Angel and the Assassin

 

Angel and the Assassin

 

Fyn Alexander

 

 

Angel and the Assassin

Copyright © September 2010 by Fyn Alexander
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eISBN 978-1-60737-871-6

Editor: Judith David

Cover Artist: Justin James

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Chapter One

London, England

 

Kael Saunders sat in the bright, glass-walled waiting room at the Secret Intelligence Service at Vauxhall Cross, opened the black leather-bound blank book, and began to write.

 

I grew up poor, but I had two things in my favour; I was clever and I was
ruthless. I also had the misfortune to be educated at an elite boarding school, or so it
seemed at the time. Later I was grateful for it. But while I was there, it was often
hell. It was an all boys’ school. They came from well-heeled homes and they called me
the council estate charity case.

So I beat the shite out of them.

I never did it openly. Not because I was a coward. I was anything but. I just
didn’t want to lose my scholarship and disappoint my mum, so I went after them
quietly, one by one. I was as stealthy as a fox. I would sniff them out when they least
expected it: in the change rooms after sports practice, in the toilets, in the woods
behind the school.

And I would take my revenge.

I was fast and I was a dirty fighter. I always used a weapon, the belt from my
trousers, or one of my trainers if we were in the change room. They never saw it
coming. I’d tell them if they told anyone what I did, I’d have to come after them
again. Next time it would be worse. So they had better not make me do it.

They never told anyone and they never called me a charity case again. They
were terrified of me.

The boys at College Grange School were all called John and David and
Charles. I was never quite sure, but I think my mum got Kael from an American
soap opera. Half the kids in my neighbourhood had American soap opera names. The
first thing one of the boys said to me when I arrived at the school, terrified, out of
place, and angry, was “Kael? That’s a type of cabbage.”

I was put on detention for the rest of that week for punching him. That was
when I learned to be circumspect, to wait for my moment. It served me well in my
future career.

The only boy who ever spoke to me after I beat him up was Freddie Merchant.

He was a fat kid. He didn’t say anything at the time, but that evening he came to me
with a tin of biscuits and a bottle of pop and invited me to share them with him. I
accepted because I never had any spending money and my mum couldn’t afford to
send me packages like the others got.

While we ate the chocolate digestives and bourbon creams and drank the pop he
told me he was sorry. He said the other boys were snobs and they were jealous of me
because I was so handsome and I got top marks without even trying. He said, “I
know you’re not queer but I really like you.”

I told him I was a queer.

He said that when I’d hit him with my belt he’d got a hard-on. So I offered to do
it again and he accepted. After we finished eating, I flogged his bare arse with my
belt until he came, and then he let me fuck him.

We were twelve years old and he became my best friend.

 

“Saunders, come in.”

Kael stuffed the book into the inside pocket of his leather jacket and stood up.

Stephen Conran watched him, holding open the door. Kael walked past Conran into his office and, without waiting to be invited, sat down in the comfortable leather armchair in front of the desk. Conran, thin and not terribly tall, with a long, lean face like the inbred upper classes that had spawned him, closed the door.

“What do you want, Conran? I usually get my orders in plain brown envelopes or coded mobile phone messages. Is there something special you want to tell me?”

“I call all our people in from time to time to have a little chat.”

Conran‟s upper-class accent set Kael‟s teeth on edge. He had never picked up the accent despite the amount of time spent with people like Conran. But neither did he still have the working-class Scouse accent from his childhood in Liverpool, which had marked him when he first arrived at College Grange. He had settled into something that, while clearly English and very well enunciated, could not be readily identified, just as his job prescribed.

Kael sat back comfortably, resting his left ankle on his right knee. He did not speak but merely looked at Conran, waiting. An eloquent silence spoke volumes, and together with his height and build, he made other men nervous.

“Have you been to see your mother recently?” Conran‟s smile was one of those condescending ones that moved his mouth but never quite reached his eyes.

“Have you been following me, Conran?” Kael asked.

Conran sat down behind his modern oak desk, pushing the swivel chair back to give himself room. “Not me personally, no. It‟s good to stay in touch with family.

You have a lonely job. It does not mix well with an intimate social or family life.”

Kael said calmly, matter-of-factly, “You know perfectly well I went to visit my mother last week, so fuck off.”

“We have to keep an eye on our operatives.” Ignoring the expletive, Conran crossed his legs, which Kael found effeminate and unappealing in a man. “Is she enjoying that smart new flat you bought her at the Albert Dock in Liverpool?”

“She seems to be, yes.” His mum loved the flat, and he had felt so proud when he handed her the keys two years before.

“You‟re a good son. You never tell her anything about your work, I take it?”

Kael leaned forward in his seat, still speaking calmly. “Did you major in stupid questions? I love my mum, but she‟s no Einstein. Her idea of a great time is a night out at the bingo, so why the fuck would I upset her by telling her that I kill people for a living, but don‟t worry mum, it‟s all legal. The government pays me a fortune to do it, so I won‟t go to jail.”

“Calm down, Saunders.” Conran always looked nervous when Kael got irritated. “Are you still enjoying your work?”

“I always enjoy my work. Now what do you want?” Kael stood up and walked to the window. The office was on the River Thames side of the building and offered a stunning view when the midday sun gleamed on the fast-flowing water.

“Next week you will go to America, Cape Cod. Ever been there?”

“Not to Cape Cod.”

“You took your mother to Florida last Christmas, didn‟t you? Did you visit Disney World?”

“We did, and Sea World. She‟s easily amused. Get on with it.”

“There‟s an arms dealer; he‟s doing business with the Bosnians. He needs to be removed. We‟re working with the Americans on this one. The shipment is worth millions of euros.”

Kael watched him, wondering what the hell Conran was up to. He never told him the details surrounding a target. He was never told anything he did not absolutely need to know.

Conran went to the sideboard and poured a glass of whisky. He held up the glass, offering it to Kael, who nodded but would not cross the room to get it. Conran could bring it to him.

The man poured a second glass and walked to the window beside him. Kael knew Conran was nervous of him; he always had been. Conran dealt with paid assassins every day—it was his job—so why did he always look nervous when he was with Kael? Conran handed him the glass. Kael downed the excellent Scottish whisky in one swallow and handed the glass back as if Conran were a waiter.

Conran hesitated only a second before taking the glass. He looked up into Kael‟s eyes. “Would you like another?”

“No.”

So that was it. Conran stood closer than he normally did. His pupils were dilated, his breathing uneven. An ordinary person would never notice such small physiological changes, but Kael had been trained to notice everything, and he had an aptitude for observation.