As he followed a side street down to the waterfront and the small parking lot that served the houseboats, a couple of problems quickly became apparent. The first was the cyclone fence and gate that had been put in place to prevent thieves, sightseers, and other undesirables from making their way out onto the community dock. The second was the fact that the area was so open that there was no place from which the assassin could safely observe his target’s comings and goings prior to making a move.
A red Mercedes was parked in the lot, though, and while there hadn’t been an opportunity for him to memorize the license plate, the assassin would have sworn that it was the same vehicle he’d seen parked outside the barn in Yakima. A thick patina of dust seemed to confirm that theory, as 47 executed a U-turn and left the area.
It was nearly dark by that time, the streetlights were on, and the orange-red sun was in the process of dropping behind the Olympic Mountains as the assassin searched for a place to stay. There weren’t any mom-and-pop-style motels in the downtown area, but Agent 47 happened by a seedy motor inn on the west side of the lake. It met all of his requirements. According to a sign in the lobby, the proprietors were willing to let rooms by the hour, day, week, or month. So he registered as Mr. Metzger, paid for five days in advance, and carried his suitcases up to a second-floor room.
The door opened into a claustrophobic space that was all too reminiscent of other hotel rooms he had stayed in over the years. The relatively early hour, along with the rhythmic thump, thump, thump of a bed hitting the wall next door, suggested that his neighbors were taking advantage of the motel’s hourly rate.
The energetic couple was still at it when 47 left shortly thereafter to return to the Volvo.
His first task for the evening was to find dinner down by the water. That was easy enough to do, since there were plenty of restaurants along the lake’s south shore. It was while he was looking for a place to park that Agent 47 stumbled across a nonprofit organization dedicated to the preservation and use of wooden boats. The organization also offered some boats for rent.
That could come in handy, he mused.
Having made a mental note of what time the center opened, 47 walked east, turned into a waterfront shopping complex, and entered an upscale restaurant. Predictably enough the interior boasted a nautical theme, the menu emphasized seafood, and the waitstaff wore blue polo shirts, white slacks, and deck shoes.
The assassin ordered wild salmon and a glass of ice water, then settled back to wait. It was dark outside the windows, so there was nothing to do but watch the people seated around him; individuals whose existences focused on office politics, leaky roofs, and demanding children-all of them variables to be circumvented or exploited. Unpredictable objects that could block a shot, suddenly morph into a counterassassin, or be used for cover should it become necessary.
There had been a relationship with another living being once. Not with a human, but with the mouse that had lived in the wall near his bed and emerged each night to collect the crumbs the little boy brought him from the asylum’s spartan dining room. Though never really tame, the rodent would stare up at its benefactor through beady black eyes as it ate whatever treat it had been given.
The relationship lasted for about a month, but came to an abrupt end when 47 returned one evening to find the dead mouse lying across his pillow. Its head was matted with dried blood, and its eyes were glassy. That was when one of his clone brothers erupted into laughter, the rest of them followed suit, and the bond between 47 and his pet ended the way all relationships must. In death.
“Here’s your salmon, sir,” a female voice said, and 47 snapped back into the present as his food arrived. The meal was better than he had expected.
The night in the motel wasn’t.
It was raining when the assassin arose the next morning.
Seattle was known for its rain, which often manifested as little more than an intermittent mist, but this was the real thing. The Volvo’s wipers made a soft slapping sound as he drove to the local Denny’s restaurant, which in the absence of a mom-and-pop option, would have to do. After a “grand-slam” breakfast, it was time to return to the Center for Wooden Boats, park the sedan, and make his way down onto the floating dock.
Classic wooden boats were moored to the right and the left. Many had rainwater sloshing around under the floorboards. A seaplane roared as it passed overhead and made a neat two-point landing on the steel-gray lake beyond, one of a fleet of such planes that ferried people to and from the San Juan Islands, about 80 miles to the north.
A left, a right, and a short walk carried 47 out to a cedar-sheathed structure labeled BOAT HOUSE. The door to the office stood open, and with the exception of a single attendant, the room was empty. A fact that wasn’t all that surprising, given the time of day and the nature of the weather.
“Good morning!” the man said cheerfully. The attendant standing next to the counter was sixty or so and was wearing a blue baseball cap with the words USS PONCE LPD 15 stitched across the front. The rest of his outfit consisted of a paint-smeared sweatshirt and a pair of baggy khaki pants. “My name’s Hal,” he continued genially. “What can I do for you?”
“I’d like to rent a boat,” Agent 47 replied.
“Well, there’s plenty to pick from,” the attendant said. “What’s your fancy?”
“Something light,” the assassin answered. “Something easy to row.”
“Then I have just the thing,” Hal replied confidently. “Follow me.”
The attendant showed a keen knowledge of the wooden boats, and by the time 47 had been issued a pair of oars and a life jacket, he knew all about the vessel he was about to rent. Twelve-foot-long Whitehalls had originally been designed for use as water taxis in New York harbor, and first put into service about 1840. Because they were faster than the other harbor taxis of their day, Whitehalls were favored by the boardinghouse “crimps,” or runners, who went out to meet incoming ships and bring seamen ashore.
Hal watched Agent 47 as he rowed away, waved once he was comfortable that his customer was competent, and went back to the office.
Though far from an expert, 47 knew how to row, and was pleased with the way the boat cut through the water as he pulled on the oars. And in spite of the cool air and the persistent rain, it wasn’t long before the assassin began to feel warm. So he brought the oars inboard and allowed the Whitehall to coast while he stripped the rain jacket off. That left him in a blue nylon top, matching pants, and running shoes. The Silverballers were invisible beneath the loose zip-up top. His garrote, plus a hypo loaded with an extremely effective sedative, were stashed in a waterproof knapsack that sat beside him.
It felt better without the jacket, and Agent 47 soon found that he was enjoying the exercise as he sent the rowboat north in a series of long, smooth spurts. The wind ruffled the surface of the lake, and the bow made a gentle smacking sound as it cut through the occasional wavelet. Gradually the Whitehall passed a marina, a dry dock, and the pier at which three NOAA ships were moored.
Water dripped off the tips of 47’s oars, and left circles spinning in the boat’s wake, as the skiff began to close with the houseboats ahead. It was perfectly natural for those who passed to eyeball the floating homes, so there was no need to be secretive, as the assassin took an occasional glance over his left shoulder. The first thing he noticed was that the waterborne structures came in a variety of shapes and sizes. Some were only one-story tall, while others had a second level, and were more spacious inside. Almost all of them were well maintained, and many boasted baskets filled with flowers.
One such home was of special interest to the agent because it was located at the end of the dock, directly across from the unit the target lived in. An elderly woman was kneeling on the front deck, tending a flower box full of bright red geraniums, as 47 directed the boat in toward her one-story houseboat.
“Your flowers are very healthy,” he said, as the gap between the two of them closed. “What do you feed them?” The entire time he spoke, he remained aware of the target’s houseboat, but saw no sign of activity.
Even with the weather, there were several rowers out on the lake, and the woman must have been accustomed to such compliments, because she registered no sense of alarm as the stranger allowed one of his oars to rest on her wooden deck. Her name was Grace Beasley, and wisps of gray hair stuck out from under the blue rain hat her dead husband liked to wear while golfing. Her eyes were like chips of turquoise mounted in sockets of wrinkled skin. A plaid shirt and a pair of black pants completed her outfit.