“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 Jannick’s house. Christopher Lane was a long, narrow hill ending in a cul-de-sac ringed by massive new mansions with equally massive yards and impressive views of the Palo Alto hills. I didn’t see anyone about, but I was glad I was driving the Mercedes. It fit right into the neighborhood.

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 Jannick to be at the office regardless.

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, Jannick would go right past the driver’s side of my car. Even if he were as oblivious to personal security as Hilger claimed, he might see my face, and he would certainly make the Mercedes.

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. Jannick couldn’t come and go without my seeing him, and I was far enough away so that he was unlikely to see me, or to care particularly if he did.

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 reconnoiter more before it got dark. I plugged Jannick’s office address into the nav system and drove there so I could get a feel for his likely route. It was pretty direct: mostly a straight shot north on Page Mill Road, five miles in all. There were no deserted stretches anywhere along the way. On the contrary, the route was heavily trafficked. Page Mill had four lanes for cars, several miles of bike lanes, sidewalks, and a mix of office buildings that gave way to residences farther north. I could follow him easily enough in the traffic, but unless he surprised me by veering off and stopping somewhere deserted, I saw no locations that would serve for action.

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 Jannick’s office, whether by an employee or a camera or both.

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.

Jannick’s building was three down on East Bayshore, on the right side of the road. I strolled past the driveway, noting that it was shared by several office buildings, each an unremarkable, two-story glass-and-concrete box. From the size of the structures, I gathered Jannick was renting or subletting space. That, or DET was a much bigger company than its website suggested. I didn’t like all the windows. If Hilger wanted me dead, he could have a sniper waiting in one of the buildings, knowing I would show up here while tracking Jannick. Or someone shooting photos instead of bullets, compiling evidence of my guilt, evidence they’d use for blackmail later. But I didn’t have a choice. I kept going, my scalp prickling from the feeling of exposure to all those ominous windows.

I walked through the parking lot looking for Jannick’s car, according to Hilger’s dossier, a black Volvo S80. I didn’t see it. I wondered if he was out at a meeting. Or if he’d left early for the day and I’d missed him on his way home. Or if he was traveling somewhere. In my experience, every predictable pattern you’ve analyzed goes to hell the moment you go operational. Imagination, backup plans, and an ability to improvise are the only countermeasures.

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 Jannick’s building. As I got closer to the entrance, I saw that the windows next to the entrance doors were coated with some reflective material. There was a sign stuck to the window. It was too far for me to read from this distance, but I had a feeling it warned of CCTV monitoring. A security camera there, rather than in the parking lot, made sense. It was the building and what was inside it they’d want to secure. They didn’t care about employees’ cars.

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 Jannick and shooting him, I could have done it almost anywhere, the only real concern being escape. But I was going to need a few minutes alone with him. The parking lot wasn’t great for that.