The Last Assassin (30 page)

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 could even feel some of the adhesive from the duct tape, where it had come off on the porcelain. But the knife itself was gone.

Maybe someone had found it by accident. Or else airport security periodically swept public areas for contraband. It didn't matter. What mattered was what I was going to do next.

I got up and moved quickly to the handicap stall. It was the last one, farthest from the entrance, and, unlike the other stalls, the door on this one swung out, not in. I closed it behind me, but didn't engage the lock. When I let it go, though, it swung slowly outward.

Fuck.
I grabbed some toilet paper, squeezed it into a small ball, and pulled the door closed on it. This time the door held.

I opened my bag and pulled out a pair of shoes and pants. I set the shoes down in front of the toilet and piled the pants on top of them. From outside the stall, at a glance, it would look natural enough.

I heard the swinging door open. Hot adrenaline spread through my chest and gut.

I sat on the toilet, took hold of the handicap railing on both sides, leaned back, and raised my feet in front of me.

In my acute state I heard the distinct sound of a folding blade clicking into place. Then another.

Footsteps, to my left. I breathed quietly through my mouth.

The footsteps came closer. Closer.

The footsteps stopped directly in front of me. I saw a shape through the crack at the edge of the door. The shape started to move lower as the yakuza angled for a better peek.

I bellowed a war cry and shot my feet into the door. It exploded outward and blasted into the yakuza's face. He fell backward and something clattered to the floor.

I sprang out. The other yakuza was on my left, a blade in his right hand. Before he could get over the instant of shock produced by my yell and the sight of his partner going down, I bellowed again and grabbed his wrist with both hands.

I trained in judo at Tokyo's famed Kodokan for a quarter century. A quarter century of daily hours of gripping and twisting the heavy cotton
judogi.
More recently, I'd gotten addicted to Brazilian jujitsu in Rio. And on top of all that were my hand and finger exercises. I can say without any false pride that, when I grab someone's wrist, they might as well be caught in a bear trap.

I squeezed hard and the yakuza howled. His knife clattered to the floor. I stepped in close, grabbed his balls with an undergrip, and squeezed as hard as I could. He shrieked and doubled over.

The other guy was on his knees now, groping for his knife under the sinks. I grabbed him by his leather jacket and hauled him back. He tried to catch me with a donkey kick, but I'd anticipated that and was too far to his side. The kick snapped past me. I scooted toward his head, braced my hands on his back, and shot a knee into his face. He fell back. I dropped down, grabbed the knife, and rolled to my feet.

The other guy was staggering for the door now, still doubled over. I snagged one of his pants legs at the ankle and yanked it back toward me. He went sprawling forward onto his face. I did a knee drop onto his spine, mashed his face into the floor, and brought the knife up under his neck. I dug in, then tore out and away.

There was a wet gurgling noise, half cry, half bubbling liquid. I jumped back to get clear of the blood and turned to his partner. He was on his ass now, scuttling backward. His face was a bloody mess—from the door shot or the knee or both, I didn't know.

He bumped up against the wall and started to struggle to his feet. I kicked him in the balls and he folded forward with a grunt. I stepped behind him, hooked my fingers into his eyes, and hauled his head back. Then I brought the knife around and practically took his head off. Blood sprayed from the gaping wound and I shoved him away from me. He crashed into one of the stall doors and went down.

I looked at myself in the mirror. There was blood all over me. The jacket I was wearing was dark enough to conceal the problem, though, and I zipped it up higher. I rinsed my shaking hands under one of the faucets, closed the knife, and shoved it into a pants pocket. Then I rinsed my face and wet my hair, getting the blood off and changing my appearance at the same time.

The swinging doors opened. I glanced over. A black man in a suit started to walk inside. He froze when he saw the tableau. “Oh, my God,” he said.

“I was attacked,” I said, in a high, frightened voice, looking at his feet to make it harder for him to see my face. “Find a policeman. Please.”

He backed out through the door. I really had to hurry now.

I ducked into the handicap stall and shoved my pants and shoes into the carry-on. When I came out I had to jump over the pool of blood spreading on the tiled floor. I wanted to wipe down the surfaces I'd touched, but there just wasn't time. I went out the swinging doors. The area was clear. I kept my head down and headed straight for a taxi stand.

Ten minutes later, I was in the back of a cab, heading into Manhattan. I started to feel giddy. A crazy thought zigged through my mind—
Damn, the things you have to do to get a knife in New York
—and I almost laughed.

It was finally over with Yamaoto. I had just finished my last job. And Midori and Koichiro were safe.

I
CALLED MIDORI
from the cab to let her know I was coming. But she didn't answer. I used the mobile browser on the phone to check her Web site. She had a gig at a place called Detour in the East Village. I called the club. The woman I spoke to told me Midori wouldn't be there that night. She had had to cancel.

“Do you know why?” I asked.

“No, I'm sorry. A personal matter, that's all I know.”

I told the driver to take me to Greenwich Village, corner of Seventh Avenue and Bleecker. I would walk to her apartment from there.

By the time the cab dropped me off, the trendy Village dinner scene was in full swing. I watched the laughing, contented hipsters and yuppies walking past me in their distressed leather jackets and Tod's shoes. It was like being on some surreal movie set.

I approached Midori's apartment carefully. Tatsu had said there were only two, but caution is a lifelong reflex for me.

When I was satisfied I wasn't going to run into another welcoming committee, I walked up to the front door. The doorman was there, the same guy as last time.

“I'm here to see Midori Kawamura,” I told him.

“Is she expecting you?”

“She should be.”

He nodded and went inside. I sensed I was supposed to wait, but I followed him in. He didn't protest.

He picked up the phone and input a number. A moment later, he said, “Hello, Ms. Kawamura. You have a visitor here. He says you're expecting him.”

He paused, then looked at me. “What's your name?”

“Jun,” I said.

He repeated my name into the phone. Then he looked at me again and said, “She can't come down.”

I snatched the phone out of his hand. He jumped back, startled. I raised the phone to my ear and said, “Either you come down, or I'm coming up.”

There was a pause, then she said, “Wait.”

I put the phone back in its cradle. The doorman looked at me, angry, obviously trying to decide what to do.

“Let it go,” I said, giving him a flat stare. “You don't want to get in the middle of this.”

After a moment, he nodded. I stepped outside again and watched the street.

Two minutes later, Midori came out. She was wearing black jeans and a gray sweatshirt. Koichiro was in her arms, wrapped in the blue fleece blanket.

She was holding him with his back to me, but he twisted around and looked. When he saw my face, he smiled. I felt something crack inside me.

“I don't care how you feel about me,” I said. “I just came to tell you it's over. You're both safe.”

Her eyes darted left on the sidewalk, then right. Christ, she was jumpy. It wasn't like her. Well, no wonder.

“Do you understand what I'm saying?” I went on. “Those men. They're not going to bother you anymore. No one's going to bother you.”

Koichiro said,
“Inu!”
Dog!

She speaks Japanese with him,
I thought. It couldn't have been more of a non sequitur.

Damn, there was something about her—it felt like she was going to pop out of her skin.

“You're safe,” I said again.

She looked up and down the street.

“Yamaoto's dead, too,” I said. “No one's going to…”

I looked at her, and all at once I realized. I just knew.

“They're not coming here,” I said, my voice sounding far away to me. “You can stop looking around. They were already waiting, at the airport.”

She stared at me, saying nothing.

My mind knew it was true, but my heart wouldn't believe it. I tilted my head and looked at her as though seeing her for the first time. As indeed, in an important sense, I was.

“You knew I'd come running if you refused to hide,” I said slowly, almost thinking out loud. “You knew that would get me on the first flight from Tokyo. And when I did just what you knew I would, when I told you I was on my way, you told them. You told them exactly where to wait.”

I kept looking at her, trying to take it all in. She had set me up like a pro. I was trying to fit this new understanding of what she was capable of into the way I'd always known her, and I couldn't quite manage it.

“Do you know what they were going to do to me?” I asked, thinking,
Maybe she didn't. She couldn't have…

She nodded and finally spoke. “I know.”

I shook my head, trying to understand. “Is this about your father?”

“No,” she said, holding Koichiro closer. “It's about my son.”

I paused, then said, “But I'd fixed everything. Those two were the last ones, and they're gone now, too. I'm done. I'm out, like I told you.”

She laughed harshly. “And you accuse me of being in denial? What you do is like fighting a hydra. Everyone you kill, it creates two more. If you can't see that, you're insane.”

I didn't respond. My thoughts were sluggish. I felt dizzy, as though I'd been punched in the head.

Koichiro said,
“Inu!”
again.

I looked away, trying to collect myself.

“You know who showed up here right after you did?” I heard Midori say. “Some blond bitch who said she knew you. She told me you were a danger to Koichiro and me, and warned me to stop seeing you. And you know what? She was right. She was absolutely right.”

I looked at her. “She…came here?”

She shook her head in disgust. “Why do you look so surprised? You're trailing a poisonous wake, Jun. And every port you pull into, it washes up behind you.”

I licked my lips and tried to think of something to say. Nothing came out.

“Just go,” she said after a moment. “Just go and never come back.”

I looked at Koichiro. He was still smiling at me, not understanding.

“What about Koichiro?” I said.

“When he's old enough, I'll tell him you're dead. That's what I was planning to do anyway, after tonight. And you are. You really are.” She turned and took him back inside without another word.

I stood there for a long time, watching the building, thinking maybe she would come out again, and I could explain better, or she could, or maybe in some other way we could make it as though none of this had really happened. I hadn't killed her father, I hadn't continually brought danger onto her and our son, she hadn't betrayed me to men who two hours earlier had tried to gut me in some airport toilet stall.

But she didn't come. And it all did happen.

I'd been ready to do anything to protect them, even suicide. I should have realized Midori would be willing to go at least that far.

I watched the building longer. Eventually I started to shiver. Finally I turned to go. It was strange to think how close my son was, and yet now how impossibly far.