Raymond Benson

by Hitman: Damnation

  47 stepped out of the shed, locked it, and jumped into one of the extra carts. The key was in it. The hitman didn’t follow Chambers, though. He took the long way out, through Main Street and out the front gate to the main road. No one paid any attention to him.

  He reached the dirt turnoff within minutes. 47 passed the van and kept going until he drove out of the woods and onto the tarmac surrounding the control tower. The hangar that usually contained Wilkins’s plane was fifty yards away. The runway lay perpendicular to the buildings, running north and south.

  Chambers’s cart was parked next to a Ford pickup, the only other vehicle in front of the tower. 47 stopped his buggy around the back, got out of the cart, and crept silently toward the building. He heard voices and peered around the corner.

  A man 47 recognized but didn’t know stood smoking a cigarette and talking to Chambers. Louis. Probably the air-traffic controller and manager of the tower and hangar.

  “… see you too. Mitch asked if you’d come up to the house when you have a chance,” Chambers said.

  “Sure, I could go now. Go on in. You can put the plan update there and I’ll take a look when I get back.” Louis dropped the cigarette, stepped on it, and looked at his watch. “See you later.”

  Louis hurried to his truck and drove off toward the compound. Chambers went inside the control tower, carrying the envelope.

  47 opened the briefcase and removed one handgun. He then stepped around to the front door and listened.

  Footsteps climbing a set of stairs.

  The hitman quietly went inside and waited until Chambers was all the way up the three flights. He then calmly and silently followed his prey.

  The assassin peeked into the control room. A lone flight-control workstation faced a window looking out at the runway. Chambers was there with his back to him, searching through papers.

  When Chambers spun around, a Silverballer was pointed directly at his face.

  “What the fuck!?” Chambers blurted.

  “Quiet,” 47 said.

  “What the hell are you doing, Johnson?”

  “I said quiet. And raise your hands.”

  Chambers did as he was told, his eyes wide with fear.

  “Where is Wilkins?”

  Chambers couldn’t speak.

  “Where is Wilkins?”

  The supervisor shook his head. “I … I don’t know. They flew somewhere yesterday.”

  47 nodded at the envelope on the station. “Open that and read it to me.”

  Chambers did so. “Uh, it’s, uh, a flight plan. Looks like they were going to come back tomorrow, but they’re not coming back until the next day.”

  “From where?”

  “Uh, Larnaca? I don’t know where that is.”

  Agent 47 did. Larnaca was the main airport in southern Cyprus. In the Mediterranean. A long way from the United States.

  That was a very strange campaign stop for a presidential candidate.

  “Why would Wilkins fly to Cyprus?”

  Chambers shrugged, his hands still raised. “I don’t know! That kind of stuff is above my pay grade. Johnson, what are you—”

  “Shut up and answer my questions. What do you know about yesterday? When those guards came to get me?”

  Chambers swallowed. “Nothing! I mean it. They just came to me and said the Colonel wanted to talk to you.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “No! No, I’m not!”

  “You found it funny. You were glad to see me summoned to the guardhouse.”

  “Look, Stan, I don’t have any idea why he wanted to talk to you. I figured you were in some kind of trouble.”

  “And you were glad about that. You don’t like me, do you, Stuart?”

  Chambers blinked and swallowed again. “It’s not that. It’s—”

  “Never mind. I know why.” 47 knew there was nothing else worthwhile he could get from Chambers. “Come with me.”

  “Are you … are you going … are you going to shoot me?”

  “No. But come with me. Keep your hands up.” Chambers walked toward 47. The assassin moved aside, the gun still trained on the man. “Out.” He stepped in behind Chambers, the Silverballer nudging his back. “To the stairs. Walk.”

  “You’re not going to shoot me?”

  “I said no.”

  They moved the twenty feet to the top of the staircase. “Stop,” 47 ordered. He stuck the Silverballer into the pocket of his overalls. Then he reached out with both hands and grabbed Chambers’s head from behind.

  A sharp jerk to the right—and snap!

  Followed by a shove.

  The man with the broken neck tumbled down the stairs and hit the landing, bounced, and then lay still, facedown.

  The hitman had told the truth. He didn’t shoot the guy.

  Agent 47 coolly descended the three flights and went outside. He grabbed his briefcase from the cart and walked back to the van.

  As he drove away, he figured they probably wouldn’t miss the van for a few more hours.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  After removing a few items that he kept in the secret compartment of his briefcase, Agent 47 locked it and the weapons in a public storage facility in the Baltimore/Washington Airport and boarded a flight to Paris.

  The trip to Cyprus was pure hell.

  Even in first class, he was uncomfortable. The withdrawal symptoms had increased tenfold. The flight attendant took one look at him and asked if he was all right. It was a small miracle they allowed him to board.

  “Just getting over the flu,” he explained. “Don’t worry, I’m not contagious.”

  Still, his skin was pale and he sweated profusely. The passenger in the next seat requested to move. At one point the hitman thought he was going to be sick and spent ten minutes in the lavatory. He attempted to sleep during the voyage and did so fitfully. Dreams and nightmares plagued him with images from his childhood at the asylum. Much of the anger he felt back then manifested itself in ghostly apparitions of enemies from his past, all of whom had returned to kill him. Diana Burnwood appeared, this time in the person of a game-show host. She asked 47 if he wanted door number one, two, or three. There were no doors to be seen, but the assassin answered, “Three.” A hatch materialized in the space beside her. Suddenly Diana was a flight attendant, he was inside an airplane, and she pulled the emergency lever. The hatch disengaged from the aircraft and shot away. 47 looked out to see the Caribbean below. The wind and rain pelted him.

  “This is your stop, sir,” Diana said.

  “I’m not getting out here.”

  “Yes, you are.” With that, she pushed him out of the plane.

  47 plummeted toward the sea but then abruptly slowed, as if he had just opened a parachute. He looked up and, sure enough, a canopy was attached to a pack on his back. As with all dreams, he accepted the turn of events and went with the flow without question. At least he wasn’t going to die in the water.

  But then the sea was gone. A landscape of fire had taken its place. 47 felt the intense heat, even from such a high altitude. It was as if he were descending toward a blazing sun. He knew he shouldn’t look directly into it—the rays would burn through his retinas—and yet he couldn’t tear his eyes away. Something was moving on the sun’s surface; the flames and molten lava were forming a shape.

  A face.

  No, a blank face. No eyes, no nose, no mouth.

  Death.

  47 was falling into the jaws of Death.

  “Sir, wake up, sir!”

  Gentle nudging startled him, and he was back on the flight to Paris. The flight attendant stood over him.

  “What?”

  “You were … you were having a bad dream, I think. You kept shouting. I’m sorry to wake you, but you were … well, it looked like you needed to be woken up.”

  He nodded. “I’m sorry. Thank you. You’re right. My apologies.”

  She handed him a cup of water. “We’re about to land. Here, drink this.”

&
nbsp; “Thank you.”

  47 felt so weak he could barely walk off the plane. There was a three-hour layover. The flight to Cyprus would get him into Larnaca roughly a day after Wilkins and his party had arrived. He used the time at Orly to freshen up. He washed the sweat off his body and changed shirts in the men’s room. After getting a bite to eat, he called the Agency’s secure number with his cellphone. Following the usual coded verifications, he was routed to none other than Jade.

  “Where are you, 47?” she asked.

  “Paris. I’m about to board a flight to Cyprus.”

  “Cyprus? Whatever for?”

  “That’s where Wilkins is. You were right, Jade. Something about this job stinks.” He told her what had happened to him at Greenhill.

  “Is your cover blown?”

  “I’m not sure. I don’t think so. I think only Ashton and a couple of guards know who I am. We won’t be hearing from the guards. Ashton’s in Cyprus with Wilkins. I don’t know what he’s told the reverend, if anything, but I intend to find out. Listen, can you find out where Wilkins is and why he’s halfway across the world when he should be campaigning in American cities?”

  She told him to call her back when he was on the island.

  “Oh, and one other thing. Can you find the police report on the accidental death of Eric Shipley? It happened in Maryland in the 1970s. Shipley was Dana Linder’s father.”

  “Why do you want that?”

  “I have my reasons.” His last question to her was, “Is there any word about Diana?”

  “We’re pursuing a lead in the States. It looks promising.”

  “Good to know.”

  He hung up, took three ibuprofen tablets for the massive headache that had never left him, and waited to board the flight to Cyprus.

  Cyprus had been a divided country since 1974. The southern two-thirds of the island was occupied by Greek Cypriots. This section of the country, the Republic of Cyprus, was recognized by the United Nations and the rest of the world as a sovereign nation. The other third, in the north, was known as the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus and, according to most everyone except the Turks, was there illegally. Turkey had invaded the island nearly four decades earlier and started a bloody conflict that ultimately ended in a tentative, uneasy peace. The Greek-side capital, Nicosia, was divided by a no-man’s-land that still contained remnants of that 1974 dispute: overturned cars, burned-out and empty storefronts, and rubble. On the other side of the barrier was the Turkish half of the capital, Lefkosia.

  Wilkins and his party were in the Hilton Cyprus, Nicosia’s only five-star hotel. 47 was happy to learn that they were in the Greek portion. There was less red tape to maneuver through, and it was more tourist-friendly.

  He checked into the hotel wearing a cloth poncho over blue jeans and a flannel shirt, sunglasses, and a bandanna on his bald head. He might have been a gypsy traveler from any part of the globe, albeit a wealthy one. Among the supplies he had taken from his briefcase was a set of makeup tools. He had brought along eyeliners, pencils, skin-coloring pancake base, and even crepe hair and spirit gum. These were handy for creating a quick disguise, and they were undetectable going through airport security. The masquerades he developed in this fashion were akin to what actors might do for stage appearances. They were sufficient for brief appearances but wouldn’t hold up under close scrutiny. Therefore he had to be careful not to be seen except in transitory instances.

  47 was careful to scope out the lobby before entering, just in case Ashton—or Helen—was there. He was confident, though, that no one would recognize him in this guise.

  Before venturing out, he contacted the Agency. Jade told him that several “VIPs” from Europe and the Middle East were also registered at the hotel. They included members of OPEC, banking executives, and independent financiers. It was unclear if they were connected to Wilkins’s visit. She also said that the Agency’s top analysts were working on tracing the client’s calls to pinpoint where they were coming from. It was difficult and time-consuming, because both parties used sophisticated encryption. Last, Jade provided a copy of the police report from the hunting accident involving Eric Shipley. Apparently he and some friends had been hunting in the Maryland woods in 1976. Shipley’s shotgun went off when he was cleaning it. His face was in the way. Several hunters had witnessed the event and supplied testimony at the inquest. The case was closed. The ruling: accidental death.

  Interesting.

  “Who were the witnesses?”

  “According to the court record, three men: two Church of Will adherents and a friend of Charlie Wilkins. Malcolm James Woodworth, Thomas Strome, and Bruce Ashton.”

  Ashton. Very interesting.

  “Do any photographs exist of Wilkins prior to 1976?” he asked.

  He heard her sigh with slight irritation. “Would you like me to look?”

  “Please.” He hung up, ignoring her request to explain.

  47 spent the afternoon in the hotel lobby, drinking coffee, reading newspapers, and keeping his eyes and ears open. Finally, Wilkins and his entourage walked through. Helen was with them, looking harried and busy with a notepad in hand, as if she was taking down every word the reverend uttered. Colonel Ashton marched alongside Wilkins and exuded such menace that anyone would think twice before approaching the famous Church of Will leader. Two other bodyguards walked behind the trio. 47 didn’t recognize them. There were certainly people in the hotel that identified Wilkins and wanted to meet him. The reverend graciously obliged, shook hands, and signed autographs, all the while displaying his trademark smile and raised eyebrow. Ashton kept close by and vetted every person who came near.

  During this ritual, 47 stood and walked across the lobby, intentionally passing next to Helen. She did glance at him but then went back to her notepad as she scribbled something. She paid him no mind.

  Good.

  47 loitered as Wilkins finished with his fans. The reverend turned to Helen and said, “My dear, I won’t need you at the meeting tomorrow. Feel free to take the day off. Go to the pool. Go shopping. I understand the old town in Nicosia has many nice stores.”

  She seemed surprised. “Really? You don’t want me there?”

  “No, it’s not necessary. Just be available for dinner tomorrow evening.”

  “Thank you, sir—er, Charlie.”

  One of the bodyguards said, “Sir, the car is here.”

  “Fine,” Wilkins said. “We can’t keep the ambassador waiting.”

  The entire party left the hotel and got into a limousine. 47 watched from the front doors, considered following them, and decided to check out the bar instead. They’d be back. It was what they were doing at the hotel that interested him.

  The Paddock Bar wasn’t open until five o’clock, so 47 went to the Lobby Lounge. Many guests were having afternoon tea. The assassin thought that sounded good; a hot drink would help ease the nasty withdrawal symptoms. He sat in a comfortable armchair overlooking the long room, ordered the drink, and eyed the crowd. His attention settled on three men sitting at a nearby table. They spoke Russian and were dressed a little too smartly for the teatime clientele. 47 was almost positive they were gangsters. He wasn’t exactly fluent in their language, but he knew enough to catch the gist of the conversation. One man complained that they shouldn’t have to be in a long meeting the following day. A second man asked if they knew where it was being held. The third guy answered that it was obviously in the hotel’s business center, probably in a conference room the reverend had reserved. The first man commented that the “food better be good.” The second Russian joked, “It’ll probably be Charlie’s chicken!” That evoked laughter.

  Interesting.

  47 decided he needed to learn more about that meeting. He finished his tea and spent the rest of the day exploring the hotel, until he had a complete map of the place in his head. Where the business center was located. Where employees congregated during breaks. The laundry room. The gym, pool, and sauna. The positions of s
tairwells and elevators. Where security cameras were positioned. He knew where it was safe to hide and what spots to avoid.

  He was ready.

  Now if only he could be rid of the shakes, headache, and anxiety, everything would be perfect.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Shortly before the dinner hour, Agent 47 made his way to the employees-only area on the ground floor of the hotel. As he lurked in a corner, he watched bellhops, waiters, and maids swipe keycards to get inside. He figured that beyond the door he would find a break room, personnel offices, and, most important, computers with hotel information. He considered the possibility of accessing the facility from the exterior, through an employees’ entrance next to the loading dock. This was a riskier proposition in broad daylight. Eventually, though, a bellhop emerged from the office. He was dressed in the hotel uniform—brown-and-yellow tunic, dark-brown trousers, a cap, and a name tag—and he was roughly the hitman’s height and weight.

  47 followed him to the busy lobby, where the man immediately went to work by greeting incoming guests and loading their luggage on a cart. Once again, the assassin picked up a newspaper and sat in a chair near reception so that he could keep an eye on the fellow. After a while, a couple came in, looking harried and in a rush. 47 watched them check in and overheard the bellhop tell them that he’d be right up with their things; however, the guests replied that they were late for a dinner engagement and had just stopped to register and drop off their luggage. The bellhop politely said, “That’s fine; your things will be in the room when you return.” The couple tipped him in advance and left. 47 loitered a little longer as the employee picked up a keycard and then finally rolled the luggage cart toward the elevators. One set of doors opened, revealing an empty car. The man pushed the cart inside and pressed the button of the floor he wanted. As the doors started to close, 47 thrust his arm between them.

  “Hold it, please!”

  The bellhop punched the Open Doors button. 47 slipped inside.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, sir. What floor?”