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me, just after we d landed. My reach outside Asia isn t great.
I thought of the way he d handled his pilot, the way he reminded me of Tatsu.
It will be, I said.
Why do you say that? he asked.
I smiled. Just a feeling. Anyway, I expect Boaz and Naftali will be carrying
enough hardware to make them clank when they walk.
Sounds like you ve been to Amsterdam, am I right?
I know the general layout. But I haven t been to Rotterdam at all.
Well, our man lives near Vondelpark in Amsterdam, if you know where that is.
A duplex at 15 Vossiusstraat. Commutes to work in Rotterdam.
I know Vondelpark.
I ll upload the dossier to the bulletin board. It ll be waiting for you when
you arrive.
Good.
He hesitated, then said, Tatsu would be proud of you.
I nodded. Maybe it was manipulation; maybe it was heartfelt. Either way, I
suspected it was true. He was a good influence, I said. On both of us.
I shook his hand, then turned to Dox. The big sniper was lying on his back on
some folded blankets on the cabin floor, zonked from the morphine we d been
administering. I squatted down and took his hand. Enjoy your vacation, you
malingerer.
He groaned. You know there s nowhere I d rather be going right now than to
Amsterdam. You put him down good, all right?
I squeezed his hand. I will. I ll see you soon.
An ambulance was pulling up even as I got off the plane. I walked across the
tarmac and then through the airport, and by the time I reached the Cathay
Pacific counter, I was Taro Yamada again, and checked in for my flight without
a hitch.
I thought about calling Delilah. I was still unsettled by what she had said to
me. I didn t know how I felt, or even how to respond, and felt stupid for it.
Just a few days earlier, I had decided the whole thing was ridiculous,
unsustainable. And then there was that night at the Bel-Air, and& shit, I just
didn t know.
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But in the end, the thought of Delilah getting a report from Boaz and radio
silence from me was just too uncomfortable. I didn t want to seem to
disrespect her. Because I did respect her, I was grateful to her, I& ah, Jesus
Christ. I found a pay phone and called her.
She picked up immediately. Allo?
It s me. We got him. He s safe.
Oh, John.
Yeah, it s all right. He s going to be okay.
When are you coming back here?
Soon. There s just one thing I have to finish first. Under the
circumstances, she would know what that thing was.
There was a pause. Are you sure it s& necessary?
I have no choice. He ll come after us if I don t.
Let me help you, then.
No, it s not a good idea.
I m afraid.
That threw me.
What are you afraid of? You re never afraid.
I m afraid you ve been pushing your luck. I want to be with you on this.
I paused, trying to think of what to say, of a way to explain.
I don t want you involved, I said. I don t want you to come into the place
I m in, the place where I have to be. I think& you re the only thing that can
pull me out.
John&
Okay? I have help. Talk to your people, you ll see. Don t come. I need you
after.
I hung up then, afraid of what I might say next. I stood there for a long
time, my eyes closed, wondering about what I had just said to her and where
the words had come from. So much was happening, I couldn t stay on top of it.
I wanted to find some dark, safe place where I could hide from everything and
try to figure it all out.
But I had to stay focused. I had to finish this. I had no choice.
I was practically comatose on the thirteen-hour flight to Amsterdam, arriving
at six-thirty in the morning local time. I doubted Boaz and Naftali could have
made it as fast, but I bought a prepaid card and tried Boaz from a pay phone
anyway. No answer. Yeah, they were probably in the air.
I used the Cathay Pacific arrivals lounge to shower and change. Kanezaki had
given me the second Dragon Skin vest, and I put it on now, half for
protection, half against the likely cold outside. I took the usual precautions
leaving the airport, then caught the train to Amsterdam s Centraal Station.
I arrived to find a rainy, chilly, gloomy morning. Commuters shuffled past me
on the slick pavement, umbrellas dripping, chins tucked into scarves. I was
struck by the relative absence of conversation. Maybe it was the hour, maybe
the chill, but the mood of the area was quiet, even dour.
I bought a hat, scarf, gloves, an umbrella, and a map at a station shop. None
of the shops that were open sold jackets or knives, which I wanted almost as
much. I d have to wait until something opened later, when I could outfit
myself properly. In the meantime, I was going to be cold again.
I took the GVB tram to Leidseplein, near Vondelpark, where Boezeman lived. I
knew the square was a lively spot at night, but it wasn t quite nine in the
morning now, and the dozens of bars and restaurants and coffee shops were
shuttered. I paused on a bridge over one of the antique canals that circled
back from the harbor like concentric strands on a spider s web, looking down
briefly at the wet leaves floating on the murky water, a pair of geese gliding
by, improbably white and pure in contrast to the Stygian waters around them.
Cars passed me, their headlights weak against the wet winter morning gloom,
their tires spraying water from giant puddles onto the sidewalks. Bicyclists
pedaled stoically through the chill rain.
Vossiusstraat was only a five-minute walk from the tram stop. I found the
street, a narrow, one-way, cobblestoned thoroughfare, and walked down it. I
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was entering an area where Hilger might anticipate me, and my alertness
sharpened.
On the left side of the street was a long row of centuries-old, four-and
five-story brick-and-stone buildings, one joined to the next. None of the
doorways was set in deeply enough to offer someone a place to hide and wait.
On the right side was the mile-long green strip of Vondelpark, separated from
Vossiusstraat by a spiked, wrought-iron fence. I checked the park through the
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