The ASSASSIN - Part I
I pull the rental onto a side street and park under a large Elm. I switch off the engine and glance at my watch; it's almost midnight. I ease the car door open and step out onto the road. The night air feels hot and humid after the cool, air-conditioned interior of the car. I use my body weight to muffle the sound and quietly close the door. A large moth flutters against my face, I wave it away and walk to the corner, pausing to glance both ways before moving onto the tree-lined street. I head for the narrow lane between the houses, strolling at an even pace to match my steady breathing. An old truck rumbles up behind me, the shift-stick grinds noisily as it passes and I look away to conceal my face. As I near the lane, an old man shuffles from a house to my left, a small white dog is yapping at his heels. They're at least twenty metres away. The man stops at the gate to allow the animal to urinate and I quickly duck into the alley to avoid detection. I continue along the dark track and onto the path that runs parallel with the back of houses. Except for my soft footfalls and a gentle rustle of leaves from the trees above, all is quiet. The moon appears from behind a cloud to cast long dappled shadows on the ground as I squeeze through the gap in the hedge. I crouch low and keep on the left side of the well-manicured lawn. In the distance a dog barks and I wait with my back against the wooden shed. I take the gun from the holster and methodically attach the silencer. The black leather gloves make it a little awkward. I move across the patio and up to the glass doors. They're wide open; the lace curtains flutter gently in the warm breeze.
The target is sitting at a large mahogany desk, he's going through some papers and looks up as I enter. His eyes widen in fear and his hand quickly reaches for the top drawer but he's too slow, way too slow. The bullet makes a small neat hole in the centre of his forehead and the back of his skull erupts in a volcano of shattered bone, blood and soft tissue. He twitches and spasms, then slumps forward, his face striking the desk with a loud wet thud. Blood quickly pools across the polished surface and his brains roll like jelly.
I continue into the room, over to the empty fireplace. Above the mantle is a large portrait of the target, his wife and two children. I tug on the gilded frame and it swings outwards to expose the safe. I punch the code from memory and it opens with a dull metallic clink. There are large stacks of cash in various currencies, mostly American $100 bills. I push them aside and reach for the square white envelope at the back, checking to see if it's the correct disk before sliding it into my inside pocket. I close the safe, replace the picture and quietly retrace my steps. I return to the car and head back to Paris, stopping at a telephone kiosk to make the call. Reeve's baritone voice answers in French. I reply in English, "I have what you want, we meet as planned." I replace the receiver without waiting for his reply.
Fifty minutes later I'm back in my hotel suite. Aziz, the swarthy youth I picked up earlier in the evening is still sleeping. The mild sedative I slipped into his drink appears to have done its job. I place the gun in the drawer of the bedside table and conceal the disk in my suitcase. I undress and head for the bathroom. I take a quick shower, towel dry and walk naked to the bedroom and slip quietly into bed. I snuggle close to the youth; his skin feels like fire against my muscular frame. He mumbles in his sleep as I press my face to his hair and inhale the oily aroma. I seem to inhale his beauty and youth, his very life force and like osmosis I absorb it through my skin. I feel rejuvenated and reborn. My cock stiffens against him, its length slipping along the cleft of his petite hairy buttocks. My hips begin to rock back and forth and he mumbles drowsily "je suis fatigué." (I'm too tired). I kiss the back of his neck and reach around to stroke his flaccid cock, "à fatigué pour l'amusement." (Too tired for fun). He giggles and slaps my thigh, then moves his hand to my cock and jerks it to match the gentle rhythm of my rocking hips. He turns around to kiss me; his breath is hot and sweet as our tongues dance together. I push him over and slide across him, kissing his slender neck, his smooth shoulder and down to hard nipples. I take one in my mouth and suck on it before moving to the other. He is moaning now, eyes open and fully awake. I move down to take his swelling cock in my mouth. It gets harder by virtue of my tongue. He shivers and twists his head from side-to-side and his hips give a jerky thrust. The tip of his cock caresses my throat as I drive my lips into his pubic hair and he groans his appreciation. I pop it from my mouth to run my tongue along the slicked up shaft. I attack his scrotum; the small wiry hairs tingle against my lips. I suck his balls, rolling one in my mouth as I massage his vast bush of dark pubic hair. I continue my journey downwards, the salty-sweet sweat and earthy aroma of his sack heightening my desire. I lift his legs to reveal his puckered treasure and bury my face in the cleft as he squeals and grips the sheet and thrashes upon the bed.
I move up and reach for condoms and lube. I hastily snap the foil and remove a moist rubber, pinch the tip between my fingers and roll it to the base of my erection. He shudders and giggles when I squeeze a generous amount of the slick cool gel onto his ass. I move up to kiss him and bring my hips into position. He's panting now in expectation, his breath hot and steaming against my ear. I place my arms beneath his legs so that the back of each knee rests in the crook of my elbows. I push forward until his knees are spread wide, almost in line with his nipples. The tip of my cock slips back and forth across his crack until it finds some purchase. It pops through his sphincter and he cries out as I slide in to the hilt. I stay real still, my cock deep inside him and delight in the moist heat of his taut slim body.
I tower over him; my muscled torso and broad shoulders seem to exaggerate his smallness and I begin to thrust with smooth even strokes. He bites my shoulder and then my chin and I release a protracted groan of pain and pleasure. His lips meet mine and I keep thrusting, alternating between slow and fast movements and feel him shiver and tremble beneath me. He squeezes my nipples and the urge to cum becomes powerful. It overwhelms me with its suddenness. I don't fight it, I let it advance, feeling it begin somewhere deep within my groin. My hips go into overdrive and I feel it build and build as I groan and whimper, desperate for release. He grips my shoulders and wraps his legs around my waist. I keep thrusting, faster and faster, slapping against his ass and thighs, mattress squeaking and headboard thumping. Then my breathing stops, my body stiffens, and my mind explodes with the animalistic ecstasy of orgasm, the tip of the condom swelling as I spurt jets of warm semen. I slump down on top of him, panting like a dog; my hot perspiring body squashed against his small impotent frame.
He begins to giggle and gasp for air. I laugh and roll over, remove the condom with a snap and drop it to the floor. He sits up and straddles my torso. With one hand he caresses my taut pectorals while the other jerks on his cock. I run my fingers along his thighs and they begin to twitch and tremble. His breathing is fast and shallow as he hisses through clenched teeth. He cries out and holds his breath. I slap his hand away and envelop his throbbing cock. He gives a little thrust and a cry and my mouth is flooded with the metallic taste of his seed. It slides down my throat and leaves a tangy, gooey residue on the roof of my mouth. We squash together, hot and sweaty and breathless. He speaks in French, being playful and teasing. I laugh and pull him close, enfolding him in my arms. I kiss the top of his head and we snuggle down to sleep.
"Bonjour Monsieur Hamilton, did you sleep well?""
I open my eyes and the youth is smiling down at me. He looks angelic in the thin beam of sunlight seeping through a gap in the curtain, and a lot younger than his 18 years; perhaps he lied about his age. He leans over and kisses my lips, then sits up and giggles self-consciously. He's uncommonly handsome, with fine, almost aristocratic features, a result, perhaps, of his French mother and Moroccan father. He has a trim compact build; no more then 5' 6''with honey toned skin and big brown eyes. His arms and legs are dusted with a coating of downy black hairs but his torso is ultra smooth and flawless. His hair is jet-black and shiny with a kind of bluish of blue in the morning light. His eyes have an old sad quality as if they don't quite belong to his youthful face. The overall effect is both masculine and boyish and I like the ambiguity. I reach up and stroke his cheek with the back of my fingers. He smiles, takes my hand in his and kisses my palm. I feel a twinge of affection; it's almost paternal, it's a tiny feeling, no more than a bat squeak but it isn't good, no it isn't good at all, he'll have to go.
I sit up and playfully slap his thigh. "Yes my friend I slept very well. What time is it?"
"It's a little after eight Monsieur, we have slept for almost ten hours."
"Good, I needed the rest. Now you must leave me Aziz, I have a busy day today."
He looks crushed as I get out of bed and put on a robe. I walk to the closet and take my wallet from my jacket. I remove several large notes and crunch them in my hand.
"Here, use this to get home, take a taxi, you live in Paris, right?"
"Oui Monsieur, but I do not need your money; I can take a bus."
"Okay, but take the money just in case."
I toss the cash on the bed and head for the bathroom. I take a piss, then brush my teeth and begin to shave. I take it slow and methodical, careful to preserve the goatee. My brown eyes seem to sparkle with energy. I'm on a natural high after the sex and a good night's sleep, plus a good clean kill. I spread a towel on the tiled floor and do 100 press-ups, then 100 sit-ups before jumping into the shower. I stay for ten minutes, relaxing as the hot water cascades over my body. I turn the tap to cold for the last minute or so before switching off and stepping out. I put on the bathrobe and return to the bedroom.
The boy is gone and the money remains untouched on the bed where I left it. I sigh, place it back in my wallet and call room service. I order porridge and fruit, poached eggs on toast and coffee. I switch on the TV and flick through the channels until I find what I'm looking for. A woman stands in front of the house; she is interviewing a neighbour. The shooting of Monsieur Fritz, a German national is baffling; he was a quiet, unassuming man with an attractive French wife and twin daughters.
After breakfast I dress in blue jeans, a crisp white shirt, black linen jacket and black shoes. I pack my bag, head down to the foyer, checkout and stroll towards the car park further along the street. It's a beautiful spring morning, the kind you only get in Paris. I stand at the intersection and wait for the lights to change. Suddenly I feel unsettled and exposed; the tiny hairs on the back of my neck begin to tingle. I quickly look around, am I being followed? I don't recognise anyone in the crowd. The lights change and I scan the throng as I cross to the other side. The feeling of unease grows stronger as I near the parking lot.
I enter the building and blink against the sudden gloom after the brilliance of the sunlit street. I run down the incline and dash behind parked cars. I crouch down and move from car to car, keeping as low as I can. I make it to the rental, slide the bag underneath and remove the knife from my boot. I wait; a minute passes, then another. I'm about to get up but I hear footsteps approach, they're slow and deliberate. I lay prostrate on the concrete floor and see a pair of legs move towards me. It appears to be a man in jeans and white Nikes. He moves closer to the rear of the rental. I watch his legs as he walks about; he stops and turns towards the bright entrance. I leap up and reach out, cover his mouth with my hand and pull him to me. I raise the knife to cut his throat but quickly lower it when I see it's the youth, Aziz. I push him away, both angry and relieved.
"Jesus! What the fuck are you doing Aziz. I could've bloody killed you"
He is trembling, visibly shaken by my sudden appearance with the knife.
"P...pardon Monsieur. I...I came to warn you. There is a...a man and a woman; they are looking for you. They stopped me when I got out of the elevator. I did not know what to do, I thought perhaps the woman is your wife so I..."
A burst of gunfire shatters the windscreen of the adjacent car. Immediately its alarm begins to wail and the noise is ear splitting in the confined space. I grab Aziz and pull him to the ground. He shrieks and thrashes as I pat him down and check for blood. The next burst is close, too damn close; they hit the rental and the concrete floor in little clouds of dust. I crawl closer and open the rental's door, reach in and pluck a gun from under the driver's seat. I hear a shrill scream and risk a glance over the dashboard and through the windscreen. A woman with an infant in her arms stands ridged with terror. She's halfway down the incline and is screaming as she stares at a car to her right. I follow her gaze and see a shadowy figure behind a car. I drop to the floor and see a polished black shoe and a man's ankle sticking out from behind the rear wheel. I take aim and fire twice. The second bullet shatters the bone and his screams match the screams of the woman. Both are barely audible over the wail of the car alarm. I open the rear door of the rental and begin to push Aziz inside. He shakes his head and struggles against me so I hit him with the butt of the gun. The blow isn't hard but it's enough to make him crawl and lie prostrate on the back seat. I toss the suitcase in after him and jump in front. I start the engine and with a screech of burning rubber, speed for the exit at the back of the building.
I crash through the barrier and take a sharp left. Horns blare as I floor the accelerator and speed in the direction of the Eiffel Tower. I quickly pass it and cross the Seine on the Pont d'Alene, moving onto the Rive Droite, the Right Bank, close to the Arc de Triomphe. Minutes later I speed along the Avenue de New York and head back along the river towards the Quai des Tuileries and the Louvre.
Aziz is slumped between the front and rear seats. He's whimpering and mumbling in French. I tell him it's safe and to sit up front. He crawls into the seat, he is crying, sobbing, and trembling with fear; there's a wet patch on his jeans and the acrid stench of urine. I look from his pants to his face and see a faint bruise from when I hit him with the gun. I feel that emotion again only this time it's more than a bat-squeak.
"Christ!" I yell in anger, swerving to avoid a bus. "For God's sake Aziz, stop fucking sniffling, c'est bien, you're safe, you can relax, Séjour calmer, relax."
"J'ai peur, je ne veux pas mourir Monsieur. I cannot stop shaking. I want to go home, please, I..."
"...C'est bien. It's okay, you are not gonna die."
"I am so thirsty, I..."
"...There's juice in the glove-box. Aziz, tell me about the man and woman."
"Monsieur, are you a...how you say...un agent de police, a policeman?
"No, tell me...the woman and the man Aziz, la femme et l'homme, vite!
"I...I...The woman was American and I think perhaps the man was from the Middle East, he spoke Arabic. He was -- you...you are driving to fast Monsieur."
"Okay, okay, relax, don't be afraid. I'll slow down. Tell me more."
"The man, he was short with black hair and brown eyes. He had many scars on his face, like...like tiny holes. The woman had black hair; she was very pretty..."
"...What did they want, what did they say to you?"
"The woman...she...she spoke French. She asked me about Mr. Hamilton or Mr. Smith, or something, I do not remember. She said you use many names. I told her I did not know you and I began to walk away but the man, he pulled me into the elevator and when the doors closed; he slapped my face and screamed at me in Arabic.
"What did you tell them Aziz? How did they find me?"
"I told them nothing. I said please Monsieur, please Madam, I do not know this man. Then the woman slapped me and called me a lying faggot. The doors of the elevator opened and some people came inside. When the doors began to close again I pushed through and ran away.
"Why didn't you come back to the room and tell me. You could have used the stairs. You..."
"...I should have...yes, but I was very much afraid Monsieur. Also I was sad and angry about the money and how you chased me away. I was going to go home and forget you but I could not do it Monsieur. I waited at a table outside the café on the corner. I saw you pass and I was about to call out to you but the woman was close behind with the man. I was very afraid. I though she was your wife and was angry with you for having Homo sex with me. I quickly called to them as they passed and I told them you were going to your car, I lied and said it was on the top floor of the car park and if they used the side street they could reach it before you did.
"Good. That was clever."
"Is she your wife monsieur? She was anxious to see you. They left in a hurry and I ran after you...then you...with the knife and the gun. Who are you, qui sont vous monsieur, a policeman?"
"I'm not a policeman. I'm no one Aziz, it's not important."
"If you are not a policeman, do you work for the British Government, as a spy perhaps?"
I roar laughing. "You watch to much TV Aziz. Look, I'll take you home...do you live with your parents?"
"Je n'ai aucune maman, aucun père."
"Where are they?"
"They are dead monsieur, they died when I was twelve."
"So who do you live with?"
"Je vis seul."
"You don't live alone Aziz, you must live with someone, you're just a kid, there's no fucking way..."
"Merde! My age did not concern you last night when you fucked me monsieur. I will soon be eighteen, I am not a child."
"Je suis Aziz désolé. I didn't mean to offend you. C'mon, tell me who you live with."
"I live alone, my brother Tariq comes home every second weekend. He is a software Analyst in Lyon. My Aunt lives nearby, she comes to cook for me or I eat at her flat."
We continue in silence. I take the next exit and pull into a gas station. I instruct Aziz to stay in the car and I watch him from the phone booth. I dial the number but there's no reply, perhaps Reeves has already left. I go back to the car and head towards the suburbs. Aziz is quiet and sullen as I drive, speaking only to give directions. I look at my watch; I should be on route to the airport. I have to return the car, give the disk and weapons to Reeves and catch a flight to London. This was supposed to be a routine job, a quick clean kill and get the disk. Now I have the police and probably terrorists on my tail. And the boy, what to do about the boy? He was a diversion, a simple diversion; an alibi in case I needed one. It's my standard MO but in hindsight it was a mistake to choose one so young. Fuck! I'll have to kill him and he's a good kid. He saved my life but I've no choice, he knows my face and he'll talk.
We arrive at a dilapidated apartment block in a part of Paris not listed in any guidebook. It looks like downtown Baghdad after a bombing. We get out; I remove my jacket, toss it on the back seat and run to catch up with Aziz as he hurries towards the building.
"There is no need to come with me monsieur. I can go alone. I am always alone"
"I'll come in for a moment to see you are safe, okay?
"Okay, but only for a moment."
"It's all I'll need," I think as we push through the door. The sooner I get it done the better. It'll be quick and painless. He won't feel a thing.
"The elevator is in need of repair Monsieur, it is always broken, we will have to use the stairs. I live on the top floor."
"How many floors?"
"Fifteen."
"Fuck! Okay, lets go."
We begin the long climb. The walls are covered in garish graffiti; the place is stinking, filthy and depressing and the thoughts of having to kill the boy aren't helping. On the ninth floor we pass a girl in a headscarf walking downstairs. I obscure my face and move on. She meets Aziz who's lagging behind and they speak briefly in Arabic. Aziz runs up the stairs and grips my hand in panic. "Monsieur, she says there is a woman waiting for me outside my apartment, it must be the crazy lady, we have to leave now, quickly, vite, vite, s'il vous plaît Monsieur. Please, I am very much afraid."
"Shush, quiet, relax and stay close to me, je vous protégerai. We turn and head back down. Shit! Who is this woman and how the hell did she know where the boy lived so damn fast? Fuck it. I stop and turn to Aziz. I give him the keys and tell him to wait in the car. He looks horrified but I tell him to go quickly and quietly. I run up the steps two at a time, glad of the physical exertion.
I near the top of the stairs and pause to snap the safety off the gun. I raise my arms and turn the corner but the corridor is empty. A television is blaring in one the rooms and a baby's wail can be heard somewhere far off. I stay close to the wall and gingerly approach the flat. The lock on the door is broken. I nudge it with my foot, it swings inward and I step aside and wait with my back against the wall.
"Come in Monsieur Hamilton, we can talk about the disk. There is no need for bloodshed."
I enter the flat with the gun at shoulder height and scan left to right. There's only one room; it's sparsely furnished. It's shabby and smells of old cooked food and spices. There's a kitchen in the corner and a small bathroom to my left. The woman is sitting on a plastic chair by the kitchen counter. An unlit cigarette hangs from her painted lips; she smiles as she reaches into her handbag. The bullet strikes the wall above head and she stiffens.
"Drop the bag or the next one won't miss."
She slowly lowers the bag, removing her hand; it's clutching a book of matches. She lights the cigarette and takes a long drag before releasing a cloud of blue-grey smoke. She speaks English with a nasally American accent.
"So, we meet at last. I take it you're the elusive Monsieur Hamilton or it is Monsieur Coleman today. You use so many names; it's difficult to keep track. The CIA has been trying for years but they don't know your real name, you leave so few clues, not so much as a fingerprint. MI5 suspect you killed Ulrich in Berlin two years ago and Casper in New York last year. Then there was Vito in Rome but I guess he doesn't count, he was a Mafia dog. And let us not forget poor Professor Fritz last night. You have killed many over the years, so many. Still, I'm delighted to meet you Monsieur, I have waited a long time."
"I'm delighted to meet you too Madam but you have me at a disadvantage, you know me but you haven't told me your name." I reply as I pop my head into the small bathroom and check behind the door.
"You are right Monsieur, I am being frightfully rude as you English might say. You may call me Simone. I have always liked the name and it is as good as any other. Now let us talk about Reeves and the disk"
"Reeves, whose Reeves and what disk?
"Let's not play games Mr. Hamilton. We know all about Reeves."
"Where is he?"
"Reeves is dead Monsieur, so there will be no rendezvous at the airport today. Where is the..."
"...You killed him?"
"An unfortunate accident. There was a struggle; he tried to kill Abdullah so Abdullah stabbed him. It was unavoidable and such a waste because he told us many interesting things before he died. He spoke highly of you Monsieur. Is it true you only sleep with men?"
"Why don't you get undressed and we can find out."
"Mmm, it's very tempting but I think I'll pass. Now lets talk about the disk."
"What disk?
"Don't play games, it's silly, we know you took the disk, you killed Fritz to get it and we killed Reeves, quid pro quo. Now we want it back. Reeves was a greedy little man and will not be missed. But you, you're smart, a professional, we can negotiate."
I smile and lower the gun, making my first mistake. "I don't have the disk. I posted it from the hotel lobby this morning."
"You're lying and it's lame. We know you were to give it to Reeves at the airport."
I take a step towards her, making my second mistake. A heavy blow comes from the loft opening above my head. It catches me on the left side, behind my ear. I slump to the ground and roll onto my back. The room grows hazy as a man drops to the floor. The woman appears out of focus but I can smell her perfume as she rifles through my pockets. I reach down for my ankle knife; my arm feels heavy and sluggish. I receive a second blow and the world begins to fade away. I think about Reeves and how he introduced me to this life, this lonely life of killing. I think about my sister who lives somewhere in Spain and whom I haven't seen in many years. Mostly I think about a boy, a Moroccan youth I once met in a gay bar. I think it was a long time ago. Wasn't I going to kill him? I try to remember but it's difficult and I'm tired, very tired. So I let it go, let it all drift away as I close my eyes and embrace the darkness.
To be continued...
Copyright June 2008 narration2006@yahoo.ie
Comments always welcome.