Raymond Benson - 2012 - Hitman: Damnation (28 page)

 
          
“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.”

 
          
“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.