, looking for his ride. Left, sweep the middle, right, no problems up front. Now farther back…
    Bam. A punch-permed stocky Japanese guy in a waist-length black leather jacket, his mouth twisted in a permanent ugly sneer, watching me with studied nonchalance. Yakuza central casting, just as Midori had described.
    My eyes didn’t even pause on him. From his perspective, it would seem I hadn’t noticed him at all.
    I kept moving forward, looking around with the same casual air. And there, at the opposite end of the arrivals area, hanging back behind some waiting people, another Japanese with a punch perm, taller and even uglier than his partner. Some men are built for stealth, others, for intimidation. These two were obviously of the latter variety.
    How did they know to wait for me here? They probably didn’t, not for sure. But they knew Midori would contact me right after they threatened her. She told me she didn’t tell them anything, but in her fright she might have mentioned Tokyo, just to give them something. From there, they could have figured out what would be the next nonstop from Narita to JFK, and wait outside arrivals. If it wasn’t this one, it would be the next.
    Then I started thinking, But why not stay on Midori? That’s the sure choke point. Maybe they thought they’d have more of a chance of surprising me here. Or maybe…
    Stop. I could figure it out later. What mattered was what was happening now.
    I took the escalator down to the departure area, moving in such a way that I created several opportunities to unobtrusively check behind me as I walked. My friends were staying with me. Good.
    I didn’t think they’d move against me in here. There were too many cameras. But a bathroom? That would be too good an opportunity to miss. Jesus, I hoped that knife was still there.
    A minute later, I headed into the restroom where I’d secured the Strider just before Dox and I had departed for Tokyo. I knew what the yakuza were thinking: He just got off an international flight and has no checked bag, he can’t possibly be armed. And there are no cameras in that bathroom, unlike just about everywhere else in the airport. We can do it and be on our way back to Japan before the police even know who they’re looking for. Give him a minute to unzip, sit down, whatever, then he’ll be maximally helpless. We’ll do it then.
    How did I know? Hell, it’s what I would do.
    I walked in, the swinging door closing behind me. There were six stalls in this restroom. All of them were unoccupied. Except one.
    The one where I had secured the knife.
    Shit. With barely another thought, I said in the most stentorian tone I could muster, “Sir, you need to evacuate this facility immediately.”
    There was no response. I said, “You, in the stall, sir. You need to evacuate this restroom immediately. Now.”
    A voice came from behind the stall door. “What?”
    “Sir, this is an antiterrorism exercise. If you are not out of that stall and out of this restroom within the next ten seconds, I will have you arrested on the spot. One. Two.”
    The toilet flushed on three. And I hadn’t even gotten to seven when the guy burst out of the stall, struggling with his belt with one hand and a carry-on bag with the other. “What the hell is this?” he said as he passed me.
    “Classified, sir,” I said, as he reached the door. “But thank you for your cooperation. And have a safe flight.”
    I stepped into the stall, dropped down to my knees, and felt behind the toilet for the knife.
    It wasn’t there.
    Come on, I thought. Come on, come on…
    I knew this was the right stall—third from the door. I