Honorable Assassin

by Jason Lord Case

  The real story was the inside of the basement: the 15 live boys and the 3 dead ones. It turned out the smoke came from some kind of improvised smoke bomb with a timer. The bomb had been delivered in a crate of noodles.

  The two Yemeni men who had exited the front door were the only adults who had escaped the simulated fire. Oddly enough, the police report said they had tried to overpower the officers on the way to the regional station. The police had no option but to shoot them. The city launched a full investigation but there was no one to prosecute. The owner of record was a Greek corporation who had rented the buildings to an Arabian man and had no more business with it. They were not liable for what the man did with the buildings.

  Once Bacchanalia was exposed for what it was, the pictures of Randy Arganmajc entering the building became valuable. It didn’t really matter that the photographs were fakes. They were delivered to the Riggers Club in his name in a sealed envelope along with a note demanding a large sum of money. The money was to be delivered personally to a location on the docks where it would be exchanged for the negatives and the remaining copies.

  The location was chosen carefully. The docks were fronted with little shops and pubs. It was a very trendy neighborhood with a church at each end of the boardwalk.

  There had never been any intention, on Randy’s part, of paying for the pictures. He did not work that way and never had. The man who showed up with the briefcase had been made up to look like Randy Arganmajc but was not. The two men who followed him were dressed as though they wanted to look like Mafia hit men. They even wore hats and trench coats.

  There had never been any intention on Terry’s part of trading pictures for money. He knew it was not going to happen. When the man dressed as Randy Arganmajc reached the wrought iron bench painted so gaily red, the telephone in the booth next to him rang. He was clearly unsure about picking it up, the reason for which was obvious once he did finally talk into the receiver. He did not sound like Randy Arganmajc in the least.

  The clearly American voice on the other end of the line told him to set the case on the bench and open it. The case was supposed to be full of money but Gordon would have been shocked if it had been. The man’s refusal to open the case proved it was empty or perhaps filled with explosives.

  It was not a long shot from the church steeple to the two men conspicuously smoking on the boardwalk, but it did require finesse. Terry had decided that leaving one of the three men alive was an acceptable plan. The two Hollywood rejects were in his sights and they went down, one after another. The .223 slugs were chosen carefully for the job since they would not have enough velocity to exit. It was not a guaranteed kill shot but that didn’t matter.

  The man at the telephone was looking in the wrong direction. He did not see his two bodyguards drop to the deck. His wakeup call was when a slug slammed into his leg. He howled in pain. The other two had not even had that option; they had gotten a clean head shot each and were dead on arrival. The crowd milled around the victims, they were concerned and wanted to help. Everybody wanted to get a look at what had happened. Nobody saw the men leave the churches at each end of the boardwalk.

  Of course the newspapers were all over the story. “Sniper On The Loose” capped the stories of the day. There were plenty of witnesses to interview and the police could not put a lid on this one.

  The Troy brothers were furious, but not as angry as their main man, Randy. They had been hit so many times in the past year that it was having a real effect on business. Abel Troy suggested to his brother that they needed to replace Randy, but Adam vetoed the suggestion. He was convinced, as was Randy, that the recent incident was some punk emboldened by the success of the Irishman. The survivor was certain that the man on the telephone had an American accent and the MO was different. The weapon was different and the target was different. The Irishman had been eliminated and now they faced a new problem.

  The Irishman had never attempted to extort money from the mob, which was what made him so dangerous. He had not wanted anything but destruction. This new threat wanted to make himself rich, and that would be his undoing.

  Randy had not explained to his superiors what the photographs were, simply that they were compromising. When the copies of the photos reached their desks, it gave them pause. They did not want to be associated with the scandal that surrounded the Bacchanalia Club, that was a given, but more than that they began to question the character of Randy Arganmajc. Of course, Randy insisted that the photographs were faked, as they were in fact, but that did not clear his reputation.

  Those at the top of a corporation seldom know what is happening on the floor. They hire others to manage that section of the business. The top managers never hear about the little things; they hear about the disasters. A good top manager will be in touch with key elements at the lower level of the pyramid, in the trenches so to speak, but this sort of relationship needs time to grow. The lower-level employees need to know they can trust their well-heeled colleagues. If this level of trust has not been gained, the manager will only get what the middle managers want him to get. Very often they get, “everything is fine. We will take care of it. Do not worry about us.” And the numbers from the accountants punctuate the statements.

  The Troy Brothers had not been in the trenches for a long time and they did not want to be. Their legitimate businesses were overshadowing their seedy pasts and they liked it that way. When they got the photographs of Randy Arganmajc entering the Bacchanalia Club, it proved more than his lack of character; it showed that the photographer had some knowledge of the connection between the men. That could be more dangerous in the long run than whatever sordid perversions Randy engaged in.

  The next letter Randy received at the Riggers Club was less cordial.

  Mr. Arganmajc,

  You have double-crossed me and your men have paid the price. You must have thought I was a joker or someone to dismiss out of hand. I assure you I am neither. The cost for the photographs has doubled and there will be no further contacts between us until this money has been paid. I assure you that if there is a replay of our previous encounter the next to die will certainly be you.

  Take an aluminum briefcase with the money inside and meet me at the clubhouse of the Bardwell Park Golf Course on Saturday at noon. If I smell a rat, I will deliver the photos to the newspapers.

  Find enclosed a new photograph.

  The letter was not signed. The new photograph was of one of Randy’s kept women walking from her car to her door.

  Randy Arganmajc knew the game way too well to think one payment would fix the problem. Extortionists never stopped until they were stopped by any number of methods. Randy had not dealt with an extortionist in many years. The last man who had tried to extort money out of him ended up stuffed into a sewer pipe. Randy had not paid him money, nor would he pay this man money.

  The parking lot of the Bardwell Park Country Club was out of sight of the clubhouse, out of sight of the road and surrounded by trees. The guard shack was by the road. The mobster made note of the fact that the man he was here to see knew he was a member. He exited his car and took the briefcase to the clubhouse with him. He felt much less exposed once inside.

  The scotch was good, but the time dragged. By four o’clock he was about to leave when the bartender handed him the phone saying it was for him.

  “You have been a very bad boy, Randy.” The speaker had an American accent.

  “Who is this and why am I talking to you?”

  “I am the man who just shot two thugs outside the clubhouse.” The cell phone in his pocket rang. He held it to one ear while he held the house phone to the other. Both lines said the same thing though there was a bit of a lag on one. “Do you have the money?”

  “No, I was unable to raise it on such short notice.”

  “Then what is in the briefcase?”

  Randy swore under his breath. “All right, you have me. The money is in the briefcase.”

  “You’re lying to me.
What’s really in the briefcase? A bomb? A gun? Have you got a midget with a knife stuffed in there?”

  Randy said nothing. He had known the American was shrewd, but he was starting to feel like a stupid little boy.

  “Walk out on the first green with the briefcase. You had better be alone out there as well.”

  “There’s no possibility of my walking out into that field.”

  “Perhaps you had better reconsider your position. If your death was what I wanted, then you would already be as dead as these two shvances.”

  “Why can’t you just meet me in here?”

  “You really don’t get it, do you? I have the upper hand. I can reach out and crush you like a bug. You’re nothing to me, a spider under my heel. The photographs are merely the icing on the cake. What you are paying me for is your life. You are paying me not to kill you. Now walk out on the first green with the briefcase, open it, and show the money.”

  The line went dead. Nobody exited the clubhouse. Randy was making phone calls. He had brought four men with him and it seemed at least one of them was dead already. Ten minutes later a Rover with two men in it pulled in the parking lot, hopped the curb and drove to the front of the clubhouse. The door opened and two men exited the clubhouse with their heads low and dove into the vehicle which tore out of the area. Neither of them carried a briefcase. Gordon and Terry were already gone by that time. The two men hiding in the trees waited for anyone coming out of the woods but they saw nobody. An hour later the bomb squad showed up to investigate the briefcase that had been left inside. The briefcase was empty. The newspapers ran the story.

  The last thing Randy Arganmajc wanted to see was the police or anyone else finding dead men with a link to him in the woods at the country club. He went to a safe house and sent every man he could spare and contact to search for the two men he had been told were dead. Those two men were found handcuffed around a tree in a drug-induced stupor. The tree had a printed note stuck to it.

  Mr. Arganmajc

  I did not kill these men. I will not be so generous again. I have been extremely patient with you but my patience has now run out. Your treachery has again doubled the price. This is the last chance I will be giving you to save your life. If you attempt to play with me again I will kill you, every man with you, and both of your mistresses, your sister in Brisbane and your half-brother in Walla Walla. Then I will go after Abel and Adam Troy, your employers, and I will kill both of them. I believe I have demonstrated my willingness and capability sufficiently. You will pay me or I will let you watch and save you for last.

  The note was unsigned but the fact that it was printed out on a computer printer before anyone had gone to the clubhouse came as a revelation to some of the men. Almost half of the enforcers and wheel men disappeared that night. Some of them came back later and others moved to different towns and found alternate employment. Some even got real jobs.

  When Terry reported to work the following day, the remaining men in the warehouse were frantic. Some of the older members of the crew had mentioned that they planned to take a hiatus. Some of the others did not. There were shipments they could not move and money they could not collect. The network was breaking down.

  Randy was seriously rattled by now. He could have paid the extortion fee in the beginning, but the current price tag was more than he could raise by himself. He could not go to Adam and Abel with this or they would see him as weak and ineffective and he would be ruined. He stopped trusting those around him, suspecting that there was an informant in his dwindling number of employees. He got drunk and slapped his women around and threatened his managers. He was still conducting business but his return was dropping slightly and his remaining faithful were doing double duty. Every time the phone rang he jumped. The thing that hurt him the most was that the extortionist seemed to know what he was going to do before he did it.

  For the right price, there will always be men willing to put their lives on the line. The three ex-Mossad agents that had formed a bodyguard service did not come cheap but they were extremely effective. They formed a living wall around him during the times he still dared to leave his apartment. They assured him that the next time the American tried to make the trade, they would eliminate the threat. Arganmajc trusted them because they had not been part of the team when the trouble started.

  Terry Kingston was working himself ragged. In addition to his regular runs he was driving additional loads, some legitimate. The word was spreading and as leather-tough and immovable as Australian truckers can be, there was always another job for them if they decided to transfer employers. The remaining members of Randy’s team were making money hand over fist, a powerful incentive at any time.

  The other thing that changed was that people were watching each other more. Keith Harrison, the man who had replaced Victor Wellington after the latter’s unfortunate demise, had actually approached every member of the team with the same sort of confidential request. He asked that they not say anything to the others. He told each of them that he only trusted them and that they needed to watch someone else. Some of them kept their mouths shut, others did not.

  Then came the September 11th attacks on the World Trade Center in New York City and the whole world sat up and took notice. Then they went back to business as usual with a little more trepidation and heartache than before.

  Gordon MacMaster had not made contact for what seemed like a terribly long time. He had been fishing and hiking and generally enjoying the countryside as only a man who has no schedule can do. He had also been thinking. He spoke to Terry about once a week and was pleased at the reaction from the lower-class members of the organization. Together the two assassins tried to map out a plan of attack.

  It had not happened immediately but what had been a trickle was growing to a stream. East Germans and Russians were arriving in increasing numbers and while most of them were honest hard-working men, there were also those elements that would not have been so welcome. They were the former Soviet Bloc citizens who had managed to wax successful in the hungry economy that existed before the collapse of their Communist system. Attila the Hun and Vlad the Impaler had spawned men such as these. They had slowly been eating into the pie of the Australian black market. At first they had been ignored as inconsequential, then they had been marked as minor competition, skilled but unpopular. The current events made their association seem more desirable, though still distasteful and untrustworthy.

  When Randy approached the Eastern European expatriates, he was still dealing from a position of power, but as an Australian he did not have a feel for the history. He should have brought some of his local talent with him instead of the Israelis. The German contingent was insulting and refused to conduct business with Jews, even though they were only present as a security force. The Russians involved were less abrasive about the religious differences, but the services they offered were at more than twice the going rate and Randy was not that desperate. He could see in their eyes that they were waiting for their power to grow to the point where they could make a move. They intended to take over some portion of the illicit trade. He realized that if he did not address this, he would end up with another financial leak that needed to be plugged.

  Then the call came in. The exchange was demanded to be made the following day, on the flat floor of a disused rock quarry south of the city. Every thug, brigand and self-styled wise guy in Randy’s employ was immediately dispatched to the quarry. It was a failed operation where about four acres of limestone had been excavated. There was a deep pool of water in the middle of the floor and trees ringing the top of the hill to about 270 degrees. The dirt road they used to reach the quarry was the only one available and it ended at the excavation site.

  When the gangsters arrived on the scene, there was a large chest sitting next to the drainage pit with a sign on it reading “Put the money in the chest.” The men scoured the woods around the excavation but found nobody.

  Henry Cuthbert remained in his car while his su
bordinates searched the area. He had been given no money to deliver; he was given instructions to kill anybody that was in the immediate area of the quarry. There were no farms or homes near the area so unless there were teenagers swimming in the pit, nobody was expected to be there.

  Once the men reported that they had found nothing, Henry picked out a victim to open the chest. He chose a young drug addict, a violent and stupid young man who had disgraced himself before. If he were killed, few would miss him. The man approached the box as if it were a dangerous beast and opened the lid from a practically prone position. The only thing inside the chest was an envelope marked Randy Arganmajc.