On the day Delilah was due to arrive, I checked out of Le Meridien and did some shopping in preparation for my transition from anonymous salaryman to the more cosmopolitan persona I think of as the real me. I bought pants, shirts, and a navy cashmere blazer at Aramis in Eixample; underwear, socks, and a few accessories at Furest on the Plaça de Catalunya; shoes at Casas in La Ribera; and a leather carrying bag to put it all in at Loewe, on the ground floor of the magnificent Casa Lleó Morera building on the Passeig de Gràcia. I paid cash for everything. When I was done, I found a restroom and changed into some of the new clothes, then caught a cab to the Hotel La Florida, where Delilah had made a reservation.

The ride from the city center took about twenty minutes, much of it up the winding road to the top of Mount Tibidabo. I had already reconnoitered the hotel and environs, of course, during my exploration of the city, but the approach was every bit as impressive the second time around. In the late afternoon sunlight, as the cab zigged and zagged its way up the steep mountain road, the city and all its possibilities appeared below me, then disappeared, then came tantalizingly back. And then vanished once again.

When the cab reached the entrance to the hotel, seven stories of taupe-painted plaster and balconied windows overlooking Barcelona and the Mediterranean beyond, a bellhop opened the door and welcomed me. I paid the driver, looked around, and got out. I had no particular reason to think Delilah or her people wanted me dead – if I had, I never would have agreed to meet her here – but still, I stood for a moment as the cab drove away, checking likely ambush positions. There weren't many. Exclusive properties like La Florida aren't welcoming to people who seem to be waiting around without a good reason. The hotels assume the lurker is a paparazzo waiting to shoot a celebrity with a camera, not a killer possessed of rather more lethal means and intent, but the result is the same: inhospitable terrain, which today would work in my favor.

The bellhop stood by, holding my bag with quiet professionalism. The grounds were impressive, and he must have been accustomed to guests pausing to enjoy the moment of their arrival. When I was satisfied, I nodded and followed him inside.

The lobby was bright yet intimate, all limestone and walnut and glass. There was only one small sitting area, currently unoccupied. It seemed I had no company. My alertness stayed high, but the tension I felt dropped a notch.

A pretty woman in a chic business suit came over with a glass of sparkling water and inquired after my journey. I told her it had been fine.

'And your name, sir?' she asked, in lightly Catalan-accented English.

'Ken,' I replied, giving her the name I had told Delilah I would be traveling under. 'John Ken.'

'Of course, Mr Ken, we've been expecting you. Your other party has already checked in.' She nodded to a young man behind the counter, who came around and handed her a key. 'We have you in room three-oh-nine – my favorite in the hotel, if I may say so, because of the views. I think you'll enjoy it.'

'I'm sure I will.'

'May I have someone assist with your bag?'

'That's all right. I'd like to wander around a little before going to the room. See a bit of the hotel. It's beautiful.'

'Thank you, sir. Please let us know if there's anything else you need.'

I nodded my thanks and moved off. For a little while, I 'wandered' around the first floor, checking everything – eclectic gift shop, low-key bar, comfortable lounge, spacious stairwells, abundant elevators – and found nothing out of place.

I took the stairs to the third floor, paused outside 309, and listened for a moment. The room within was quiet. I placed my bag and empty glass on the ground, took off my jacket, crouched, and loudly slipped the key into the lock. Nothing. I held the jacket in front of the door and opened it a crack. Still nothing. If there was a shooter in there, he was disciplined. I shot my head over and back. I saw only a short hallway and part of a room beyond. I detected no movement.

I stood up, eased the Benchmade from my front pocket, and silently thumbed it open. 'Hello?' I called out, stepping inside.

No answer. No sound. I let the door close. It clicked audibly behind me.

'Hello?' I called out again.

Nothing.

'That's weird… must be the wrong room,' I muttered, loudly enough to be heard. I opened the door and let it close. To anyone hiding inside, it would sound as though I had left.

Still nothing.

I padded down the hallway, toe-heel, pausing after each step to listen. My newly purchased soft-soled Camper shoes were silent on the polished wood floor.

At the end of the hallway, I could see the entire room but for the bathroom. The closet door was open. Probably that was Delilah, knowing I would approach tactically and wanting to make it easier for me, but I wasn't sure yet.

There was a note on the bed, conspicuous in the middle of the flawless white quilt. I ignored it. If this had been my setup, I would have put the note on the bed and then nailed the target from the balcony or bathroom while he went to read it.

The glass doors to the balcony were closed, the curtains open, and I could see no one was out there. Probably Delilah again, lowering my blood pressure.

All that remained was the bathroom, and I started to relax a little. The worst part about clearing a room, especially if you have only a knife and the other guy might have a gun, is traversing the 'fatal funnel,' where the enemy has the dominant position and a clear field of fire. In this case, narrowing down the ambush points to just the bathroom reduced my vulnerability considerably.

I walked to the side of the open bathroom door. I paused and listened. All quiet. I waved the jacket in front of the door to see if it would draw fire – nothing – then burst inside. The bathroom was empty.

I let out a long breath and walked past the glass-enclosed shower to the window. The views, as promised, were stunning: the city and the sea to one side; the snowcapped peaks of the Pyrenees to the other. I looked out for a few minutes, unwinding.

I went back to the door and looked through the peephole. All clear. I retrieved my bag and the glass, brought them into the room, and picked up the note from the bed. It said: I'm at the indoor pool. Come join me. – D.

Hard to argue with that. I checked the room for weapons first, then paused for a moment, just breathing, until I felt calmer. I pocketed the note, threw my jacket over a chair, and headed out. A minute later, I entered an expansive glass-and-stone solarium with vaulted ceilings and a sparkling, stainless-steel-bottomed swimming pool.

Delilah was on her back on one of the red upholstered lounge chairs surrounding the pool. She wore a one-piece cobalt-blue bathing suit that showed off her curves perfectly. Her blond hair was tied back, and oversized sunglasses concealed her features. She looked every inch the movie star.

I glanced around. No one set off my radar. It troubled me for a moment that even now, with all we had been through, all we had shared, I still felt I had to be careful. I wondered whether I'd ever be able to completely relax with her, or with anyone. Maybe I could hope for something like that with Midori. After all, isn't that why medieval kings married off their sons and daughters, to seal blood alliances and make murder unthinkable? Wasn't it the idea that children trump everything, even the most deep-seated resentments and rivalries, that they trump even hate?

I walked closer and paused, just a few feet behind her. I wanted to see whether she might sense my presence. Delilah's antennae were as sensitive as any I've known, but on the other hand there aren't many people who can move as quietly as I can.