The Last Assassin

swinging outward, guided by another man in a dark suit. Unlike the two out front, this guy had security written all over him. His hair was crew-cut—functional, not stylish—and something in his eyes suggested that if anyone ever tried to metrosexually reshape his brows they’d be hospitalized for their troubles. He held open the door and bowed his head in welcome.
    The way he had immediately welcomed her, without checking to see whether she was alone, confirmed that she had been watched via the camera before she pressed the buzzer. The man had opened the door already knowing, or having been told, exactly what was outside.
    She nodded and walked in. Soft techno music played from unseen speakers and the air smelled faintly of cigar smoke. She checked the drape of the security guy’s suit as she went by. She saw no telltale bulges, but his right side was facing away from her and she couldn’t be sure. She’d try for another look later.
    This was the small room she’d seen in the floor plans. The design was minimalist, just dark, wood-paneled walls, a leather-wrapped island in the center, and a leather-covered bench to one side. To the left was a pair of large swinging doors, which from the plans she knew led to the main room. Behind the island was another door, the one that led to what they had guessed was an office. To the right, the stairs down to the restrooms and, presumably, the utility room.
    Two more men stood off to the right. One was another serious-looking guy she made as security, and there it was, yes, the bulge that was no cell phone at his hip under the jacket. The other guy was as soft-looking as the two out front. Probably another valet, she thought. When a member is ready to leave, this guy runs out for the car, and one of the two outside comes in. They rotate. No one’s kept waiting.
    Two quite stunning Japanese women stood behind the island. Both were dressed exquisitely in gold lamé gowns. Their makeup was perfect, and their long, lustrous hair was set in elaborate chignons. They looked classy, sophisticated, and very, very sexy.
    Delilah walked up and smiled a little uncertainly. “Pardonnez-moi,” she said. “Parlez-vous français?”
    The women looked at each other, then back to Delilah. No, they didn’t speak French.
    “Ah, this is Whispers, yes?” she asked in heavily accented English.
    The hostesses nodded. One of them said, with a Japanese accent, “Whispers, yes.”
    Okay, their English didn’t seem too much better than their French. Delilah said, “I am here for…a job. Working here.”
    The woman who had spoken a moment earlier said, “Mmm, one minute, please.” She picked up a phone and spoke a few words of Japanese, then hung up. “Please,” she said, gesturing to the bench. “Just a minute.”
    Delilah thanked her and sat. She glanced again at the first security guy, but his right side was still facing away from her. Well, the other guy was carrying, it was safe to assume they both were.
    While she waited, she heard a soft buzzer. She watched the women behind the island. They looked down, presumably at a video screen, then nodded to the first security guy, who nodded back and opened the door. Two fiftyish Japanese men wearing cashmere overcoats walked in. The women came out from behind the island and bowed in welcome. One of the women took the coats and brought them into the room behind the island; the other escorted the men into the main area. A few moments later the women had reassembled in their original positions.
    So the security guy didn’t have visual access to the vestibule outside. The hostesses took care of that, and he took his cues from them. Okay.
    A minute later, another Japanese woman came through the door on the other side of the island. This one was older—late forties or fifties. She was a handsome woman, and looked at home in a black Chanel suit that, while certainly elegant, served to identify her, along with her age and bearing, as management rather than talent.
    Delilah stood as the woman approached. “May I help you?” the woman asked in English.
    “Yes,” Delilah said, laying on the Parisian accent. “I would like to apply for a job.”
    The woman nodded and looked Delilah up and down. Delilah could tell the woman approved of what she saw.
    “How did you hear about us?” the woman asked.
    “Hear…”
    “About Whispers. This club. How did you learn about us?”
    Delilah paused as though to translate the words, then said, “Ah,