Requiem for an Assassin

“Why do I even ask?” I said, shaking my head. “You’re not there. You never were.”

I turned and went back to the road.

I arrived in Palo Alto at a little before four. The first thing I did was go to a military-surplus store in nearby Mountain View, where I bought a down parka with a hood and a pair of leather gloves. It was fifty-five degrees outside, according to the Mercedes’ digital readout, so the parka would be a little excessive. But its bulk would conceal my body type, and its hood would obscure my face. The gloves I would need later.

Next, I drove to Ja

The house was close to the bottom of the hill. It was an older, two-story building, white painted clapboard with solar panels on the roof. No cars in the driveway. Maybe no one was home; maybe they parked in the garage. No way to know at the moment. It was a weekday and I expected Ja

I went past slowly, looking for a place I could set up. There was a gravel turnout on the right side of the road, about fifty yards down from his house. I could wait there and pick him up coming and going, but the spot would enable me only to see him, not to act. Worse, if I parked there, Ja

I drove down to the end of the street. Christopher ended on Old Page Mill Road, a narrow, sleepy affair paralleled by a blacktopped, four-lane artery called Page Mill Road. I gathered the “old” version was what the locals relied on until the town grew and the small road was overtaken by the need for something wider and faster. I made a left on what I decided to think of as OPM and drove slowly north. A hundred yards up the street, just south of another small road called Gerth Lane, there was a dirt turnout. I did a U-turn into it and stopped, facing Christopher. I looked around and decided I liked the spot. I wasn’t in front of a house, so no one was likely to pay me much attention. And I had a good view of Christopher where it let out onto OPM. Ja

A pack of bicyclists shot past me on Page Mill. They were all helmeted, sleek in gaudy racing suits, and I had a feeling their machines cost thousands of dollars apiece. They reminded me of hiking clubs in Japan, whose members wouldn’t consider a stroll even on a gentle grassy hillside without hiking boots, walking sticks, and enough North Face paraphernalia to make a seasoned alpinist blush. Well, I could see why biking would be popular around here. I understood the weather was wonderful most of the year, although just now it was overcast, and the hills were beautiful enough.

I was tired, but there was only about an hour of daylight left and I wanted to reco

East Bayshore turned out to be an access road paralleling Route 101, one of the main arteries between the Bay Area and southern California. I parked on a perpendicular street called Embarcadero, across from a Chinese restaurant named Ming’s. Call me paranoid-I’d just take it as a compliment, anyway-but I didn’t want to run even the smallest risk that the car I was driving, or its license plate, might be seen near Ja

I slipped on the parka, pulled up the hood, and got out. I used the short walk to get into character. Thinking in Japanese, I reminded myself that I was Yamada again, altering certain details of the legend to fit the current circumstances. This time, I was being transferred to Silicon Valley by my employer, Matsushita Electric Industrial in Osaka, and was in town now to find a house and take care of school arrangements and otherwise prepare for the family move. I had a business card I could provide in case anyone asked for it, complete with a number that would be answered by a suitably incomprehensible Japanese message on the voice-mail system I continued to maintain back in Japan. My wife would need office space after our move for her work as a freelance translator. This look like a good place, and so close to highway, too…what kind companies work here? It wasn’t very cold, so the parka was a little odd, sure, but Americans are tolerant of foreigners and their idiosyncrasies. Look at how much they put up with in that movie Borat.

Ja

I walked through the parking lot looking for Ja

I thought about calling him from a pay phone, but didn’t like the idea. I might come away with a better understanding of where he was, or even if he was in town right now, but I’d have to engage him or someone else with a story, too, leaving another potential piece of evidence for later. I decided to wait until a call would likely be more valuable.

I headed toward Ja

I turned and walked away, considering. With a camera, I couldn’t get to him in or directly in front of the building. That still left the parking lot. The problem was, to make a death look natural, you need some temporary control over the environment. If all that was required was walking up to Ja