by Barry Eisler
Maybe it wasn’t a mistress. Maybe it was a gay lover, or a catamite, or some such thing. My gut told me a mistress, but it didn’t really matter. What mattered was that I had a new focal point, one potentially more accessible than his home or his office.
I crossed Prince and parked in front of a hydrant on the other side of Mott. I didn’t expect to be more than five minutes, and confirming my suspicions would be worth the small chance of a ticket, and the even smaller chance that the BMW’s presence here today would ever be discovered as meaningful.
I got out, the hat and shades already on, and headed north on Mott, my breath fogging in the cold. Cars and trucks lurched along on Prince in front of me, gears grinding, the occasional horn honking. I heard children yelling and laughing somewhere, probably at a nearby school. A construction team was tearing up a sewer line, and for a moment the explosive pounding of a jackhammer drowned out everything else. I glanced left at the corner of Prince and bingo, there he was, wearing a navy suit, coming toward me. The light across Prince was red, and I was happy to be a good, law-abiding citizen and wait for it. It gave Accinelli time to make a left on Mott and get ahead of me.
The light changed. I crossed Prince with a dozen other people and stayed on the west side of Mott, the opposite side from Accinelli, and therefore the more likely to escape his notice if he were to glance behind. To my left was a church, the grounds around it enclosed by an old brick wall. On the right side of the street, various awnings and signs for ground-level stores and cafés; above them, fashionable, red brick apartment buildings that had once been tenements and warehouses, dark fire escapes zigzagging down their façades. I counted four floors of living space on some of the buildings; others had five. My eyes tracked everywhere as I walked. Two men and a woman stood smoking and shivering in front of a place called Café Gitane, but they were too young, too hipster-looking, and I didn’t make them as a problem. An attractive brunette in a long leather coat was rolling up the metal gate in front of a store, opening for the day’s business. She displayed no awareness of anything around her and again I detected no problems. A bike messenger in dreadlocks and shades was taking a package from a woman in an apron in the doorway of a florist called Polux. Like everyone else I’d seen so far, they paid no attention to the street scene around them. They felt like civilians, and nothing more.
As he walked, Accinelli reached into his pocket and took out a set of keys. Right, keys out now for faster entry, don’t want to linger on the street where you might be seen. About halfway down the street, he turned and went up a flight of four granite stairs to an apartment building entranceway. He unlocked the metal framed glass door and went in.
I continued on Mott to Houston, then crossed the street and came back, checking hot spots. Everything still seemed fine. No good hides for a sniper, I was glad to see: this stretch of Mott offered no parking; the crosstown traffic on Houston and Prince rendered untenable a shot from a vehicle farther away; and with the church grounds across the street from the apartment, the only accessible windows and rooftops were directly overhead, too sharp an angle to be useful.
I stopped in front of the building Accinelli had entered. It was sandwiched between two stores: a high-fashion men’s clothing consignment shop called INA Men, and a tiny place called A Détacher that looked equal parts fashion gallery and couture boutique. If I were Accinelli, paying my mistress’s rent, I would have selected a spot very much like this, with the church across the street, so no apartment windows from which someone might look down and see me, and the easy access to the Williamsburg Bridge and the LIE beyond it. Also, the nearby boutiques that would provide cover for action if I were seen: “Yeah, what a surprise running into you here, Bob; right, I’m just buying a present for the wife at A Détacher. And you?”
I walked up the steps and looked through the door, putting my hands up and my face close because the light from outside was mirroring the glass. The first thing I noted was the absence of a doorman. Good for Accinelli—he wouldn’t want to have to announce or explain himself, or to be noticed or remembered. And maybe good for me, too.
There was a narrow corridor stretching for about twenty-five feet past a group of metal mailboxes and back to an elevator. Fluorescent lighting. No cameras I could see—another plus, from Accinelli’s standpoint.
I stepped back. There were no hinges visible, and there was a push handle on the left. The door would open inward from that side. To the door’s left was a metal call box. A few FedEx and postal service signs were taped to it. So package and mail delivery occurred before—I glanced at my watch—eleven-thirty, at least today. I counted thirty buttons from among which a visitor would select to call his host and be buzzed in. Each had a last name next to it. I read through the list quickly. None of the names meant anything to me, and I doubted any of them would prove relevant for what came next regardless.
I walked up and down the street twice more, taking in the details: where I—or someone else—might set up to wait and observe; which stores and cafés would offer a view of the street; how people were dressed and what they were doing. The vibe wasn’t quiet, exactly, but it wasn’t bustling, either. It was still a little early for lunch, and even some of the shops hadn’t yet opened. Accinelli probably favored visits at this hour as much for the relative lack of crowds as for the built-in “going out for a business lunch” excuse the time afforded him.
I went back to the car and was relieved to find that no passing law enforcement official had noticed my parking peccadillo. I drove around the block several times, cementing details in my mind, then widened my perambulations to include more of the neighborhood. Then I found a parking space on Bleecker Street, where I waited and monitored the transmitter. At twelve thirty-five, the Mercedes pulled out. I followed from a distance just in case he stopped somewhere and an opportunity presented itself. But I doubted he would. As it was, the whole thing could have been a two-hour “lunch.” I doubted he wanted to be away longer than that.
I was right. He went straight back, pulling past the guard post at one o’clock sharp.
I drove around for a while, going nowhere in particular, letting all the details of what I’d just seen—the layout, the openings, the flow, the risks—run through my mind. Accinelli would be back to his secret spot on Mott Street, of that I had no doubt. Probably his schedule, and his ability to fabricate plausible reasons for two-hour absences, would be the only limiting factors. Lunchtime would typically be convenient. And if a secretary harbored suspicions about why certain appointments were always made directly, rather than through her, so what? Did she really want to risk her job through an indiscreet comment that got back to a powerful man like her boss?
I thought of the bike messenger I’d seen, and felt a plan beginning to cohere. I started with the general parameters, then built in details. I asked what-if questions, and played when/then games. I liked what I was coming up with. It wasn’t perfect, and there were risks. But there always are. I doubted I was going to have a better opportunity than Mott Street.
I found a bike shop in Great Neck, where I bought the cheapest twelve-speed they sold, along with a pair of long neoprene biking gloves; a fleece balaclava and a helmet to go over it; a nifty side-view mirror called Third Eye that attached to the earpiece of a pair of sunglasses; and a three-foot, case-hardened, steel bike chain called the Kryptonite Fahgettaboudit. Next, an Office Depot, where I bought a large box of styrofoam peanuts. Finally, a hardware store, where I picked up a file, a paintbrush, and two cans of paint—black, and mud brown. I wiped down everything and didn’t handle any of it afterward except with the gloves.
At a nearby park, not far from young mothers pushing their toddlers in strollers and on swings, I slathered paint all over the bike frame. I started with the can of black, using little care in my application. I just wanted the bike to look old, or as though someone had tried to make it a less enticing target for theft. Later, in a more private setting, I would file down the serial number until there w
as a hole in the metal beneath.
I ran the brush back and forth, back and forth, letting my mind drift. Of course it was impossible not to think of Koichiro. To have just seen him, to know that he was so near. To be within earshot now of all these young mothers with their children, hearing them laugh and chat and gossip about goings-on in the neighborhood. To have read of the fallout, the consequences, of what I’d done to Jannick.
I opened the can of brown and kept at it, the sun providing a hint of warmth to the otherwise chill air. Midori’s parents were dead, and she had no brothers or sisters. If something happened to her, who would take care of Koichiro? No one but Midori knew I was his father. Even if someone did, there was no way to find me. What would happen to my son? Who would step forward?
My hand stopped in midstroke and I stood completely still for a moment, frozen by sudden insight. It had been right in front of me, and I’d missed it. I’d been too focused on the CIA funding of Jannick’s company, that was the problem. It seemed like a connection. But it wasn’t impossible that it was nothing but a distracting coincidence.
Who would step forward? The article said Jannick’s wife and children were being cared for by relatives. Who, though? Grandparents? Brothers? Sisters? Uncles? Aunts? Whoever they were, they were like pieces on a chessboard, and Jannick’s death had rearranged their positions. Maybe that new positioning was what Hilger was really after.
I finished the bike. As soon as it was dry, I threw it in the trunk and drove to the Great Neck Public Library, where I posted a message to Kanezaki: What relatives are staying with Jannick’s family now? Parents, siblings, whoever. Names, addresses, most of all, their jobs. Cross-reference with everything else we have. Hilger might have been after a secondary effect.
THE NEXT FORTY-EIGHT HOURS were uneventful. I continued to tail Accinelli, but he never left the office during the day and always went straight home at night. I figured he was too busy for an assignation, or couldn’t come up with a believable excuse. I heard from Kanezaki. He told me he was running down the leads I had sent him, but that was all.
I started to get concerned. Hilger had given me five days, and I had only one left. I thought about contacting him, insisting on talking to Dox again. But I decided not to. Hilger wouldn’t have done anything yet: he needed Dox, at least until I was finished with Accinelli. Besides, right now, it would be too easy for him to say no. I wasn’t devoid of leverage, but what I had, I needed to use sparingly.
ON THE MORNING of the deadline, I was waiting in the BMW near Sara D. Roosevelt Park, about ten blocks from the Mott Street apartment, watching the readout on the iPhone. I’d been there since following Accinelli to his office as always, and so far he hadn’t moved. It was past eleven now, and I was beginning to think I might have to contact Hilger and tell him I needed more time. And then, just like that, the little light that represented Accinelli’s car on the phone started moving. Come on, I thought. Come this way. A little afternoon delight.
I watched as he headed west on the LIE, then the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. When I saw him approaching the Williamsburg Bridge, I was sure.
I affixed the little side-view mirror to the shades I had on and stepped out of the car. Almost every inch of me was covered in something: thermal underwear, work boots, the wool turtleneck sweater, the peacoat, the balaclava, the neoprene gloves. I put the chain over my neck, secured the bike helmet over the balaclava, and set the box of styrofoam peanuts on the ground. I took the bike out of the trunk, propped it against the car, and looked around. There were a couple of pickup basketball games going on at the park. Construction on a nearby street. No one was paying me any attention. I waited for a break in the traffic, for the intermittent clusters of passing pedestrians to thin, and then picked up the box by a plastic strap across its top and walked the bike away from the car. The box was large and awkward, but with only styrofoam peanuts inside, it weighed almost nothing. I had stripped off all the labeling; the box was now bare, and there was no way to tell what was inside it.
Two blocks from the car, I got on the bike and rode it one-handed to Mott, just another bike messenger in eclectic cold-weather gear, a heavy chain across my chest, peddling an old bicycle I’d painted ugly like all the messengers do so no one would want to steal it. I rolled slowly down the street, checking the hot spots, finding nothing out of place. Like the last time I was here, daylight mirrored the exterior of the glass door, making the apartment corridor invisible from the sidewalk. The call box in front of the apartment was once again festooned with notices from deliverymen, and I nodded, satisfied to have one less thing to worry about.
I leaned the bike against the wall of the apartment building, to the left of the door, the side that would open when Accinelli unlocked it. I set the box down and arranged the chain around the bicycle frame but didn’t actually lock it. I wouldn’t have cared if someone stole the bike right then, and I certainly didn’t want to have to waste time unlocking it when this was done. I just needed something to look busy with for the few minutes I waited for Accinelli.
I faced north on Mott, expecting him to arrive from the south side as he had before. The little side-view mirror gave me an excellent view of the street to my rear. From Accinelli’s standpoint, it would seem that my back was to him, that I was paying him no attention at all.
A minute later, I saw him turn the corner from Prince, heading toward me on my side of the street, gradually growing larger in the side view. A hot rush of adrenaline spread out from my gut and my heart started kicking. I glanced ahead and saw no problems.
I watched him come closer in the mirror. A charcoal suit today, and a yellow tie. His keys came out, like last time. Ten yards. Five. Three.
Just as he hit the bottom of the stairs, I straightened and picked up the box, struggling with it, exaggerating its heft and awkwardness. I turned toward him. He was at the top of the stairs now. I started up behind him. He put the key in the door and turned it. I was one step below him now. He pushed the door open.
“Can you hold that for me for a sec?” I asked, stepping across the threshold and thereby not giving him much of a choice.
I saw a second’s uncertainty ripple across his expression. Letting a stranger into a New York apartment building is a no-no. But with the outfit, the helmet, the box, I looked legit. And it would have been impolite to not even hold the door, to leave me standing outside in the cold with that heavy, awkward parcel. I knew that somewhere, deep in his instincts, he was wondering why the bike messenger didn’t just buzz the apartment of whoever the big box was for. But because more than anything else he wanted to end this transaction quickly, to get inside and be on his way with the least fuss possible, he would tell himself that surely I would have, could have, buzzed the apartment, but just happened to see him there, opening the door, and hoped he would be kind enough to help me….
“Sure,” he said, stepping to the right and holding the door as I passed him.
“Appreciate it,” I said, looking ahead over the box. A straight, plaster-walled corridor, empty. The only danger of interruption, someone coming down the elevator or in from the street. But at a little before noon, the middle of the workday, and with only thirty units in the building, the risk was small, and in any event unavoidable.
I set the box down next to the wall on my left with a grunt, leaving only a narrow space for Accinelli to get by me on the other side. I stood there as though catching my breath, ready for him to squeeze past.
Sudden, sickening doubt hammered me in the gut. A series of thoughts shot through my mind in preconscious shorthand, laser sharp and klaxon loud, the entire message delivered and received in a millisecond:
The whole thing’s a setup. There’s no mistress. Accinelli’s on the payroll. They staged it so you would follow him here, where he could take you out.
I spun counterclockwise to face him, my hands up, so sure I would be facing a gun or knife that as I came about and saw something in his fist, I didn’t stop, I just slapped it asi
de with my left hand. At the instant I made contact and the object broke loose to my left, I saw what it had been: his keys, and no more than that. Oh, shit.
The keys flew through the air. Accinelli’s head tracked them as they bounced off the corridor wall and hit the floor, his mouth wide open in surprise.
Oh, shit, I thought again. My paranoia had finally taken me over the edge. The setup had been so perfect—he’d been a half-second away from stepping past me, unconcernedly giving me his back. Now his expression was hardening, his arms coming up, his body blading to the left, the old soldier’s instincts kicking in, readying him to fight.
I wasn’t worried about whether I could handle him; I knew I could. But if I’d lost the element of surprise, if he fought me, there was no way it was going to look natural.
Decades of experience and underlying instinct took over. I stepped back and in a high voice said, “Oh my God, I’m so sorry! I thought…I thought you had a knife. Oh, my God, another flashback, I can’t believe this. I was mugged once, and…I’m so sorry.”
He looked at me, confused and incredulous. No doubt part of his mind was still screaming that I was a threat, but if I were, why had I stepped back instead of pressing the attack? And my manner now was passive, even submissive in the abjectness of my tone and my apologies. Before he had a chance to put it all together, I said, “Here, let me just pick those up for you. I’m so sorry.”
“No!” he said, his hands still up, palms forward. “No, it’s fine. I’ll get them myself.” He turned and took a step toward where the keys had landed.
“No, really,” I said, moving with him, the words tumbling out in urgent cadences. “I feel so bad. I can’t believe this happened to me again. It’s so embarrassing. The hospital told me with the medications it wouldn’t, and it’s been three months since the last one so why would I expect a problem? But I guess I should have…”