Page 41 of Assassin Anonymous

—Muhammad Ali

London

Now

Astrid fiddles with her phone by the front door of the basement flat as I keep an eye on the street. There aren’t a lot of people walking by, and the ones who are don’t pay us much attention.

“It was like a year ago, I think,” she says, muttering under her breath, more to herself than to me. “I’m sure I still have the email in here somewhere…”

London makes me nervous. Same problem as any major city—the surveillance network. The more time passes, the more time the Agency has to upload my image to law enforcement databases around the world. Sooner or later just stepping outside is going to be dangerous.

Which is why, if this works, it’ll be a pretty big win. The short-term rental site listing shows the flat isn’t available, but the lights are out and there’s a pile of moldering leaves on the mat that hasn’t been cleared. So far we’ve struck out on finding a cash-only motel that wasn’t out in the sticks, and we need to get off the street.

And we could both use a shower. Billy’s man came through and got us on a fishing boat. Seven hours later we were in Jakarta, and he even handled the entry passport stamps so we wouldn’t get hassled on the way out. Couldn’t find a direct flight to New York, but Astrid said she might have a connection in London that could be useful.

“Got it,” she says. She keys a code into the lock on the door, and we get lucky. It opens onto a very small, very European apartment. White walls, tight space, IKEA furniture, faux-wood flooring, weird plugs everywhere.

“This thing sucks, by the way,” Astrid says, pocketing her new burner phone. “You really think this guy is tracking me?”

“He’s tracking something.”

Which dawned on me halfway through the ride to Jakarta, which is why both of our phones are now at the bottom of the Java Sea. I miss mine already, feeling naked with a regular old smartphone, but I can still access my secure email and I was able to get D@nt3 working for the Via Maris. I don’t redownload the messaging app that I used with Ravi—no sense in letting him drip poison in my ear.

Before we enter I pull out my phone and check the Wi-Fi networks. One of the network names looks a little funny—a long, unintelligible string of numbers and letters. I check the locking mechanism on the door one more time. It’s not sophisticated enough to transmit a signal. I put P. Kitty down and tell Astrid: “Wait here.”

Given it’s a basement flat, it’s pretty dark already, so I don’t turn on any lights. I use the flashlight on my phone to sweep the place, moving extra slow around the bed, the light fixtures, the electrical outlets. There’s a good bit of dust, so that’s encouraging, that we won’t be disturbed. In the bathroom I catch a glint coming from the vent. I yank it off and find a little black box that fits neatly in my palm. There’s even an electrical outlet installed inside the vent, so the wires aren’t visible. I bring it to Astrid.

“Camera,” I tell her. “Wi-Fi enabled. Doesn’t look motion-activated. The owner probably isn’t monitoring it if no one’s been here.”

“That creep…” Astrid says.

“I suddenly don’t feel so bad about breaking in.”

Now that we’re settled, I set up P. Kitty’s stuff—a can of cat food, a bowl from the cabinet I fill with some water, and a litter box, which, helpfully, this apartment already has, because it’s pet-friendly. I take P. Kitty out of his carrier and he lolls around for a minute, taking in the new space, before heading for the food. Little guy must be ravenous.

I grab my bag and head into the bedroom, figuring I can jump in the shower after Astrid, but I find her naked from the waist up, her back to me. There’s a nasty scar down her back, like someone inserted a meat hook and dragged it down diagonally from her left shoulder.

We clock each other at the same time. She puts her arms up to cover her breasts but doesn’t know which way to turn—whether her chest or the scar is more intimate. I jump out of the room to give her privacy.

“Sorry, sorry,” I call around the corner.

“We’re both adults, I guess,” she replies. “I’ve seen you with your shirt off.”

“That’s a hell of a scratch. Can I ask?”

She comes out of the bedroom barefoot, in jeans and a white T-shirt. She looks me up and down, deciding how she wants to answer. She settles on: “Not everyone I’ve worked with over the years is as nice as you.”

The old me would have offered to pay whoever did that a visit. Part of me still wants to, but I feel like Astrid wouldn’t take it as chivalrous. Not that it would have been; it just would have been an excuse to hurt someone.

“Seriously,” I ask. “What’s your story? You handled yourself pretty well in that hotel room.”

By way of answering, she makes her way to the kitchen and pulls out the coffee maker, filling it with water and then picking a pod out of the tray underneath. She looks toward me expectantly and I nod. She starts the first one brewing and pulls a stool underneath her, then takes the first steaming mug of coffee and passes it to me. I set it on the counter to cool while she sets up hers.

“So what’s the plan, boss?” I ask.

“The plan,” she says, “is I go out and talk to my friend. And hopefully that friend tells us where to find the guy we’re looking for.”

“And how do you know this guy is even here?”

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