The words made Greenfield suddenly aware again of the throbbing, hammering pain, which had faded strangely into the background as his mind had become preoccupied with his renewed encounter with the two gunmen and the descent down the stairs.
“It's as painful as you would expect when your skull has just been split open by a blunt instrument,” he retorted angrily.
“Yes, the use of force was regrettable,” sympathised Richards, “but it really was your own fault, you know. You had your chance to come without any fuss.”
“At gunpoint? A complete stranger pokes a gun in my belly and tells me to go with him and I should just get up and do so without any fuss?”
Richards nodded. “Most usually do. You were a brave man, Mr. Greenfield, and, though you caused us much inconvenience, we have to give you credit for that.”
“I wasn't brave, I was scared, scared out of my mind. In the end I was stupid, too. I thought in my hotel room I was safe, for a little while anyway.”
Richards allowed himself a smug smile. “We like to cover every possibility. Our professionalism is something we pride ourselves on.”
“Professionalism at what?” The calmness in Greenfield's manner and voice was forced only with the greatest of effort. He remained a very frightened man. “Who are you? What do you want with me? If you are looking for some sort of ransom, I could raise only a small one, certainly not large enough to justify the trouble you have gone to.”
Richards shook his head. “Your money is of no interest to us, Mr. Greenfield. It is expected you will be much more useful to us than that.” There was a pause as Richards leaned against the wide mantelpiece above the big, redundant fireplace. “We are an international organisation offering specialist services to a clientele that demands only the best and is prepared to pay a lot of money to get it. We are recruiting you, Mr Greenfield, to carry out one of these services for us.”
“I'm an advertising executive, for Christ's sake!” protested Greenfield. “I can not see what possible service I could be to people who threaten, physically assault and carry guns. Besides, what's to stop me agreeing to anything you say here and now and going straight to the police as soon as you put me back on the street?”
With a heavy sigh, Richards moved back to the door through which he had entered the room. “I am beginning to find your lack of co-operation somewhat tiresome, Mr. Greenfield. Before we go any further with this conversation, there is something I think you should see.”
Silently obeying what seemed more like an order than a suggestion, the advertising executive followed Richards into a small, windowless room. The wall to the right was covered by a celluloid screen, in front of which were two chairs. After guiding Greenfield to one, Richards sat in the other. The two heavies closed the door behind them, taking up sentry-like positions.
As the lights dimmed, a brief shaft of light shot from a small square opening in the wall behind them, cutting through the darkness to illuminate the big screen. What was happening now? Had they stopped for a film show? Despite the presumed seriousness of his situation, this was becoming so bizarre to Greenfield he had to struggle to suppress the urge to laugh out loud.
Any such inclination died instantly in his throat as the screen flickered into life. There was no mistaking Julie, those beautiful eyes looking straight out at him, slipping off her earrings. He recognised her surroundings as the bedroom of her apartment and the first fearful inkling of what was happening crept into his brain. He prayed that he was wrong, but it took only seconds for his worst fears to be confirmed as he saw himself enter the bedroom behind the girl. He broke out in a cold, clammy sweat as he watched her dress slide gently down her back, falling into a crumpled heap at her feet.
The film recorded every detail as Julie, in her nakedness, undressed him. His stomach churned, nausea sweeping over him, as he watched her kiss seemingly every inch of his body, working down to his penis, caressing it with seemingly eager lips, taking it into her mouth. All the time his face, showing varying expressions of sexual delight, looked out at him from the screen.
The nausea that gripped his body forced him to retch, but nothing came up, his stomach continuing to turn over inside him.
“No more! I don't want to see any more!” he yelled, bending forward to rest his head on his knees, desperate to put the image that filled the wall before him out of sight.
“Enough,” snapped Richards. The film stopped and then disappeared from the screen. The dimmed lights became bright again.
“What kind of people are you?” Greenfield turned to look at Richards, who had stood up and stepped back when the vomit had threatened. Then, for the second time that day, Greenfield was roused by an extreme of emotion into an action totally alien to the weak, cowardly character he saw himself as. This time it was anger, surging through him like a rushing, unstoppable torrent of water bursting through a crumbling, broken dam, sweeping the sickness away before it, filling his insides instead with a rage that grew by the second.
“What kind of people are you?” he said again, but this time it was drawn out, rising in volume until at the finish it was a scream as he hurled himself forward from his chair. This was something Richards wasn't expecting. Caught by surprise, the impact of Greenfield's onrushing body sent him reeling back against the wall. Fired by the anger that consumed him, Greenfield had momentarily lost all control. If he had retained any degree of rationality during those few seconds, he would have realised the futility of his action. Richards had become the focal point for his rage to the exclusion of all else. The other two men in the room were forgotten. But this lapse of memory lasted no longer than the very short time it took them to cross the room and bring the full weight of their bodies down upon him. On crashing to the floor beneath them, a searing pain shot through his head from the wound at the back of his skull inflicted earlier in his hotel room. He felt as though his head would explode as the world seemed to spin away from him. Satisfied that he was a spent force, the two men lifted themselves off him before hauling him to his feet by his arms. When they withdrew their support, his legs buckled and only their swift grab for his arms prevented him from hitting the floor again.
“I'm glad you finally appreciate the gravity of your situation,” said Richards, straightening his expensive suit, “but I wish you had chosen a less aggressive way of showing it.”
The words drifted as if from a great distance into Greenfield's world of semi-consciousness, but they were no less comprehensible. The gravity of his situation was now beyond dispute. But what was his situation? What was really happening to him? He was just a man who sold advertising on a business trip. What had he got to offer these people?
Richards' words drifted through again.
“You will be taken to a bathroom down the hallway to recover and clean yourself up. Then we will resume the chat we were having before you saw our little film.”
The pain in Greenfield's head had subsided into a dull throb. He had stopped the bleeding from a cut sustained on his lip sometime during the melee in the projection room and even managed to remove some of the dried blood matted in his hair around the wound opened by the pistol-whipping, but there was little to be done about the bruising beginning to materialise on his cheekbone. The two men were waiting outside for him. There was no point in delaying the moment any longer. Whatever was going to happen to him was going to happen. Time was irrelevant.
He leaned forward towards the mirror running along the wall of the bathroom, his arms outstretched, resting on the edge of the sink. Looking at the bruised, forlorn face that stared sadly back at him, he muttered, “Oh, Julie, what have you done to me?”
Chapter Six
Greenfield was led back to the large drawing room. Richards was waiting, having changed his suit, though the advertising man was sure he had done no permanent damage to the other one when he had charged at Richards in the projection room. Perhaps crumpled it a little, but obviously enough to offend this man's pride in his immaculate appearance. T
his time the suit was a dark blue pin-stripe, looking equally expensive, with, of course, a tie matched perfectly. Here was a man who undoubtedly liked the finer things, but Greenfield was decidedly dubious about the origins of the wealth that enabled him to afford them. His misgivings were about to be confirmed.
“Please sit down, Mr. Greenfield,” requested Richards, gesturing to a large armchair. Greenfield moved forward, leaving the other two men at their station by the door. “I trust you are now going to exercise some control over your emotions and we are not going to see a repetition of the unfortunate scene a little while back. Please believe us, we have no wish to hurt you any more than we have to.”
Greenfield said nothing. Though unimpressed by the apparent concern for his welfare, he knew he could do little else but listen to what this man had to say.
“Having seen the film,” Richards went on, “you hardly need me to point out that you have little choice but to agree to our demands. However, as I said before, we are not interested in your money. We simply want you to join us. You will become one of our operatives.”
“Operatives?”
“Yes, you will carry out an assignment for us.”
“Let me remind you I am a business executive. I know nothing of your world. I don't see how I can possibly do anything for you.”
“On the contrary, your position in life makes you ideal for what we have in mind,” insisted Richards. “A highly respected member of the community, above suspicion. And you have a great deal to lose should you fail to carry out your allotted task.”
A shiver ran up Greenfield's spine. He did have a lot to lose.
“Just what is it you expect me to do?”
Richards, who had remained standing, looked up at the ceiling, as if for inspiration, then straight at Greenfield.
“We – that is the organisation, of course – carry out a number of specialised services, but these consist mainly of the gathering of information that may be of interest to our clients and elimination on request.”
“Elimination on request?”
“Yes, Mr. Greenfield and that is where you are going to help us.”
Greenfield's eyes widened, his mouth dropped open. He made no sound, Richard's words stunning his brain so that any immediate response was impossible.
“This is crazy,” he spluttered finally. “You make it sound as though you're expecting me to kill someone.”
“Such an ugly word, Mr. Greenfield. Don't you think 'eliminate' has a softer, more professional ring to it?”
“You're all mad,” Greenfield protested loudly. “I demand you end this nonsense now.”
“I'm afraid you are the only one here talking nonsense, Mr. Greenfield, and I can't believe you do not realise now you are in no position to demand anything. Please remember our little film.”
“But I work in advertising,” protested Greenfield. “I'm no hit man.”
Richards smiled. “Such a quaint expression, but one rarely used in our circles. We prefer to call our people 'operatives.' ”
“It's a joke.” Greenfield threw up his arms in a gesture of despair. “It's elaborate and it's sick – my God it's sick – but it has to be somebody's idea of a joke.”
Richards sighed. “When will the English realise that their inclination to see a joke in every situation can be rather tiresome to other nationalities.” There was no sign of humour in his face as he added, “I think this is no laughing matter for you, Mr. Greenfield.”
Greenfield sank back into the chair. “How do you know I'm capable of killing someone?”
“Wouldn't you have killed me a short while ago if you hadn't been stopped?”
“To be honest, I don't know. But that was different anyway. That was in the heat of the moment, fired by anger, humiliation and hate, even, all directed at you. Killing somebody in cold blood with premeditation is a different proposition. What make you think I can do that?”
“It's not so different as you might think.” Richards sat down on the large settee, his hand brushing an imaginary speck of dust from his immaculately creased trousers. “None of us really knows what we are capable of. We find out as we go along, as circumstances dictate. You, more than anybody, must be aware of that today.” Richards leaned forward towards Greenfield. “You will do what we ask because you have to; it's as simple as that. Should you fail to carry out your assigned task, the film you have seen this afternoon will be processed onto a number of video tapes and circulated to anyone we feel should see it. Your wife will see it, as will your daughter; your employers will receive a copy and we will ensure it is well-circulated within your daughter's school. Can you imagine how your daughter will feel seeing her father on that film? Can you imagine the humiliation of her facing her friends at school after they have seen the film? And what of your wife? Will she welcome you with open arms after seeing your on-screen performance? I think not. Your life, as you know it, would be over. The career you have worked so hard and long to build up would lie in tatters at your feet. Your wife and daughter would despise you. No, Mr. Greenfield, when the time comes, my bet is that you will find it easier to pull the trigger.”
“How do you know about my wife and daughter?” demanded Greenfield with some urgency. “What have you done to them?”
“Not a thing,” assured Richards calmly. “Your wife and daughter are in no direct physical danger from us. We know about them because we do our job very thoroughly. Most people who travel with some regularity come under our scrutiny to judge their potential as operatives. Suitable candidates are selected very carefully. Obviously, they must have a lot to lose, but, more importantly, care about losing it. We felt you fitted the bill better than most.”
“And just who am I expected to kill?”
Greenfield couldn't believe the words that came out of his mouth. Had he really asked that question?
“I have no idea at this moment in time. It could be months before you are allocated a target. You will be informed and provided with a weapon, almost certainly a gun in your case.”
“But I've never fired a gun in my life,” protested Greenfield. “I've never even handled one. We are led to believe there really are people who make a living doing this sort of thing. Surely you would be better off with one of them.”
Richards shook his head. “Hit men, as you like to call them and their methods of operating become known to Interpol and police forces over a period of time. Used regularly, there is always the possibility of one eventually getting caught and traced back to us. You will be used only once. That greatly reduces the odds of such a catastrophe. And, of course, such people cost a lot of money. We have to be cost effective.
“It's because you are not a professional assassin that your accuracy with a gun is not important. Who would ever suspect you? You are a respected member of the community. You will never have had any personal contact with your selected target. You have no record of violence, no criminal record, not even a parking ticket. No known contacts with crime, organised or otherwise. All you have to do is use your common sense. Choose your moment with care and dispose of the weapon sensibly, although it is not a major problem if it is found. Our guns are hand-made within the organisation. We prefer they are not found, but, should they be, it would be impossible to trace their origin.
“The person you kill will not know you or have any reason to suspect you. This is why accuracy is not important. You will be able to get so close that missing will be impossible. It will simply be a case of pointing the gun and pulling the trigger. Then you run.” After a brief pause, Richards added, “What you, Mr. Greenfield, would call a hit-and-run man.”
He laughed loudly.
Greenfield stared incredulously at this man who could take him so clinically through the pros and cons of committing murder yet, in the same breath almost, laugh so heartily at what he obviously considered to be a worthy example of his own wit.
Seeing that Greenfield was not sharing his amusement, Richards curtailed his laughter. “I'm sorry,
Mr. Greenfield, I was under the impression you liked a little joke. The English tradition to make jokes in adversity.”
“I see nothing amusing in my situation, Mr. Richards.”
All traces of humour disappeared from Richard's face. “I'm glad you finally understand your position,” the man said solemnly. “Providing you ensure no-one actually sees you pull the trigger, there will be absolutely nothing to connect you with the killing. None of our operatives have ever been caught. You are an intelligent man, Mr. Greenfield, so we do not expect you to be the first.”
“What if I were?”
“I think that would be your problem more than ours. Without hard evidence to back it up, do you think anyone would believe your story?”
“So what happens now?”
“You will go about your business in Spain as though nothing has happened. Then you will return home and carry on your life as normal. You will be informed when we require your services. It could be days, weeks, months even. I think that concludes our business for today, Mr. Greenfield. Now you will be brought some refreshment and returned to your hotel.”
Richards rose carefully, smoothing his suit with his hands.
“Please do not consider going to the police,” he went on. “It's highly unlikely you would be able to find your way back here with them or, I would think, to the apartment where you put on such an admirable performance for us. Was that not a night to remember, Mr. Greenfield? Anyhow, the journey there was in the dark; you were not taken by a direct route and you most certainly had your mind on other things. And, of course, copies of the film will have been seen by relevant people before you reach home. You are dealing with powerful forces here, Mr. Greenfield. Believe me, we do not make idle threats.”
Richards crossed to the door, pausing as he exited between the two guards. Turning, he added, “A final thought. Do not think that taking the honourable way out would spare anyone. Should you take your own life, the films will still go out.”
The Hit-and-Run Man Page 4
