The Last Assassin

walked around to the front entrance. I stepped inside and was immediately transported by the warm smell of incense and tatami mats. A middle-aged woman in a blue kimono welcomed me with a bow. I took off my shoes and followed her in. She had me sit at a low table in the lobby while I—or I should say Mr. Watanabe—filled out some check-in paperwork.
    The procedure had an air of ritual about it, and I realized Yamaoto’s men would probably have to pause here, too. I looked around for a good vantage point and was pleased to see a second-story sitting area open to the lobby below. It offered stellar views of the sea and, more important from my perspective, of where Yamaoto’s men would enter as I had.
    The woman returned with a cup of barley tea. “You’re traveling alone, Watanabe-san?” she asked, no doubt hoping for an answer to her implicit question of “Why?”
    “Yes,” I told her. “My wife passed away recently, and because we honeymooned in this area I wanted to return to it.”
    “I’m saddened to hear of your loss,” she said, bowing her head. As I expected in the face of Watanabe’s sad story, she asked no further questions, and I needed to tell her no further lies. But I was confident that word would now circulate among the staff, and that consequently no one would find it at all remarkable that sad Watanabe-san might sit brooding for long hours alone on that second-floor balcony.
    I dropped off my bag in my room on the third floor, a twelve-mat square with an alcove and a view of the sea that was impressive in spite of the tangle of high-tension wire in front of it. Then I went down to the lobby restaurant, sat so I had a view of the entrance, and ate a long, leisurely lunch of oysters from Anamizu Bay, sweet shrimp from the deep waters of the Sea of Japan, and locally caught winter yellowtail with sliced radish and red pepper. During my repast a few elderly couples checked in, but they obviously weren’t the people Dox and I were waiting for.
    Afterward, I repaired to the second-story balcony, where I waited as though absorbed in my memories. It was just getting dark outside when my cell phone buzzed. I glanced at the caller ID readout—Dox.
    I pressed the receive button. “Yeah.”
    “Looks like our company has finally arrived,” Dox said.
    “You sure?”
    “Let’s just say I’ve got a strong feeling. They’re coming in now.”
    “What do they look like?”
    “Oh, don’t worry. You’re not going to miss them.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Just watch, you’ll see.”
    I looked down into the lobby. I heard the front door open and close. The blue-kimonoed woman who had greeted me called out “Irasshaimase”— welcome—and hurried out from behind the check-in counter. A moment later, two gigantic men, obviously sumo wrestlers, appeared below me. I sat well back to conceal myself and from the angle I couldn’t be sure, but I estimated each of them at north of a hundred and fifty kilos. It was like looking down on the heads and shoulders of a pair of bison.
    “Holy shit,” I whispered.
    “Guess you’ve seen ’em,” Dox said.
    “Christ, we’ve only got four darts.”
    “Yeah, as I think Roy Scheider put it in Jaws, ‘We’re gonna need a bigger boat.’”
    They said something to the woman, but I couldn’t quite make out what. She escorted them inside.
    It wasn’t just their bulk that advertised their background. They had that slow sumo swagger, that air of royalty—almost of divinity—born of size and celebrity. They were used to being looked at, to being the objects of attention and awe, and they moved as though bearing the adoration as of right, with no obligation to repay it with anything more than impassive acceptance.
    I moved farther back, out of their view. “Did you see what they’re driving?” I asked.
    “’Course I did. Big burgundy Cadillac, with the steering wheel on the left side.”
    Sounded like a yakuza ride. It had to be them.
    “You get the license plate?”
    “Yeah.” He gave it to me, and I wrote it down.
    “Hang on,” I said. “I’ll call you back.”
    “Roger that.”
    I called Tatsu. The phone rang a few times, then his weak voice said, “Hai.”
    “How are you holding up?” I asked.
    “I’m still here.”
    I had the sudden sick knowledge that one day soon I would call him and he wouldn’t answer, he wouldn’t still be here at all.
    I pushed that aside and said, “I think our guys have arrived, but I need to be sure.