The Last Assassin (3 page)

But the distraction was unnecessary. The bathroom was empty.

I let out a long breath and walked past the glass-enclosed shower to the window. The views, as promised, were stunning: the city and the sea to one side; the snowcapped peaks of the Pyrenees to the other. I looked out for a few minutes, unwinding.

I went back to the door and looked through the peephole. All clear. I retrieved my bag and the glass, brought them into the room, and picked up the note from the bed. It said:
I'm at the indoor pool. Come join me.—D.

Hard to argue with that. I checked the room for weapons first, then paused for a moment, just breathing, until I felt calmer. I pocketed the note, threw my jacket over a chair, and headed out. A minute later, I entered an expansive glass-and-stone solarium with vaulted ceilings and a sparkling, stainless-steel-bottomed swimming pool.

Delilah was on her back on one of the red upholstered lounge chairs surrounding the pool. She wore a one-piece cobalt-blue bathing suit that showed off her curves perfectly. Her blond hair was tied back, and oversized sunglasses concealed her features. She looked every inch the movie star.

I glanced around. No one set off my radar. It troubled me for a moment that even now, with all we had been through, all we had shared, I still felt I had to be careful. I wondered whether I'd ever be able to completely relax with her, or with anyone. Maybe I could hope for something like that with Midori. After all, isn't that why medieval kings married off their sons and daughters, to seal blood alliances and make murder unthinkable? Wasn't it the idea that children trump everything, even the most deep-seated resentments and rivalries, that they trump even hate?

I walked closer and paused, just a few feet behind her. I wanted to see whether she might sense my presence. Delilah's antennae were as sensitive as any I've known, but on the other hand there aren't many people who can move as quietly as I can.

I waited a few seconds. She didn't notice me.

“Hey,” I said softly.

She sat up and turned toward me, then pulled off the sunglasses and broke into a gorgeous smile.

“Hey,” she said.

“I've been standing here awhile. I thought you'd notice.”

Her smile lingered. “Maybe I was just indulging you. I know you like to feel stealthy.”

She stood up and gave me a long, tight hug. I caught a hint of the perfume she wore, a scent I've encountered nowhere else and that I will always equate with her.

There were people around, but we were suddenly kissing passionately. It was always like this when we'd been apart for a while, and sometimes even when we hadn't been. There was just something about the two of us that wouldn't let us keep our hands off each other. Whatever it was, sometimes it was overpowering.

I had to sit down on the lounge chair before the condition she had caused attracted further attention. She laughed, knowing exactly why I had broken the embrace, and sat down next to me, her hand on my leg.

“How long have you been here?” she asked.

“I just arrived a few minutes ago.”

“Not the hotel. The city. Barcelona.”

I paused, then admitted, “A few days.”

She shook her head. “What a waste. I could have gotten here earlier, you know. But I knew you'd want to have a look around alone first.”

“Guess I'm getting predictable.”

“I understand. I'm just worried I'll have nothing new to show you.”

I looked into her blue eyes. “I want you to show me everything.”

Her hand moved on my leg, playful, insistent. “All right. Shall we start with the room?”

We hurried, but getting back to the room seemed to take a lot longer than my trip to the pool a few minutes earlier. We made it, though, and I had her out of that bathing suit before the door had closed behind us.

I kicked off my shoes and we moved into the room, kissing again, Delilah pulling off my shirt and pants. I paused at the foot of the bed to get out of my boxers. Delilah scrambled up and reached suddenly under one of the pillows. Even though I'd checked there already, I tensed, but then saw it was only a condom. It was a measure of her own abandon that she hadn't reached more slowly—she knew my habits, and what could set me off—but also of mine, that I hadn't spotted the move in time to have done anything about it.

She lay back and I moved up on top of her, advancing between her open legs. She kissed me again and was rolling the condom onto me even as I moved inside her. For a second I thought of Midori and was glad we were being smart this time. We hadn't been, in Phuket.

We made love hard and fast. We didn't talk; talk was beside the point. It was just moans and breathing and finally a pair of sharp groans that were probably heard in the adjacent room.

As we lay side by side after, catching our breath, I realized that, for a few minutes, my nearly constant security awareness had been temporarily eclipsed by blind lust, and then by its afterglow. On the one hand, it was liberating, hell, it was life affirming to realize I could have a moment like that. But at the same time, it was worrisome. I hadn't told Delilah yet what I'd learned about Midori. I didn't know how to tell her, or when. What I did know was that I had never needed my skills as much as I would for what I planned to do next.

W
E SPENT THE REST
of the afternoon and evening dozing, making love again, then dozing some more. I remember thinking at some point it was good Barceloneans eat so late, or we would have missed our chance for dinner.

We finally managed to shower and get dressed, and then had a hotel car take us to Torre d'Alta Mar, a restaurant perched seventy-five meters above the sea atop the Torre Sant Sebastià, one of three towers that serve the city's cable car system. Delilah had made the reservation, and once again she had chosen well. The 360-degree views were jaw-dropping; the food, even more so: partridge and lobster and filet mignon, all flavored with Catalan specialties like Ganxet beans, Guijuelo ham, and Idiazábal cheese. We killed two bottles of cava from a local winery called Rimarts. I'd never heard of the place, but they knew what they were doing.

I didn't bring up anything about Midori. It seemed too early. We'd only just gotten together, and the meal and atmosphere were so perfect, I didn't want to spoil any of it. Also, after all those hours of lovemaking, I was just too confused, not only about what I was going to do, but even about what I wanted.

So we stayed with familiar subjects instead, mostly work and travel. She told me she was still on administrative leave, pending her organization's completion of an inquiry into what had happened in Hong Kong, where Delilah had defied orders and helped me. They'd lost a good man there, and there were people who thought Delilah was to blame. I knew better, of course, but it wasn't as though she could call on me as a character witness.

“I don't mind,” she said. “I'm happy to have the time off.”

I nodded. “I was wondering how you managed to get away for this.”

She raised her glass. “I'd say it worked out well.”

We touched glasses and drank. I said, “How do you expect it's going to turn out?”

“I'm not even thinking about it.”

I knew her better than that and smiled sympathetically. Delilah didn't like to take shit from her supposed superiors, or from anyone.

After a moment, she shrugged. “I'm a little worried. Not so much about whether I'm going to be reinstated or reprimanded or whatever. It's more…I just hate the way they use me and then judge me for doing the jobs they send me on. You'd think Al-Jib dead would trump everything else, but no.”

Al-Jib had been a terrorist, part of the A.Q. Khan network, who'd been trying to buy nuclear matériel so he could assemble a bomb. Delilah had killed him in Hong Kong, a target of opportunity, and right now that victory was probably the only thing holding the line against her organizational detractors.

“Well, they've got their priorities,” I said.

“Yeah, their little tsk tsk meetings, that's the priority. I swear, sometimes I feel like I should just tell them to go to hell.”

“I've dealt with that type, too,” I said, reaching over and taking her hand. “Don't let them get you down.”

She smiled and squeezed my hand. “I haven't even thought about it since I saw you. Not until we started talking about it, anyway.”

“Well, you'll have to see me more often, then,” I said, before I could think better of it.

She squeezed again and said, “I'd like that.”

I didn't answer.

We finished after midnight and walked northwest into La Ribera. It was a weeknight, but even so El Born, one of the most ancient streets in the city and the heart of La Ribera, was hopping, with crowds spilling out from the bars lining the street and from the surrounding clubs and restaurants. We managed to get a table at a bar called La Palma. It was a beautiful old place, unpretentious, with wine barrels in the corners and sausages hanging from the ceiling. I ordered us each a shot of a 1958 Highland Park, one of the finest single malts on earth—ridiculous at 150 Euros the measure, but life is so short.

Afterward we strolled more. Delilah hooked an arm through mine and snuggled close in the chill night air. It felt so natural it almost worried me. I wondered what it would feel like to be this way all the time. Then I thought of Midori again.

We drifted south, into the Barri Gòtic, where the maze of stone streets narrowed and the crowds thinned. Soon the echoes of our footfalls, the shadowed walls of dark cathedrals and shuttered apartments, were our only companions.

A few blocks west of Via Laietana, I heard loud voices speaking in English, and as we turned a corner I saw four young men coming in our direction. From the clothes and accents, I guessed working-class British, probably football hooligans; from the volume and aggressive tone, I guessed drunk. My immediate sense was that they had struck out with the local girls in La Ribera, hadn't found any prostitutes to their liking along Las Ramblas, and were now heading back to La Ribera for another pass. My alertness ticked up a notch. I felt Delilah's hand on my arm stiffen just slightly. She was telling me she had noted the potential problem, too.

The street was narrow, almost an alley, and there wasn't much room to let them go by. I steered us to the left so I would have the inside position.

They saw us and stopped shouting. Not a good sign. Then they slowed. That was worse. And then one of them peeled off and started crowding our side of the street, with the others drifting along with him. That was unwelcome indeed.

I eased out the Benchmade and held it hidden against my open palm with my thumb. I didn't want anyone to know there was a knife in play until I decided to formally introduce them to it.

I had hoped simply to pass them, maybe absorbing a predictable shoulder check en route. But they had fanned out widely enough so that going past wasn't an option. Well, I could go through just as easily. I envisioned dropping the nearest one with
osoto-gari,
a basic but powerful judo throw, which I expected would provide an attitude adjustment sufficient for the remaining three. And if Delilah had fallen in behind me, I would have done just that. But she was close beside me, and therefore in my way. I felt her slowing, and I had to slow, too.

A paranoid notion tried to grip me: Delilah could have set this up. But I knew instantly it wasn't that. The four of them were too young, for one thing. Their vibe was too hot, too aggressive. For professionals, violence is a job. For these guys, it felt like an opportunity.

Besides, Delilah hadn't been leading me as we walked. I would have noted that, as I had noted its absence.

We all stopped and faced one another.
Here we go,
I thought.

“Lovely evening, isn't it, ladies?” said the one who had originally started drifting onto our side of the street. He was looking at me, smirking.

“You must be the leader,” I responded, my voice low and calm.

“What's that?” he said, his brow furrowing.

“You moved first, and your friends followed you. And now you're talking first. I figure that means you're the leader. Am I wrong?” I glanced behind us just to ensure no one was closing in from the other direction—all clear—then back at the other three. “Is it one of you? Come on, who is it?”

The interview wasn't going the way they had hoped. I wasn't cringing. I wasn't blustering. If the idiots had any sense, they would have realized that now I was interviewing them.

“Oh, it's me, all right,” the first one said, trying to recover some initiative.

I nodded as though impressed. “That's brave of you to say.”

“Why?”

I smiled at him. The smile was in no way pleasant.

“Because now I know to kill you first,” I said.

He glanced at his friends as though reassuring himself of their continued presence, then back at me. I felt him starting to reconsider.

But one of his friends was too stupid or drunk or both to notice the position they were in. “He's calling you a wanker, man. You going to take that?”

Fuck.
“I'm not calling anyone a wanker,” I said, my voice still calm and steady. “I'm just saying neither of us wants to spoil the other's evening. La Ribera's like an outdoor party right now. Isn't that where you're going?”

The last question was calculated: not a command, just a reminder, a mere suggestion that could be taken with no loss of face. And I could tell from the guy's eyes that he wanted to take it. Good.

He glanced at his friends again. Unfortunately, they didn't give him what he was hoping for. He looked back at me, and I saw he had decided. Decided wrongly.

He started to move in, his arm coming up, probably for a finger jab to my chest or some other classic and stupid next-step-on-the-road-to-violence. He didn't know that I don't believe in steps. I like to get where I'm going by the shortest route possible.

But before I could move in and drop him, Delilah stepped between us. She had been so quiet, and the guy had been so focused on me, that it took him a moment to adjust. He paused and started to say something. But he never had a chance to get it out.

Delilah snapped a rising front kick directly into his balls. He made a half-grunting, half-retching sound and doubled over. Delilah moved close and stomped his in-step. He grunted again and tried to shuffle back. As his forward leg straightened, Delilah swiveled and thrust a sidekick into the side of his knee. There was a sickening snap and he spilled to the ground with a shriek. I saw her measuring the distance. Then she stepped in and kicked him full-on soccer style, directly in the face. Blood shot from his nose, and he shrieked again, like a field mouse being torn apart by a falcon.

Delilah stopped and looked at the other three. There was no particular challenge in her expression, just a question:
Who wants to go next?

They all looked wide-eyed from her to their twisting, wailing compatriot, then back again. Finally one of them stammered, “Why, why'd you have to do that?”

If I had been feeling more talkative or even just kindly inclined, I would have explained that it was called a “finishing move.” The idea is that, when your attackers are just bullies, not real operators, you do something so nasty, so gratuitously damaging, to one of them that the collective mind-set of the rest veers from
Let's kick some ass!
to something more like
Thank God it wasn't me!
And while they're thus momentarily paralyzed with schadenfreude, you get to walk away unmolested.

All they needed now was a task to focus their scattered attention. “You'd better get your friend to a hospital,” I suggested evenly, knowing that would help. I touched Delilah's elbow and we moved off.

We changed cabs twice on the way to the hotel. No sense making it easy for anyone to inquire about who we were or where we might have been going. We just kept our heads down and our mouths shut.

Back at La Florida, I let us into the room and locked the door behind us. The bed had been neatly turned down, the lights lowered, and the serene atmosphere was slightly surreal after what had just happened in the street. Delilah pulled off her shoes and examined them. One of them must have had blood on it, because she took it into the bathroom. I heard water run, then stop. A moment later she returned and put the shoes down together by the window. Then she sat on the bed and looked at me, her cheeks still hot and flushed.

“Sorry about that,” she said.

I shrugged. “Makes me glad that time in Phuket was at least half-consensual. I guess I'd be limping right now if it hadn't been.”

We both laughed at that, harder than the comment really warranted, and I realized we were still giddy. The aftermath of violence is usually like that. I wondered if she recognized the signs, as I did.

When our laughter subsided, I said, “I wouldn't have stopped to engage them, though. I would have just gone right through them, before they had a chance to get themselves worked up.”

She nodded. “I realized afterward that's what you were thinking. But I don't have your upper-body strength. I have to play it differently. Plus, you have to admit, I can bring a certain element of surprise to the equation that you can't.”

“That's true. I guess we'll have to get used to each other.” I wasn't sure about the way that sounded, so I added, “To the way we do things.” No, that wasn't right either. “So we can…handle situations like that better.”

Her eyes softened and she smiled just slightly, and I felt she was seeing right through me. “You think we should get used to each other?” she asked, ignoring my stupid qualifications.

I looked at her. I didn't know what to say.

“I don't think it's a bad idea,” she said, still smiling gently. “I've been thinking about it myself.”

“You have?”

“Sure. Haven't you?”

I sat down on the bed next to her. My heart started kicking harder.

“Yeah, I've been thinking about it.”

She put her hand on my thigh and squeezed. “Good.”

I had to tell her. And if I didn't tell her now, later it would seem like deceit.