Where was he? Why hadn’t he left word for her?
She had called his cellphone the night before and got his voice mail.
“This is Stan. Leave a message.”
Helen told him she was back and wanted to see him. She asked that he please call her as soon as he could. She almost ended with, “I love you,” but caught herself in time. No need to press her luck.
She had little energy to go through the pile of paperwork Charlie had left on her desk, but she perked up when her phone rang mid-morning. Helen’s heart leapt with joy when she recognized the caller ID. She answered it with a breathless “Stan?”
“Hi, Helen. Are you all right?”
“Stan, where are you?”
“I had to go back to Iowa to take care of some legal matters regarding the farm. I figured I’d do it while you were gone. It took a day longer than I expected. I wanted to be back before you but was delayed. I’m sorry.”
She breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh, okay, I … I just … It’s good to hear your voice. When will you be back?”
“I should be there this afternoon. No worries.”
“That’s good. I can’t wait to see you. I guess you heard about what happened in Cyprus?”
“It’s all over the news. I repeat, are you all right?”
“I’m fine, but really tired. It’s been very stressful. Poor Charlie is a train wreck.”
“I can imagine.”
“I’ll tell you all about it tonight. Dinner at my place?”
“Sounds like a plan.”
After Stan hung up, Helen thought he had sounded a little different. Perhaps it was only her imagination, but he seemed distant. Maybe she was being paranoid and reading nonsense into the conversation.
George stuck his head into her office and said, “Something’s happening.”
“What?”
“We have visitors. Some school buses with a bunch of men just came through the gate and are parking in the barn.”
“Huh? Who are they?”
“I don’t know.”
She got up and followed him outside the mansion. Sure enough, Mitch Carson was directing traffic, pointing the way for the drivers of three yellow buses. The barn was some distance away, but it was within the restricted area, near the guardhouse. When the men climbed out of the buses, Helen noted they were of various ages, between early twenties and late forties, and were dressed in T-shirts and blue jeans or camouflage army pants. Helen thought they looked like soldiers out of uniform. In fact, they moved and acted like military men.
She watched as Carson greeted another man decked out entirely in army fatigues. He wore sunglasses and a broad cowboy hat that prevented her from seeing his face. But he walked with a limp and appeared to have mechanical pincers in place of a right hand. A prosthesis.
Carson led the man into a side entrance to the mansion. They were probably on their way to see Charlie.
Greenhill continued to grow more mysterious by the day.
Agent 47, wearing the Stan Johnson trademark overalls and flannel shirt, knocked at precisely seven o’clock. He heard her running footsteps, then the door swung open. Helen immediately threw herself at him and wrapped her arms around his tight, muscular frame.
“Stan, I’m so glad to see you!”
The hitman didn’t expect the enthusiastic welcome and wasn’t sure how to react. He lightly placed his arms around her. She looked up at him and then planted a kiss on his mouth. Again, he was taken aback but managed to retain character.
“I’m glad to see you too.”
She released him and pulled him into the apartment by the hands. “Come in. Dinner’s almost ready. I made a chicken casserole; I hope you like it. I can’t believe Charlie let us go so early. I thought we’d have to continue working through the night. But I guess even he decided he needed to get some sleep!”
The assassin had encountered no problems reentering Greenhill. After landing at Baltimore/Washington Airport earlier that morning—there was a layover in London—the assassin picked up one of the Silverballers and the C4 from his briefcase but kept the rest of his stuff in the locker. Then he rented a car. He parked it in the compound’s community lot and walked to Main Street as if he’d never been gone. His apartment was still a wreck, so he spent an hour straightening it up. He was relatively confident that Ashton and his two goons were the only security men who knew his identity. Whether or not Charlie Wilkins was also aware, time would tell. He was willing to risk the exposure. He had invested too much in the assignment to walk away now.
Helen served the meal and spent the next half hour recounting her experience in Cyprus. Even though she complained of being exhausted, she was lively and animated. Helen had not been outside the United States in years, so in many ways it had been a grand adventure. The killings obviously frightened her, and the subsequent news about the Colonel was shocking, but she seemed none the worse for wear.
47 had forgotten how much he liked listening to her voice.
“You know, I thought I saw you in the hotel,” she said, laughing and shaking her head. “There was a bellhop I swear could’ve been your twin. I must’ve really missed you, Stan. I was seeing your face everywhere, I think.”
47 chuckled with her and replied, “Well, it couldn’t have been me. I was having knock-down drag-outs with men I didn’t care for. It was murder.”
“Where, in Iowa?”
He took a sip of wine and then nodded. “Davenport. Lawyers. IRS officers. You know, bad guys.”
“Stan.” She picked up her glass of wine and clinked his. “I missed your company.”
After an awkward pause, 47 announced, “I have news.”
“Do tell.”
“I quit the pills. I’m going cold turkey.”
“Really? Oh, Stan! That’s wonderful!” Then she realized he looked as well as ever. “How … how do you feel?”
“Not bad. The first couple of days were pretty awful.” He shrugged. “Now I’m fine.”
“But how can that be? My God, Stan, it took me weeks to get through withdrawal. You can’t kick the pills in three days. It’s impossible.” She shook her head. “I’m afraid you still have more to go through. It’s not that easy.”
“I guess my metabolism is different. I don’t know.”
“Stan, I had to go to a rehab clinic for two months. I thought I was well, and as soon as I was out, I started using again. That’s when I tried to—you know.” He didn’t say anything, so she continued. “I went to a different clinic and they made me go cold turkey. It was a nightmare, Stan. If there’s a hell, then that was it. I’ve been to hell and back. I still have trouble. There are moments when I crave it. I’ll never be completely cured. I don’t see how you can possibly be all right.”
He didn’t answer.
“You’re not lying to me about quitting, are you? Just telling me what I want to hear?”
“No, I’m not lying about that.”
At least that was true.
She fell asleep on the couch as they watched a movie on television. The wine and fatigue did her in. Prior to that, though, Helen had once again dropped hints that she would’ve liked to be intimate, but 47 couldn’t bring himself to do it. He cared about her too much to hurt her like that. Because that’s what would happen—she’d eventually be terribly hurt; in fact, it was inevitable. So he held her at arm’s length for her own good. It was still a new and unfamiliar sensation for him to care about anyone.
He thought about the painkillers and how easy it had been to quit them after all. It was the genetic engineering that had done the work. What most addicts endured for weeks and months took only two or three days. No more shakes, headaches, or bad dreams. Actually, that wasn’t quite the truth. 47 still had vivid dreams in which Death appeared. The hitman was no closer to discovering who the Faceless One was, but he would find out soon. He knew it.
Oddly, he wasn’t tired. Jet lag never bothered him, and the assassin could always go for long periods wit
hout sleep. Nevertheless, it had been an intense few days. He should get some rest while he could. But having Helen by his side was an alien experience. Feeling her warmth, watching her breathe, smelling her perfume—that was about as normal as it got.
And Agent 47 came to the conclusion that he couldn’t let go and enjoy it. Never in a million years.
It was a little after ten when he noticed the indicator light on his cellphone.
A message from the Agency.
Helen was still asleep. Now her head was in his lap and she had curled into a fetal position. She looked so peaceful. No troubles. Almost childlike. Without disturbing her, he picked up the mobile, signed in to his voice mail, and listened to the coded communication.
When it was over, he punched in the numbers to indicate that the message was received and acknowledged.
There were two parts. The first one directed 47 to a secure FTP site, where he could view some photos. Jade had found three pictures of Charlie Wilkins shot during or prior to 1976. The first two were from small-town newspapers in Arkansas and Maryland, dating from 1973 and 1974, respectively. The oldest picture was a shot of an early Church of Will tent, where Wilkins would have exercised his mission in a fiery, theatrical way, one that attracted local citizens who were susceptible to a fire-and-brimstone-style presentation. A young Wilkins stood with an equally youthful Mitch Carson and two others—a man and a woman. They were not identified.
The picture from 1974 displayed a newer, bigger Church of Will tent. A larger staff posed in front. Wilkins in the middle. Carson to his right. The woman and man from the first photo stood on his left. This time they were identified as Wendy and Eric Shipley. She was next to Wilkins.
The third snap, from a ’76 Towson, Maryland, newspaper, revealed Wilkins emerging from the courthouse after Eric Shipley’s inquest. Wendy Shipley was at his side. He had his arm around her as they avoided reporters.
Agent 47 studied the Shipley woman’s body language in all three photos and came to a conclusion.
The second part of Jade’s message was more significant.
The client had given the green light to assassinate Charlie Wilkins.
And it had to be done that night.
THIRTY
While Helen slept, I formulated a plan. I hoped she was so tired that she’d sleep soundly for the next couple of hours. That way, I could do what I had to do and get back to her apartment before she woke up. I could simply leave the compound, but my absence the next day would attract attention. The target was so high profile that I needed to maintain the cover a few more days, if possible. What better alibi than being asleep with one’s “girlfriend”?
I carefully lifted her head off my lap and rose from the sofa. Then I draped her legs over one arm, supported her back with the other, picked her up, and carried her to the bedroom and her bed. She stirred a little and looked at me. I went ahead and did it—I kissed her—and said, “You’ll be more comfortable here.” I covered her with a blanket and lay beside her.
My presence seemed to be some kind of solace to her, for she easily drifted back to sleep. I waited a full ten minutes, until she was breathing slowly and deeply, before I quietly got up and left the room.
I found her purse in the living room, rummaged through it, and took her keycard.
As I went from her apartment to my own, I thought about what I was doing. There was no question that I was using her. My original scheme had succeeded. I had become close to someone within the Church of Will and gained access to her privacy. I had secured her trust and deceived her.
How did I feel about that? Honestly, now that I was off the painkillers, I didn’t care.
I was back to my old self.
I supposed I might be a cad, a charlatan, a liar … but I was also an assassin. That’s what defined me.
And yet a small part of me—an ounce of my heart, some grain of my soul—belonged to Helen. She had reached inside me and touched a hidden nerve I never knew existed. I was grateful for that.
It proved to me that I was more than a machine, more than a genetic monster.
And, right then and there, I vowed that I would not allow any harm to come to Helen McAdams.
In my apartment, I armed myself with the one Silverballer I’d taken from that locker at the airport. I’d also procured the C4, blasting caps, and stopwatch I got from Birdie. I always knew these items would come in handy. I was glad I’d left the briefcase in the locker. I had a feeling I wouldn’t be returning to the apartment.
By the time I left my place, it was eleven o’clock.
Charlie Wilkins sat at the desk in his office every night at midnight so he could “pray.” I don’t know what he got out of such a deed. It wasn’t my place to judge someone’s beliefs, whether he or she was a good person or not. What mattered to me was that his habit was a perfect opportunity to accomplish my mission.
Outside it was pitch black and the temperature was quite cool. The moon had disappeared behind heavy clouds. The compound’s streetlights illuminated the various public paths, but between buildings it was very dark. That would be my route.
Using stealth techniques I had learned when I was a boy at Ort-Meyer’s asylum, I moved from structure to structure like a black cat. Silent and swift. Most of the residents were indoors. I heard some voices and laughter in the distance, in the Main Street area, probably in the recreation hall, where members could play pool, Ping-Pong, and other games until midnight. There wasn’t a bar in Greenhill.
The path up the hill to the electrified fence and gate was exposed and well lit. That was unfortunate, but there was nothing else to do except walk with purpose, as if I knew what I was doing. After all, I was a maintenance man. I was sure I could come up with an excuse if a guard happened to stop me.
As a matter of fact, a sentry patrolled the area outside the fence. I spotted him as he passed the gate and slowly moved in the direction of the toolshed. He appeared bored and cold. He probably thought it was unlikely there could ever be any trouble at Greenhill. But I didn’t want him to see me, so I moved through the shadows to the shed and crouched on one side. The man walked toward me and I waited. He paid no attention to his surroundings. He was more interested in the lake and the black sky than anything else. When he was within six feet, I made my move.
Pouncing like a leopard, I moved in behind him, wrapped the Fiberwire around his neck, and pulled the ends.
Fast, silent, and easy. He was out, but he’d live.
I grabbed him under the arms and dragged him to the shed. I quickly unlocked it and pulled the man inside. After stuffing him behind the lathe, I left and secured the door behind me.
My watch said it was 11:15. Not much time left.
I strode with impunity up the path to the gate. Not wasting any time, I swiped Helen’s keycard and went through. But as I headed toward the mansion, noises from the barn attracted my attention. The lights were on in the building and the doors were ajar. Someone drove a yellow school bus from the back and stopped in front of the doors. A man got out to open the doors wider. The driver then drove the bus inside.
I wasn’t sure what that was about, but it made me curious enough to investigate. Besides, I didn’t want to proceed with my plan if there was a chance that men were up and about around the mansion.
So I kept to the shadows and darted from cover to cover until I reached the side of the building. I heard men talking inside. With my back to the exterior wall, I inched to the corner and stood at the edge of the opening. I dared to lean sideways and peer into the place.
There were three school buses. I counted six men moving around them. On one side of the space were several portable clothes racks made of steel pipes. Dozens of uniforms on hangers. U.S. National Guard uniforms.
Interesting.
Were these guys National Guardsmen? Somehow, I didn’t think so.
I thought it best to stay on task, so I quietly moved away from the barn and dashed back to the mansion. Now I was on the east side. Not m
uch to look at except a door that must have been an employee entrance or something, just like what was on the west side of the place facing the gardens. A few windows. I scanned the building for security cameras but didn’t see any.
Slipping around to the back, I heard the water lapping on the shore. The lake was very near, and it wouldn’t be difficult to slip and fall in. There wasn’t anything on the ground to protect someone from doing so. I guess they figured no one would—or should—go to the back of the mansion, where Wilkins’s office was located.
There it was. The wall-sized plate-glass window. Bulletproof. The office was empty. I could see inside because it was dimly lit with a single lamp. There was no exterior illumination; that would interfere with Wilkins’s scenic view. I wondered where he was at that moment. In his bedroom? When would he come to the office to prepare for his meditation? Whatever, I figured I needed to work quickly.
I set about affixing the C4 bricks along the wall below the big window and across the very bottom edge of the glass. One at the east end, one in the middle, and a third at the west end. The C4 came with an adhesive that stuck to anything when the thin film cover was removed. I inserted the blasting caps into the puttylike substance and ran the wire along the ground, connecting each brick and culminating at the third explosive. I then fastened the wire to the stopwatch, which I programmed to go off at exactly 12:02 A.M.
Done. Now to get back to Helen and—
My cellphone buzzed. I had it on silent ring, but I felt it vibrate. I pulled it out of my pocket and checked the caller ID.
Helen. She must have woken up and wondered where I’d gone. That was inopportune. I didn’t answer it.
Looking back at my handiwork, I checked that everything was in place. I was confident the bricks were low enough on the window that Wilkins wouldn’t see them. Then I moved to the southeast corner of the mansion, prepared to slip off into the darkness and make my way back to Helen’s apartment. I was sure I could come up with some excuse to tell her. I couldn’t sleep. I went for a walk. I had to go back to my apartment for something. Anything. It wasn’t a big problem.
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