Read Online Requiem for an Assassin by Barry Eisler - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Barry Eisler
Tags: Krimis & Thriller
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Internet searching for and purchasing flights to Saigon so soon after being tagged in Paris. Better to have the transaction done on a closed system.
From what I knew of Hilger and the number of government officials he had in his pocket, I guessed he might have access to customs information. If he knew what flight I was coming in on, it would be too easy for him to have a team waiting at the airport in Saigon. In fact, the safer alternative would be to fly to Hanoi and arrive in Saigon by some land connection. But there was no time for that. So the best I could do was to avoid leaving directly from Paris. That would at least obscure my arrival time.
There was a flight from Frankfurt at 7:20 that evening, with a change in Bangkok that would put me into Saigon at 3:25 the following afternoon, and of course my pick of flights on other airlines from Paris to Frankfurt. The woman who helped me was a little confused about why I wouldn’t want to just fly nonstop from Paris on Air France. Miles, I told her. I wanted to be able to upgrade to first. But damn, I didn’t have my frequent flyer number with me…. I would take care of it later, directly with the airline. I booked the flight for Taro Yamada, the name on the passport I would be using and the Japanese equivalent of John Smith. Yamada was currently my most solid alter ego, fully nurtured into a mature identity, including driver’s license, credit cards, bank accounts, and the other indicia of unremarkable citizenship.
I hadn’t been to Saigon in over three decades, and I knew there would be a lot to learn, and not much time to learn it. Well, I could pick up a guidebook at the airport and read it on the plane. With that, plus the time I’d already spent there, plus the extra day I’d have on Hilger, I’d have an advantage.
I was actually in my apartment packing a bag—a few changes of clothes, a little less than ten thousand dollars in cash—when I realized I was supposed to meet Delilah for a drink in Montparnasse. Shit. I thought for a moment. Call her on her mobile? And tell her what?
I checked my watch. With just a carry-on, I could meet her and still make my plane. I went out to boulevard Henri IV and caught a cab.
Now that the logistics were taken care of, I was gripped by a creeping unease, entirely separate from the fear I felt for Dox. Maybe Vietnam was a bad idea. Saigon offered security advantages, yes, but for me it would also be a land of unburied memories, of a world that could never be forgotten, only, perhaps, left behind. I wondered why the iceman would want to go back there, what he was trying to accomplish in doing so.
I would have to let it go for now, and trust him as I always had before. What mattered is that he was here, invoked by crisis. The trick would be to get him to leave when the crisis was done.
7
D ELILAH SAT AT a corner table in the brasserie of La Closerie des Lilas in Montparnasse. She liked that John wasn’t there yet. For a long time she had always been able to count on him to come early. She would ask him about it, and he would tell her he had some extra time, that he just wanted to read the paper or people-watch. She knew better, and knew he knew, too, but what was the point of saying anything? He arrived early because it was an old habit, a means of avoiding an ambush. She engaged in similar tradecraft herself, of course, but Rain was extreme.
Even when he was on time, she would sense that he’d been nearby, watching their meeting place beforehand, wanting to see her arrive first. Once she’d actually gotten in position two hours early and sure enough, she had barely arrived in time to watch him move through the area, checking the hot spots. The last one he checked was hers, and rightly so, because she had chosen a less obvious place, farther down the street, not a particularly good view. She’d given up after that, knowing that if he knew she was going to show up two hours early, he would just come an hour earlier
From what I knew of Hilger and the number of government officials he had in his pocket, I guessed he might have access to customs information. If he knew what flight I was coming in on, it would be too easy for him to have a team waiting at the airport in Saigon. In fact, the safer alternative would be to fly to Hanoi and arrive in Saigon by some land connection. But there was no time for that. So the best I could do was to avoid leaving directly from Paris. That would at least obscure my arrival time.
There was a flight from Frankfurt at 7:20 that evening, with a change in Bangkok that would put me into Saigon at 3:25 the following afternoon, and of course my pick of flights on other airlines from Paris to Frankfurt. The woman who helped me was a little confused about why I wouldn’t want to just fly nonstop from Paris on Air France. Miles, I told her. I wanted to be able to upgrade to first. But damn, I didn’t have my frequent flyer number with me…. I would take care of it later, directly with the airline. I booked the flight for Taro Yamada, the name on the passport I would be using and the Japanese equivalent of John Smith. Yamada was currently my most solid alter ego, fully nurtured into a mature identity, including driver’s license, credit cards, bank accounts, and the other indicia of unremarkable citizenship.
I hadn’t been to Saigon in over three decades, and I knew there would be a lot to learn, and not much time to learn it. Well, I could pick up a guidebook at the airport and read it on the plane. With that, plus the time I’d already spent there, plus the extra day I’d have on Hilger, I’d have an advantage.
I was actually in my apartment packing a bag—a few changes of clothes, a little less than ten thousand dollars in cash—when I realized I was supposed to meet Delilah for a drink in Montparnasse. Shit. I thought for a moment. Call her on her mobile? And tell her what?
I checked my watch. With just a carry-on, I could meet her and still make my plane. I went out to boulevard Henri IV and caught a cab.
Now that the logistics were taken care of, I was gripped by a creeping unease, entirely separate from the fear I felt for Dox. Maybe Vietnam was a bad idea. Saigon offered security advantages, yes, but for me it would also be a land of unburied memories, of a world that could never be forgotten, only, perhaps, left behind. I wondered why the iceman would want to go back there, what he was trying to accomplish in doing so.
I would have to let it go for now, and trust him as I always had before. What mattered is that he was here, invoked by crisis. The trick would be to get him to leave when the crisis was done.
7
D ELILAH SAT AT a corner table in the brasserie of La Closerie des Lilas in Montparnasse. She liked that John wasn’t there yet. For a long time she had always been able to count on him to come early. She would ask him about it, and he would tell her he had some extra time, that he just wanted to read the paper or people-watch. She knew better, and knew he knew, too, but what was the point of saying anything? He arrived early because it was an old habit, a means of avoiding an ambush. She engaged in similar tradecraft herself, of course, but Rain was extreme.
Even when he was on time, she would sense that he’d been nearby, watching their meeting place beforehand, wanting to see her arrive first. Once she’d actually gotten in position two hours early and sure enough, she had barely arrived in time to watch him move through the area, checking the hot spots. The last one he checked was hers, and rightly so, because she had chosen a less obvious place, farther down the street, not a particularly good view. She’d given up after that, knowing that if he knew she was going to show up two hours early, he would just come an hour earlier
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