36
AS THE TAXI PULLED into the parking lot of the Republic of Singapore Yacht Club, Hilger saw the flashing police lights and the gawkers lined up in front of the club entrance. He instantly understood and accepted what it all meant. His heartbeat kicked up a notch, but he didn’t show anything.
“Oh my God, I can’t believe this,” he said to the driver. “I left my laptop at the hotel. Can you take me back right away?”
The driver swung around. Hilger punched some digits into his mobile phone but never pressed the “Call” button. He waited a moment, and then, for the driver’s benefit, said, “Hi, I was just using the computer center and I think I left my…oh, you found it? Oh, thank God. Yes, I’ll be there in five minutes to pick it up.”
Next, he called Guthrie’s mobile. No response. That was bad; Guthrie was always reachable. He tried Pancho next. Again, no answer.
He clicked off. The first thing he thought was that he’d have to ditch the phone right away. The number would show up in the call logs of Pancho’s and Guthrie’s units.
He knew they were dead. He didn’t know how Rain found the boat, but somehow he had. It was the same as in Hong Kong. He’d known Rain would be looking for a way to counterattack, of course, but he thought with the boat as a shell game, and with Dox as a hostage, Rain would be neutralized. Everything he knew about Rain indicated that Dox was his only partner. But Rain couldn’t have tracked him like this without help, and Hilger wondered for a moment where it might have come from.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
He breathed in and out, slowly and deeply, calming himself, focusing. If Rain had learned about the boat, could he have learned about the Rotterdam op? Not that Rain would care about the op itself; the man was a mercenary and nothing more. But he might use its existence as a way to track Hilger again. Or he might share his knowledge with someone else who might be inclined to interfere. It didn’t seem likely, but neither had the calamity that had just occurred here on Singapore.
For one bad second, he was gripped with self-doubt. Maybe he’d made a mistake in treating Rain like an enemy. Maybe he should have just tried to recruit the man, and Dox, too, even after what had happened in Hong Kong. He wondered if he’d let his anger about that blown op color his judgment, the personal interfere with the professional. After all, it wasn’t as though Rain had affiliations, or stupid loyalties, or anything else that would have inhibited him from working with Hilger. Maybe if he understood the importance of Hilger’s work, he could have taken it up for himself. Nihilism was unnatural. Maybe the right cause could have brought Rain around.
He squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. Or maybe not. Because almost nobody else really got it. Where were the realists in the government, the men who would do what was necessary? Instead, we had a bunch of chicken hawks peddling fantasy solutions to imaginary problems, who called their solution the “Patriot Act” and sold it to an ignorant public eager to believe the tough talkers were actually protecting them. It made Hilger want to puke.
Well, he would take care of it, take care of all of it. He was so close now.
He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing again. Slowly, in and out.
All right. Assume the op is blown. Assume Rain knows about Boezeman. Hard to imagine how, but still…what does Rain do with the information?
Hilger smiled. He knew Rain now. It had taken him a while and cost him a lot, but now he knew his enemy. Rain would use the information to track Hilger. It was the predator in him, the relentlessness he’d seen in Rain’s eyes in Saigon and in his actions everywhere else. Lots of other things were uncertain, but this one Hilger knew he could take to the bank.
Two courses of action immediately presented themselves. One was an imperative; the other, an opportunity.
The imperative: get to Amsterdam immediately. On a chartered jet if there was nothing immediately available commercially. Meet Boezeman, access the device, ensure proper placement, arm the detonator.
The opportunity: stay in Amsterdam for just a short while after, to double back on the man, or men, who he was certain would be tracking him there.
Maybe he was miscalculating again. Maybe Rain, and Dox, too, if they were together, would get the better of him. Certainly not impossible to imagine; they were skilled, they were ruthless, and they were pissed.
But he would take that chance. As soon as he finished his business with Boezeman, nothing would be able to stop the operation, and the operation was always what mattered. More than the lives of any of his men. More, of course, even than his own.
If it came to that.
As the taxi pulled into the hotel parking lot, Hilger’s mind felt as cool and clear as a pristine mountain stream. He knew exactly what he needed to do, and he knew exactly how to do it.
37
KANEZAKI HAD the Marine pilot take us to Hong Kong. Along the way, he used a satellite phone to make various arrangements: a doctor for Dox, a 12:25 A.M. first-class Cathay Pacific flight to Amsterdam for me.
“I can’t get you the kind of hardware you like in Amsterdam,” Kanezaki told 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.
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.