Raymond Benson

by Hitman: Damnation

  But if Interpol or other legal watchdogs of the world had an opportunity to visit the interior of the Jean Danjou II, they would discover a beehive of ex-military personnel, some of the world’s savviest IT and encryption specialists, and the core middle-management team of a shadowy, secret international network.

  Since she never anchored in one place for very long, the yacht was the ideal vessel to house the cerebral cortex of the International Contract Agency. And while high-level government officials, such as the president of the United States, the prime ministers of the United Kingdom and of Russia, and the king of Saudi Arabia, were certainly aware that the Agency existed, and although elite inner circles of intelligence organizations such as the CIA and SIS had reason and the ability to contact the Agency’s leaders, these entities denied any knowledge of such an immoral but sometimes useful society. The ICA’s services were sought after by the bad and the good alike. And yet, if America or Great Britain or Russia or any other nation on earth desired to actually locate the Agency’s physical headquarters or meet its administrators, they might as well look on the moon. It was inconceivable that the ICA was right there in plain sight, moving from port to port on the open sea.

  The Jean Danjou II was the perfect home for a necessary evil.

  The twenty-eight-year-old Asian woman known only as Jade rechecked the figures on her notepad, glanced back at the monitor on the workstation labeled “Caribbean” to note any changes in the data, made some calculations, and then stood. The command center was buzzing with activity and distractions, but the woman had no problem staying focused. She looked at her steel-and-white-gold Rolex and saw that she was due in the conference room in five minutes. Just enough time for a quick walk-through to make sure everything was running smoothly.

  The center, situated deep in the Jean Danjou II on deck three, was the size of a baseball diamond. The walls were covered with electronic maps and large-screen HD computer monitors. More than a dozen workstations, dedicated to monitoring the Agency’s activities in various territories around the globe, occupied the floor. Each one was manned by an analyst or manager. A tireless and dedicated staff ran the Agency’s many concurrent active operations. And it was Jade’s job to oversee the control center, as well as serve as personal assistant to one of ICA’s top managers.

  Jade’s professional demeanor, dark leather business suit, patterned stockings, glasses, and the black hair done in a bun might have suggested that she was an executive secretary for a Fortune 500 company. But if one looked past her obvious beauty and noticed her many tattoos—mostly illustrative dragons—and the severe, no-nonsense soul behind her brown eyes, it was apparent that the woman was a formidable and dangerous person.

  After making the rounds to each workstation and obtaining status updates from every worker, Jade glanced again at the Rolex. It was time for the meeting with her boss. She informed Julius, her immediate subordinate, where she was going, and then left the command center in his capable hands.

  Any ship contained narrow and claustrophobic spaces, but the interior of the Jean Danjou II felt more like a high-tech corporate building than a luxury yacht. Each manager, responsible for the various functions that kept the Agency in business, had his or her own private office. Jade knew that one day she would have one. With a promotion to manager, she would gain more responsibility. That meant more money. Working for the Agency was the best job in the world.

  Ascending to deck two by a marble and steel staircase, Jade nodded at one of the armed guards who patrolled the ship at all times. She liked to give the guards the perception that she appreciated their protection, when, in fact, Jade could probably take on three of them at once, slit their throats with the stiletto she kept on her person at all times, and then calmly go about her business.

  Eventually she reached the conference room and entered.

  “Right on time, Jade. My God, you’re damned efficient,” said the man sitting at a long table in front of a computer monitor. He was finishing his lunch—a po’-boy stuffed with salami, cheese, lettuce, tomatoes, and peppers. “Tell me again where you had combat training?”

  “Westerners call it the Golden Triangle,” she answered. “Specifically Burma. But I spent a lot of time in Laos.”

  “Jungle stuff, huh?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Benjamin Travis allowed his eyes to look her up and down—it was something he did daily, but she didn’t mind. All the men on the boat—and some women—thought she was hot. It had its advantages.

  Travis said, “Sit down. What have you got for me?”

  Jade took a seat and placed her notebook in front of her. “We have a new lead on Agent 47’s whereabouts.”

  Travis raised his eyebrows. “And we’ve been hearing that every month for a year, Jade.”

  “This is different, sir. A reliable source informs us that 47 was spotted in Jamaica as recently as two days ago. In fact, the source is one of ours.”

  Travis swiveled his chair away from the computer. A man in his forties, he always dressed in a gray suit, white shirt, and an Agency tie. He was probably twenty-five pounds overweight; his gut drooped over his belt, and he tended to sweat more than other men. With his thick red-brown mustache, glasses, and communications earpiece, he might have resembled a retired CIA operative who was past his prime. In reality, like Jade, Benjamin Travis was not someone to be underestimated. The epitome of a “company man,” Travis was known by his colleagues to have no tolerance for incompetence. Failure was severely punished. As one of the senior managers of the Agency, he was cunning, ruthless, and ambitious. He commanded teams of assassins that operated around the world. He spent just as much time in the control room as did his personal assistant, often doing her job.

  It was no wonder that he had quickly risen in the ranks to become one of the Agency’s star players.

  “Jamaica?” he echoed.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You don’t say. How soon can you verify it?” he asked.

  “I have Julius on it. This time it looks promising, Benjamin. Our man in Jamaica is usually reliable on intel but untrustworthy in financial matters.”

  He merely nodded. Jade knew that Travis never jumped to conclusions before all the i’s were dotted and t’s crossed.

  “What else?”

  “That’s all, sir. Still no news on Burnwood. I’m afraid that trail has gone quite cold.”

  Travis nodded again. “That figures. Thank you, Jade. Please keep me informed. The minute you have confirmation on 47, I want to know.”

  “Yes, sir.” She stood and moved toward the door.

  “Wait.”

  Jade stopped and turned. “Yes?”

  “Please inform the captain to point the ship toward the Caribbean. If what you say is true, I want to be close enough to intercept the guy.” He shrugged. “And if this lead of yours turns out to be another dead end, then we’ll stop in Cuba or the Bahamas or somewhere and have an island shore leave. We could use it.”

  “Yes, sir.” She scribbled a note on her pad, pushed her glasses back to the bridge of her nose, and left the room.

  Travis turned to the computer monitor and resumed studying the latest report from Chicago. The results had gone beyond expectations. He knew his pet project had the potential to help the Agency evolve into a force with which the entire world would have to reckon. The ICA would possess something that could very well bring governments to their knees.

  It represented power. Unimaginable power.

  In just a few more months, the project would be completed. As the experiment advanced, the potential was boundless.

  Travis could smell the promotion he would receive. It was entirely possible he would be appointed to be the Agency’s chairman. And it could have occurred sooner, had Diana Burnwood not betrayed him. The bitch had threatened to make trouble for Travis’s project because of some kind of high-and-mighty conscience she suddenly developed. She was a dangerous loose cannon, and she had to be found. His biggest fear wa
s that Agent 47 would beat him to it, make contact with Diana, and then the two would join forces against the Agency. Travis didn’t put it past Diana to turn the ICA’s most valuable asset.

  Travis picked up Agent 47’s dossier and scanned it again. He knew everything about the assassin, but the manager had never met him. The hitman’s exploits were legendary, though. Travis looked forward to the day when he could shake 47’s hand and welcome him back to the team. If they could find him. If he would come willingly.

  An interesting case, Agent 47. The world’s greatest assassin was “created” in a Romanian mental asylum as a clone from the DNA of Dr. Otto Ort-Meyer and four other men. Born on September 5, 1964, Agent 47 was tagged with the identity 640509-040147 by a tattoo on the back of his neck and raised with other “Series IV” clones by the asylum’s staff. Along with the other clones, 47 was trained from youth to kill efficiently. Instructed in the use of firearms, military hardware, and more-classic tools of assassination, the clone could wield virtually any weapon with ease.

  After thirty years of relentless training, 47 allegedly killed a security guard and escaped from the asylum grounds. Some said that he didn’t escape but rather perhaps was allowed to leave, unleashing the world’s greatest assassin.

  The rest, as they say, was history. At least the parts that were known.

  As far as the hitman’s personality went, there wasn’t much documented. Agent 47 had expensive tastes in clothing, food, and drink, but otherwise he had little interest in material possessions. He took great pride in his personal arsenal: a briefcase containing two customized AMT Hardballers. The assassin said very little, but when he did, he usually spoke in a blunt, informal, and emotionless manner. He wasn’t known to have an interest in sex. And while Agent 47 was extremely reliable and a perfectionist in what he did for a living, the man trusted no one. Except, possibly, Diana Burnwood.

  Travis wondered if that conviction was still strong, given what had happened to 47 in the Himalayas.

  Spotted in Jamaica, was he? Maybe it was true. Did Agent 47 know where Diana was hiding? Had they been in touch? After all, the hitman and his handler had a unique and special relationship. If anyone could get close—personally—to Agent 47, it was Diana.

  But the woman hadn’t been seen or heard from for a year. Neither had Agent 47, for that matter. He had gone off the grid after their last assignment together. At first the Agency thought the assassin was dead, but 47 unwittingly left bread crumbs indicating he’d survived the disaster in Nepal. The Agency spent months tracking him, but 47 was clever and elusive. He didn’t want to be found.

  Which was why Travis worried that the hitman and Diana were in cahoots. That could be a deadly combination—for him.

  He clenched his fists and banged them hard on the table. Jade had to be right about the lead. If the Agency could get its hands on Agent 47 and recruit him back into the organization, Travis had a chance to fulfill his ambition, finish his pet project, and turn 47 against the one person in the world the assassin trusted.

  FOUR

  Helen McAdams shut down her computer and put away the news clippings in one of the many folders marked “Media Publicity.” Her boss wanted everything that was written about him documented and archived. Another assistant, George, duped television appearances. Yet another one scoured the Internet and saved bloggers’ and message-board comments—good or bad. Charlie Wilkins, leader of the Church of Will, was a man who documented his life on a daily basis. In the future, he liked to say, someone would have all the material needed for a complete and accurate biography.

  Work was finished for the day. Helen gathered her belongings, shut off the lights in her mansion office, stepped out, and locked the door. She had enough time to run to her apartment and whip up some supper before heading to the recruitment center to interview new Church members. While she was paid for her job as one of several personal assistants to Reverend Wilkins, Helen kept busy with other volunteer assignments at Greenhill. For her, recruiting was the most interesting one, for she was able to meet new people. There was always the chance that a suitable man might walk in and join the Church of Will, someone with whom she could become friendly—and perhaps more.

  It was good to keep busy. Helen had never liked to be idle—the “devil’s workshop” and all that—but the need to keep her mind occupied was essential ever since the stint in the hospital. It was part of the recovery process. Staying on top of numerous tasks also kept her from dwelling on her situation. Helen rarely admitted to herself that she was lonely, but it was always the elephant in the room. After her parents were killed in a tragic highway accident, and her sister had succumbed to ovarian cancer, Helen sometimes feared she was all alone in the world. That wasn’t really true, she had the Church and the friends she had met there. And Charlie, of course. Reverend Charlie Wilkins. He was the light and the hope and the inspiration that kept her going. If she hadn’t found the Church of Will … Well, she didn’t like to think of how she might have ended up.

  Before she could go home, there was one other task to do. Helen walked past the other assistants’ offices and down the long hall to Wilkins’s private sanctuary, where the man worked and prayed. His office door was closed and locked, but she had a key. It made her feel special that she was the only one of his personal assistants whom he trusted with a key to his office. Since he was away on business, one of Helen’s duties was to water the many plants he kept inside. She was happy to do so. She felt his presence in the place, and it made her feel good.

  Charlie Wilkins’s office was a copy of the White House Oval Office in design, but the reverend had decorated it quite differently. For one thing, a wall-sized, curved plate-glass window faced Aquia Lake. The mansion had been erected on the northern shore, for Wilkins loved the view of the water. He claimed it helped him meditate. The moon and stars reflected off its surface at night, which was why he always made it a point to pray in his office at exactly midnight whenever he was on the premises. Helen agreed it was a beautiful, pastoral setting. The Church of Will compound couldn’t have been built on a lovelier spot in Virginia. That was why it was called Greenhill.

  Other differences from the Oval Office included the abundance of greenery. Wilkins had a green thumb and believed that all plants had souls. There were more than a hundred potted plants in the office, and Helen took the time to water the appropriate ones. They had different schedules—some had to be watered daily, others only once a week or less.

  Then there were the many religious artifacts and artworks in the space. In fact, they were displayed all over the mansion. An identical room directly below this one, in the basement, supposedly stored hundreds of such treasures, but Helen had never been in it. It was off-limits to everyone except select personnel.

  Wilkins embraced all of the world’s religions. The Church of Will laid no claim on any particular one. Christians, Muslims, Jews, Buddhists, Hindus, and even Scientologists—everyone was welcome in the Church of Will. Wilkins had cannily taken aspects from each faith and combined them to create his own. And it worked.

  The Church of Will had branches all over America. It had spread like wildfire over a few short decades. And with Charlie Wilkins’s charismatic charm, his showbusiness acumen, and his good looks, he had conquered a sizable percentage of the American population. Some said he should run for president, but Wilkins was happy to let Senator Dana Linder do so. After all, she was a member of the Church. Wilkins did his part to campaign for her and was one of her biggest contributors.

  Helen was convinced that the country needed the influence of the Church of Will’s doctrines. The past decade had been hard on America. The high rise of unemployment to 23 percent, the unacceptable gasoline prices, the failing of much of the states’ infrastructure, and the general dissatisfaction among the people had contributed to the worst depression since the great one of the 1930s. It was no wonder that various militant groups had sprung up all over the nation. Masked, armed militias periodically conducted terro
rist attacks on federal and governmental properties. So far, there hadn’t been many lives lost—only man-made structures—but the situation was becoming worse. The media usually focused on the New Model Army. Secretive and deadly, the NMA seemed to have the means and ability to strike anywhere at any time. Led by the mysterious outlaw known as “Cromwell,” the New Model Army was wanted by the FBI and the police in every state, but on the other hand they had a Robin Hood mystique that ordinary citizens embraced. Helen was certain the American public was protecting the NMA by helping to hide and transport its members from place to place.

  When she was done watering the plants, Helen pushed aside the thoughts about the state of the union. It was 5:45. She needed to hurry to her apartment so she could catch Wilkins’s television program. She never missed it if she could help it. Helen locked his office door, scampered down the long hallway, and entered the mansion’s main rotunda. She said good night to the two security men stationed there and left through the front door.

  The mansion was a small palace, separated from the rest of Greenhill by a tall, electrified wire fence. Wilkins was such a celebrity that he needed protection. While most Church members were trustworthy and worshipped the man, there had been a couple of instances in which mentally unbalanced persons had tried to get into the mansion to cause the reverend some harm. Hence, the electric fence, security teams, and extra precautions had been installed. There were also a few other buildings on the inside of the fence—a barn, which was both a storage facility and a garage for Wilkins’s personal limousine, and a guardhouse.

  The gate was unmanned. Anyone who wanted to open it had to have a keycard, which was issued to only a few select staff members. Helen slipped hers through the magnetic slot, and the mechanism clicked. She pushed open the gate and stepped through. It locked automatically behind her.