by Graeme Smith
I'd smacked Mr probably-not-Sammy-C pretty good. It was going to take him a while to wake up, so I took the time to check the farmhouse. The probably-used-to-be-Sammy-C was proving 'the way of the third eye' mostly translated as 'some bastard shot me'. Mr Kosoto Gari had left him lying on the bed, like I was meant to find him. So I went back downstairs. I could tell he was behind the door waiting. So I put on my best sucker-smile and let him get behind me and put his gun to my head. Whoever had taught him hadn't told him that getting close to your target was a bad idea and I knew I could drop him easy if I had to. But first I had to find out why I was really here. “Damn, slick. You got me. So what's the deal?”
“That's better, kid. You're good, but maybe not as good as your Mom thinks you are. Didn't they tell you how you come in a room that might have a gun in it?”
I figured I could either tell him the twenty – I thought a moment – twenty three ways I could have killed him dead, or I could carry on playing a while. Guys tend to be big on size, so long as it's ego and not anything a girl can actually have fun with, so I let him gloat. “Like I said. You got me. So what's a you? I guess that's the real Sammy C upstairs with lead poisoning.”
“You catch on quick, kid. What this is, is retirement.”
I flexed a muscle or three, just in case. “Retirement?”
“Yeah. The Organisation, well. It can't have people who used to work for it anywhere they can be a problem, or let them drop out of sight. So this is what they do. Some plastic surgery, some language training, a bit of history, and some kid brings me back down the line. 1797 with a bullet, and I get to be Samuel Taylor.”
“And the guys with Uncle Mikhail's finest outside?”
“Oh, your... Mom... decided she wanted to see how you handled a hot LZ.”
I didn't miss the hesitation. When I didn't say anything, I felt the gun on the back of my head relax. That made the hesitation important. Like, I'd just passed some test, but maybe only because I'd failed. I figured it could wait. “So you get to come back here and live out your life as one of the greatest poets of all time? Beats a pension, I guess.”
“Not quite. Or not yet, anyway. See, there's a problem. I mean, I tried his poppy. Good stuff, it is. But this is the best I got.” Not-Sammy put his gun away, and I turned round. He handed me a piece of paper. On one side was as far as Sammy had got before somebody very not-from-Porlock had interrupted him. On the back of it... well, I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you. It's cheaper than the lawyers' bills – and copyright's a bitch. I looked up at Mr not-Sammy. “Your French is lousy.”
“Right. And so's your headache.”
“Headache?”
“Yeah. The one your Mom told me you'd be having about now.”
Thing is, he was right. My head was pounding like John Henry's hammer.
“See, right now, you know all the poems a certain Mr S Coleridge wrote. The ones you learned to pass that English paper your Mom told me about. Thing is, there's a dead body upstairs that isn't going to be big on poetry for the rest of my life, and the best I have is Lucille there. So all that stuff you know he wrote isn't going to get written. And you're going to have to remember it that way too. Because you'll never forget, even if nobody else knows what you do. Because they won't.”
“Oh, I forget all sorts of things.” And I do. Not important things, like where to get C4 and how to make everything near it C-used-to-be. But things like Coleridge? Hell, I could... I grabbed by head. I could use a fucking Excedrin. Maybe a hundred. And I could use my Mom tied to a table and a whole bunch of red hot needles, that's what I could... “Oh, hell. So what's the catch?”
Not-Sammy-C shrugged. “Your Mom said that was your problem, not mine. So what's it to be, kid?”
I grabbed my Glock. And I grabbed my bottle. I had a headache to get rid of, and no amount of Excedrin in the world was going to get rid of it. But I had an idea for something that might.
* * *
See, that's the thing with Mom. Whether it's boss-Mom or Mom-Mom, she's not interested in whiners – just winners. She knew I'd figure it out. A trip back home gave me a chance to put Sammy’s hair back in the museum. I’d dropped the lock I’d stolen, but not-Sammy and a pair of scissors had obliged. And a visit to a few bookstores soon got me what I needed. I took the big pile of books back to Ash Farm, to Soon-to-be-Sammy. He got a twisted look on his face, and he asked me if, since I'd brought the books back to him already written, and he didn't know a damn thing about poetry, even if he copied them out, like I told him to, on the dates the book said – who the fuck wrote them in the first place? I told him to enjoy his headache – and to get writing. Because if I got one hint of a headache, he'd better hope I was bleeding, or I'd be back.
* * *
Some-When. Middle-of-Nowhere, USA.
“You set me up!”
“Boss. Or ma'am.”
“What?” Mom didn't seem fazed by the pink Glock I was pointing at her.
“Boss. Or ma'am. You see dear, this isn't the part where you're my daughter, and we laugh, and you tell me you'll do better next time. This is the part where you work for me, and you remember who's in charge. And 'work' is looking like just the word I wanted, dear. I've no idea how you did it, but as far as the world is concerned, Mr Coleridge is just the same as he always was. Well done!”
I had a feeling something was wrong. It was a feeling that was getting way too familiar. See, Not-Sammy had said people wouldn't remember. But Mom clearly did. I slipped my Glock into my thigh holster. “Yeah. Well, I saw your little setup, and went back another day, and I waxed your guy before he could do whatever...” As kites went, it was weak. But it was maybe worth seeing which way Mom's wind was blowing.
“No you didn't dear.” Mom took a paper from a file on her desk and read it. She looked up. “You took out the shop-window team. You see? I told you piano lessons would come in useful one day. And you came back and found my former Accountant all he needed to complete Mr Coleridge's work. I have no idea what you did to the backup team, but they were expendable anyway.” Mom waved the paper at me. “A friend of mine gave me a full report. In between headaches, of course.” Mom smiled. “And don't try and be clever, dear. Do that again, and I might have to think harder about your... long term... employment prospects.” The smile was warm. The eyes were cold. I figured the eyes had it. “But an excellent job. Are you ready for another?”
I wondered who her friend was with the headaches. I looked over the desk at the paper. The H at the bottom was very ornate, and burned red - none of which helped. What helped even less was the backup team, and how I'd taken them out. Mostly because I'd never even seen them, never mind taken care of them. And If I hadn't, somebody else had. Somebody I hadn't seen. Which was another feeling that was getting far too familiar. I thought about asking Mom about the Somebody. Then I stamped on the thought and made it wish it had never been born. Mom didn't like questions, only answers. And I didn't have any. Apart from one. “Another job? Sure, boss!”
Chapter Eighteen
Double Date
Some-When. Middle-of-Nowhere, USA.
“You want me to kill Kennedy?”
It's one of those questions old farts ask each other. Like, 'where were you when Kennedy died?'. Organisation players don't get to be old farts much, but I wondered what would happen, if I ever got to be old, if someone asked me that question and I said 'looking over the sights of a Glock'. Hell, I probably wouldn't even have to kill them afterwards – the heart attack would do them nicely.
“No, dear. Well, and yes, of course.”
Mom could be like that sometimes. Like, she'd be trying to work out what we should have for dinner, and she'd be, like, 'Well, I could do steak. With tomato sauce. On the pasta. If we didn't have steak, I mean.' Me, I got to eat a lot of pizza. Especially pizza Mom hadn't cooked.
“No. I mean, yes, do kill him, dear. He's been – or rather, he was being – rather a naughty little boy. Skimming from Organisation accoun
ts is perfectly fine and understandable. So long as I'm the one doing the skimming. Otherwise, we tend to have a review of the agent's retirement plan.”
“Huh? Kennedy was ours?”
“Only indirectly, dear. Marilyn was the brains. We had such plans for her. But oh, did that girl love her knives... '43 we just wrote off to high spirits – enthusiasm. But after that thing in '47 – she'd even got herself her own silver topped cane! We just had to move her to Special Projects. But then Bobby... Well. He never liked her. Clumsy, though. We had to wipe the whole room down. Poor Marilyn. Still, we took care of dear Bobby. He wasn't our man. Or girl...” Mom did her shark-grin. “Never forget, dear. The Organisation looks after its own.” Her eyes went cold. “Unless I tell them not to, of course.”
“So you want me to kill Kennedy?”
“As a favour, dear. Since you'll be in the area. But no. He's not your target. There's someone else.” For a moment, Mom sounded almost scared. “He's going to try to stop you. I want you to look him over, make sure you'll know him when you... But I'm getting ahead of myself. Just make sure you know him, dear.”
Sounded, hell. Mom was scared. And nothing scared Mom. Nothing. “Mom – er, I mean, boss - he sounds like Bad News. With a capital 'fuck him'. Why don't I just take him down too? Since he's going to be there anyway?”
Mom grinned. But for the first time, I didn't hear sharks screaming. She was faking it, and I wasn't even a guy. “First, darling, because he works for me. Or rather, he will be working... I mean, was working...” Mom's lips moved, like she was trying to work out whether they were hers or not. “This time thing you humans... I mean, we humans... I mean, it's so confusing! Never mind, dear. You can't kill him then. He has things to do. For me. No, I just want you to make sure you'd know him again.”
“You mean, while this shit-hot baddass is trying to kill me, while I'm trying to kill Kennedy, you want me to ask him to hold off a minute while I take his fingerprints?” Sometimes Mom isn't so big on the planning part of things. She just tells people to get things done – the how is their problem.
“Darling, I know you think you're clever. And really, sometimes you almost are. But – how do you children put it these days? You don't know jack? Well, you really, really don't. But don't worry dear. I've thought about that.” Apparently, this wasn't one of those times. And whatever it wasn't, what it was, was a Really Really Big Deal. Because Mom didn't call me stupid very often – but when she did, she didn't kid. And all of a sudden, I could hear sharks screaming again...
* * *
Dealey Plaza – November 22nd, 1963
Just in, a bullet, and out. Oh – and a kickass-badass to check out, but not to 'check out', so I'd know him some time to be defined later. A badass Bad enough to scare Mom. Who, like, never scared. Just another day at the office, without an office to be in.
The buzz of Dealey Plaza filled my ears.
November 22nd, 1963. It's one of those dates. If you're old enough for it to mean anything at all, it means pretty much everything. Hell, I'd barely needed CG to run up a case file. There were more web sites, more pictures, more precise diagrams and who-what-whens than you could shake a poison flechette firing umbrella (I kid you not – it's out there) at. So it hadn't been hard to make sure the Horn landed me on the grassy knoll. Or rather, not me. That was what Mom meant. Because CG had some rings for me. One was a neat glamor ring, without any lace or stockings required. It didn't make me invisible, but it made folks not want to look at me, or if they did, to just catch me out of the corner of their eye. And not even me, because that was other ring. It made me into not me. It made me into – well, nobody. I put it on, and I checked a mirror. Whoever he was, he was nobody. He had one of those faces you could forget while you were still looking at him. Not cute, not ugly – like, nobody.
There was only one problem. I knew him. Like, knew him. And something was busy telling me I'd be a lot better off if I didn't ask Mom why.
The stuff I'd read had all said the same thing. Johnny-boy went down to a 6.5x52mm brass Carcano. Now, I'd do a lot for the Organisation. Mostly because I was pretty sure they'd blow my damn head off if I didn't. But lugging a Carcano 91/38 carbine round with me wasn't my idea of smart. So I talked to the shop back at the ranch, and they did some work on a couple of Glock 9mm pieces. Not mine – nobody touched my Glock but me. But even though they'd only fire once, I had two slugs ready to rock. And like I told CG – I don’t miss. One would be enough. So here I was, and I could hear the car coming. Which was when I turned, and saw him. The figure nobody was looking at – the figure nobody was noticing. He walked towards me, his gun out and a bead on the side of my head. And it was like I was looking in that fucking mirror again. Because the guy with the gun was the guy I'd seen back at the ranch. And I figured, of all the targets he was going to kill – he wasn't gonna wax himself. So I reached out, and I tried to 'feel' him, like I could feel pretty much anyone near me, a tail, a target – and I couldn't. Because there wasn’t anything there. Not a damn thing. Just – empty. And it started to make sense. Because I'd bet he wasn't from here. Not here-here, and not here-now. I'd bet any penny I had, and all the ones I could steal off anyone who hadn't nailed them down, if I was a Horny bitch, he was a Horny bastard. So as he stood and stared, I smiled, and put a finger to my lips. I raised my gun – and fired at the oncoming motorcade. And he watched me as I took my flask from my pocket – and the smell of Unicorn Horn filled the air.
* * *
Some-When. Middle-of-Nowhere, USA.
“It's done.”
“I know, dear. Otherwise, all sorts of people would have forgotten how dear Johnny died. Which they haven't. So you managed that part, at least. And what about the real mission?”
“He was there, Mom.”
“And you'll know him again?”
“I'll know him, Mom.”
“Ah. Good. So he still doesn't wash often enough. Isn't that right, dear?”
That's when I put three rounds in Mom. A nice group, right in her chest. They didn't do any more than I expected, which meant they didn't do a damn thing. But I was pissed. “No, Mom. There wasn't a fucking smell.” Three more rounds. “It wasn't any damn thing.” Three more. “Because he wasn't fucking there. Even though he was. I was busy forgetting what he looked like while I was still looking at him. And I couldn't feel him, Mom. And you knew! You...” six rounds “... you fucking knew!”
“Yes, dear. He's like that. It's what made him so – useful.”
“He's one of ours?”
“Mine, dear. Not ours. Let's not get too far ahead of ourselves, shall we? Yes. Or no. One of those. I know he was one of ours – mine, I mean. But there was... I mean is... I mean was... I think there was something I... we... a plan. And I can't remember! And I always remember! And whatever it is, it's his fault. Even if it isn't!” Mom was pacing. Mom was shouting. Mom was – well, whatever it was, it wasn't any Mom I'd seen before.
I waited. Then I waited some more. After a while, nothing happened. “Er – Mom?”
“Yes dear? Oh. Back already? Is it done?” Mom raised an eyebrow.
Whatever was going on, I was pretty sure I wanted it to be going on with someone else. To someone else. “Yes, mom. It's done.”
“Excellent. Then I have another job for you. Do it right, and there's a bonus in it for you, dear.” Mom smiled. I realised I knew how the sharks felt. The ones I always heard screaming. “Job, mom?”
“Yes, dear. Go talk to CG. He's got all you need.”
I went. He had. And after he'd finished telling me, there was only one thing left to do. So I checked my Glock – and I drank.
* * *
December 1475, Near Bucharest
I could hear the battle from behind the tree. Steel blades. Men dying. The men, I could care less. But the screams were useful. They'd probably cover any small sounds I made. After a moment, the air shivered, and he was there. I could tell it was him – mostly because I couldn't tell it was anyone else.
He laid a gun-sack on the ground, unzipped it, and started to put the Barrett M82A1 together. If nothing else, he had great taste in guns. He set up, and steadied his sight on the target. I could tell he hadn't noticed me. Of course, nobody ever did. Just like, I bet myself, nobody ever noticed him. That raised some questions. Questions I didn't think were going to get answered. At least, not by him. I stepped from behind the tree. At the last possible moment, he turned, his eyes locking mine. Which was flat out im-fucking-possible. Nobody ever saw me coming – nobody. I grinned. Well, apart from Sven and Maria. Not that it made any difference. Impossible or otherwise – he was toast. My trigger finger tensed – and a 357 slug hammered into his head. The Barrett fell, and he slumped over it. I slipped the Glock back into my thigh holster. I moved in, to clear the site. Mom would be real pissed if there was so much as a scrap of evidence. That was when CG stepped from behind a rock, gun in hand. I grinned some more. But this was my Queen Victoria grin. Something was wrong, and a grin was as good a cover as any. I started to reach for my Glock. “Hey, CG! I didn’t know you were riding shotgun!”
He shrugged. “It's a good job I am, I guess. We've got a problem.”
Crap. Crapcrapcrap. This wasn't just Bad. This was Badder than a Really Bad Thing on a Really Bad Day. For some reason, I wished the guy in the black leather duster wasn't busy being dead. For some reason, I knew he'd have fixed things. “What problem? I don't miss. Like, ever. He's dead, CG.”
