“G’night, Mr. LaRusse,” the voice echoed from the wall panel.
LaRusse released his finger from the button and started walking towards his bedroom. On the buffet next to the coffee table he noticed a dish of leftover lasagna.
The lasagna seemed especially good to him tonight. It was sent from his favorite Italian restaurant, Cacciotti’s, along with the rest of the food for the poker game. He thought of finishing it off, but he was gaining weight at an alarming rate and had been making half-hearted attempts at dieting. LaRusse decided that he would heat some up in the morning for brunch.
He picked up the dish, took it into the kitchen, and put it in the refrigerator. He thought about pulling out a beer for a nightcap, but decided against it. Making his way to the bedroom, he turned out the lights behind him.
Outside LaRusse’s apartment, still clinging to the front of the building, the Ninja saw the lights go out. The man had finally gone to bed. Although it was late, the Ninja knew there were at least four hours of darkness left so he was in no special hurry to go about his business. He would give the man an hour or two to fall asleep before he moved from his position and set about his task.
A couple of hours later, LaRusse awoke groggy and sleepy-eyed. He had to go to the bathroom. He climbed his way out of sleep and into consciousness, and just as he reached the state that balanced between being asleep and being awake, he heard a small sound. He couldn’t tell if he actually heard it or dreamed it, but he reached under his pillow and placed his hand on the gun he kept there. He operated on instinct, and instinct had kept him alive in many tight situations. He stayed still, fighting his way to full alertness, listening.
The sound puzzled him. It was the noise of wind, but too loud to be coming from outside his apartment. The location of the sound also puzzled him. It came from his living room, and sounds of people breaking in should come from the hall. Keeping one hand on the gun, he reached with his other hand to the intercom by his bed.
“Fred?” LaRusse’s voice was a hoarse whisper as he called the guard’s name.
“Yes, sir?” The intercom’s volume was turned low, but the puzzled surprise in the guard’s voice still came through.
“Everything okay?”
“Yes, sir. Quiet night. Nothin’ going on. Is something the matter?”
“No,” LaRusse said after a pause. “Just thought I’d check to make sure you were awake. Good night.”
“G’night, sir.”
LaRusse clicked off the intercom. He lay in bed puzzling out the mystery of the sound. He was forty-four stories above the street and there was only one door to the apartment. He felt the stir of a cool draft and he decided that the sound must be from the heating system. It was always acting up. He took his hand off the gun and threw back the covers, finally getting up to go to the bathroom.
On the way back to bed, he thought about the dish of lasagna; he could taste the aromatic tomato sauce, firm noodles, seasoned meat, and the creamy cheese. To hell with his diet. He was hungry and he wanted that lasagna. He padded back out of the bedroom and down the hall.
The apartment definitely felt colder than normal, and when he entered the living room on his way to the kitchen, he was astounded to smell rain and to feel the chill of the storm. Before him, an entire panel of glass was removed and lying on the living room floor. The wind and rain were beating in through the windowless opening, causing a widening stain on the expensive carpet.
His first thought was that the storm must have somehow worked the glass free, popping it out of its frame. He walked over to investigate and noticed that there was some kind of suction cup clamped to the face of the glass. The suction cup had been used to remove the glass.
LaRusse turned immediately to retrieve his gun, but before his turn was complete, a knife flew across the room with power and authority. It penetrated the flesh just below his right jaw. The suddenness of the attack and the massive drop in blood pressure from the severing of an artery muted the pain and fear, leaving him confused more than anything else. As he tried to pull the knife from his flesh, he staggered, stepped on the slippery wet pane of glass, and fell backwards through the opening.
As he started the long tumble to the street, the confusion cleared and the cold ratiocination that he had depended on for his livelihood and life returned. His senses became acutely aware of everything that was happening. He felt the warm gush of blood on his hands as he continued to try to remove the knife. He felt the sharp sting of the blade as he tugged at it. He felt the lesser sting of the drops of cold water hitting him on the face, hands, and bare feet. He saw the blur of glass panels passing him as he tumbled towards the earth, and he noted with detachment that he continued to pick up speed.
Perversely, his last thoughts were of the hunger he still felt and how the lasagna in his refrigerator was so much better than his mother’s.
The Ninja hesitated only long enough to make sure the man wasn’t going to be a threat. The need to press his attack was eliminated when the man fell through the window opening. He was surprised at how little time it took to actually kill a man. It was his first.
He had wanted to avoid a confrontation with the owner of the apartment, but hadn’t shrunk from the necessity of acting. It was just like his practice. Over and over, endless repetitions of throwing a knife. That repetition was how he had acquired the skills that made up his gei, or art. To him it was an art, and the death of the man was the natural extension of that art, an extension that turned his years of rather esoteric training into a practical craft. The craft of killing.
He turned his attention back to the wall of the living room where the real target of his efforts was hanging.
2
Two days later, the cold wind of Rotterdam was dancing around the cars on Oude Binnenweg as the silver-and-white tourist bus pulled to the curb and shuddered to a halt.
“Gentlemen, we come to the next stop.” Wouter Leeuwenberg’s English was slightly accented but his meaning was clear. There were groans and considerable conversation when the group saw they were parked in front of another museum. Since the conversation was in Japanese and Leeuwenberg spoke no Japanese, he couldn’t understand what they were saying. But he could guess.
The common language between Leeuwenberg and the Japanese tour group was English so he felt safe speaking to the bus driver in Dutch. “Oh-oh, the natives are getting restless.”
“What are you going to do?” the driver asked.
“What can I do? That horse’s ass Hans scheduled us for six museums today. Six! This is the fourth and even I’m getting sick of it. These guys have already seen the palaces of London, the art of Paris, and the sex shops of Copenhagen. Then I get them.” He groaned. “I’ll show them Rotterdam, but why does Hans put together an itinerary that starts with six museums on the first day?”
The last of the tourists filed out of the bus and Leeuwenberg started after them. “I think Hans hates me,” he called over his shoulder to the bus driver as he stepped out after them.
One of the Japanese tourists approached him. He had chubby cheeks and a smooth face that made him look like he was twelve years old. “Excuse me, but what is this museum?” he asked.
Leeuwenberg smiled his best tour guide smile and said, “This is the Hollandse Scheepvaart. Very famous! Major attraction!”
The Japanese had a look of skepticism cross his face that approached incredulity. He said something to the rest of the group and a lot of disgusted muttering in Japanese passed between the members of the tour. Then he said something and the group laughed.
He turned back to Leeuwenberg. “This is a famous museum?”
“Yes, it is,” Leeuwenberg lied.
“Ah,” the Japanese answered. “The Louvre!”