The Last Assassin

moment.
    “If that’s the way you want to do it,” I said. My voice sounded far away.
    “Is that a yes?”
    I suddenly and badly wanted to tell him Fuck you. Tell him in person, in my own special way.
    Instead I simply said, “Yes.”
    “Okay. How long are you going to need this stuff?”
    “Seventy-two hours, if that.”
    A pause. “Is any of this going to come back to bite me on the ass?”
    “Not if it goes well.”
    He laughed. “God, I feel so much better now.”
    “Yeah, me too,” I said.
    “Let me see what I can do. Call me tomorrow afternoon.”
    “I’ll post it on the bulletin board, too. Just to make sure you’ve got it all.”
    “Good enough.”
    I hung up and, out of habit, wiped down the phone.
    I stopped by an Internet café and posted the shopping list on the bulletin board we used. After that, there was nothing to do except try to sleep.
    I went back to the hotel and took a molten bath. It cooked the tension out of my muscles, and afterward, as I lay in bed, my body was almost rubbery with relaxation. But my mind refused to shut down. I kept picturing Koichiro’s face, and remembering the way he had nuzzled closer when I held him. I stared at the ceiling for a long time, and at some point I realized that, like Tatsu, I was whispering Onegai shimasu, over and over. Please. Please.

15
    D ELILAH WOKE FROM a nap in her room at the Mercer Hotel in SoHo Friday night. She hadn’t slept at all on the flight over, but had dropped off instantly at the hotel after checking in and unpacking. It was early morning back in Paris now, and her body felt ready to go.
    She opened the curtains and looked out onto what the hotel called a “courtyard view.” Actually, the view wasn’t bad. There really was a courtyard, pretty in the light of a gibbous moon, and she would rather face a quiet courtyard than a noisy street.
    She liked the hotel. It was a little on the hip side—aspiring-actor doormen in black turtlenecks, a condom provided along with the cotton swabs in the bathroom, that kind of thing—but this was SoHo, after all, and it felt right.
    She showered, blow-dried her hair, and put on just a little makeup—mascara, blush, a hint of liner for drama, that’s all. Then a few drops of her favorite perfume—something she’d had made just for her at Guerlain and which happened to be what she wore for Rain. She knew he liked it, and that knowledge would feel good in the back of her mind.
    She walked into the bedroom, laid out the clothes she was thinking about, and looked them over: dark, snug jeans, definitely. Her favorite boots, mahogany brown with high heels, definitely. Now the top. Hmm, there was the vintage silk Chanel jacket she had picked up at Les 3 Marches de Catherine B on the Rue Guisarde; that was certainly gorgeous. But…no, maybe the glass-beaded detailing would be a bit too fabulous for a jazz bar in SoHo. So…yes, better to go with the Santa Eulalia bolero. It was a lush, chocolate brown that looked great with her hair and would work with the jeans, too. Rain had just bought it for her in Passeig de Gràcia in Barcelona…that would also feel good tonight. And underneath…yes, the Sabbia Rosa dark brown silk camisole and matching bra and thong panties; they were sexy even just lying there on the bed. Okay.
    She was more used to dressing for men than for women, but when she’d put it all on and checked herself in the mirror, she felt she’d gotten it just right. The look was sexy, but in a quiet way, like something she would do more to please herself than out of concern for anyone else.
    She grabbed the Jekel shearling coat she had brought and took the elevator down to the lobby. Some of the hipsters chatting there eyed her as she passed, probably wondering whether she was one of the celebrities the hotel was known for. She was used to that kind of reaction and ordinarily it barely registered, but this time it felt good. She kept moving without returning any of the looks.
    According to Midori’s Web site, tonight was the last of four consecutive shows at a nearby bar called Zinc. So there was a little over an hour to kill before the second set. Just enough time for a bite to eat. Delilah found a place called The Cupping Room, on West Broadway and Broome, which had exactly the kind of quiet, low-key atmosphere she wanted. She ordered a salad and marinated baby lamb chops and a glass of the house red. She thought while she ate, but arrived at no conclusions.
    When she