Raymond Benson - 2012 - Hitman: Damnation (15 page)

 
          
She
pushed open the door. The spacious office was lit only by candles. Wilkins sat
at his broad oak desk, which faced the large wall-sized picture window
overlooking
Aquia
. He stared at the storm raging
outside as lightning struck over the water.

 
          
“Four
o’clock in the afternoon and it’s darker than dusk,” he said as she approached.
“It means something, Helen.”

 
          
“Sir?”

 
          
He
turned to her. “Have a seat.” He gestured to one of the chairs normally used by
the assistants. Helen dutifully sat and folded her hands in her lap.

 
          
He
was quiet.
Distracted.

 
          
“Are
you all right, sir?” she asked.

 
          
“Huh?
Oh, yes, yes, I’m sorry. I asked you in here for a reason, Helen,” Wilkins
said. He turned his throne-like swivel chair away from the window and faced
her. “Have you heard the latest news?”

 
          
“Not
today, sir.”

 
          
“The
New Model Army attacked two federal buildings, one in Pittsburgh and one in
Philadelphia. One is completely destroyed and seven people were killed. The
other sustained extensive structural damage and one person died. Many others
were injured. It’s deplorable. Cromwell released a statement that it’s in
retaliation for Dana Linder’s murder by the government of the United States.”

 
          
“But,
sir, that’s not true, is it?” she asked.

 
          
“Helen,
you don’t have to call me ‘sir.’ Please, call me Charlie.”

 
          
“I
can’t help it, sir, I’ll always think of you as a ‘sir.’ ” She let out a
nervous laugh. “Sorry. Okay, Charlie. I’ll try.”

 
          
“Thank
you.”

 
          
“So
is it true?
About the conspiracy?”

 
          
“It’s
all speculation stoked by the media, Helen. There’s no proof. That rifle could
have come from anywhere, if it was really stolen from that base. What disturbs
me is there are some who believe I am somehow connected to Cromwell. And that’s
just not true.”

 
          
“I
believe you,
si
—Charlie.”

 
          
“I
want you to start working with George about coming up with a PR campaign to
dispel that myth.”

 
          
Helen
nodded. George, one of the other assistants, was a competent copywriter.

 
          
“All right.”

 
          
“And
there’s another task I’d like you to start on tomorrow.”

 
          
“What’s
that, sir?”

 
          
“I
want you to be the liaison between my presidential campaign team and everyone
here at Greenhill.”

 
          
At
first she didn’t catch what he’d said. “Yes, sir, I’d be glad to.” Then she
blinked. “Wait.
Presidential campaign?”

 
          
“Yes,
Helen. I’ve decided to throw my hat into the ring. It’s a little late, the
election is next month, but someone in the America First Party has to step up
to the plate. It’s essential. And I suppose I’m the guy that needs to do it.”

 
          
Helen
put her hands to her mouth. “I’m sure that’s what Dana—” She stopped herself.
Perhaps that wasn’t an appropriate thing to say.

 
          
“What,
you think that’s what Dana would have wanted me to do?” he asked.

 
          
“Yes, sir.”

 
          
“Well,
so do
I
. And I think I’m obligated to do it. Get
George on the phone and ask him if he’ll come up to the house. Tell him to
bring his umbrella. I’m going to announce my candidacy tonight on national
television. We need to get a speech ready, pronto.” He rubbed his hands
together.

 
          
“Will do, sir.”
She stood and moved quickly toward the door,
then paused and turned to him.
“Sir?
Charlie?”

 
          
“Yes?”

 
          
“I
think you’ll win, sir. I really do.”

 
          
Wilkins
raised an eyebrow and grinned at her. His
signature pose
for the media.

 
          
“So
do
I
, my dear,” he said.

 
          
When
he was alone again, Charlie Wilkins picked up the secure landline phone and
made a call.

 
          
A
man answered. “Charlie.”

 
          
“My,
my, you’ve been busy,” Wilkins said.

 
          
“I
told you so. It was for Dana, sir. You know that.”

 
          
“Cromwell,
I can’t condone violence. People died today.”

 
          
“I
know, and I’m sorry for the collateral damage, but that’s what it is. We’re at
war with the United States government, sir, and they’re going to pay for this
terrible crime. I know Burdett and his sycophants were behind it.”

 
          
“You
don’t know that.”

 
          
“Yeah,
but admit it, sir. You know in your heart that it’s true. Look inside; look in
your Will. It’s what you always tell me, and that’s what
the
Will tells me.”

 
          
“I’m
afraid I agree with you,” Wilkins said. “I do believe it. I’m not so sure it’s
wise of me to say so. I’m going to announce my candidacy for president tonight.
I’m going to step into Dana’s spot.”

 
          
“I
was hoping you would do that, sir.”

 
          
“You
don’t need to call me ‘sir.’ ”

 
          
“I
know.” There was a pause. “I can’t believe she’s dead, sir.”

 
          
“It’s
a terrible tragedy. But maybe I can turn this around into something positive.”

 
          
“You
know we’ll be behind you, sir. Oh, and just a heads-up. We’re on our way to
Virginia. Expect some noise.”

 
          
“Cromwell,
I repeat, I don’t condone violence.” Wilkins peered through the picture window
once again at the dark, wet storm. “But a man’s got to follow the Will. You
need to do what you need to do.”

 
          
THIRTEEN

 
          
Agent
47 found the dilapidated school bus in a bad neighborhood on the western edge
of Chicago’s city limits. If there was any doubt that the Windy City had its
fair share of poverty, ghettos, and gangbangers, all one had to do was travel
to that miserable section of town.

 
          
Birdie’s
bus sat on Lake Street, right on the northern edge of Garfield Park. As
expected, the spot was inundated with pigeons. The birds seemed to have a
natural attraction to Birdie, who also kept cages of various types of Aves
inside the bus. As for the man himself, Birdie lounged on a lawn chair in front
of his mobile home and arsenal. While the underworld black-market dealer did
travel about the country, he tended to make Chicago more or less a permanent
base of operations.

 
          
Agent
47 figured Birdie to be around forty years old. He was very thin and bony, had
shifty eyes, and needed a shave, not to mention a shower. Birdie always wore a
faded Hawaiian shirt and brown leather jacket, opened to reveal a gold chain.
Every bit of his clothing was covered in bird droppings. There was even some in
Birdie’s slicked-back, oily black hair. 47 couldn’t understand why anyone would
want to live the way Birdie did. The guy had plenty of money; the man just
liked to perpetuate the notion that he was poor, dirty, and homeless.

 
          
47
had done business with Birdie before, but that didn’t mean they were friends.
In fact, there was some kind of unspoken animosity between the two. Birdie
always enjoyed taunting Agent 47 to the point of annoyance. Since Birdie had
also worked in the past as a killer for the Agency, 47 figured the thin man was
jealous of the superior assassin’s reputation and skill. There was no question
which one of them was the master of his craft. Still, 47 acknowledged that
Birdie was a formidable
hitman
and could be a very
dangerous enemy if one became careless. The contact was a necessary evil 47 had
to endure in order to obtain something he needed.

 
          
“Well,
if it isn’t Agent 47,” the
weaselly
operative said as
the assassin slowly approached the bus in plain sight. “I heard you
was
in town.”

 
          
“How
is it that you still work for the Agency, Birdie?” the assassin asked. “You go
rogue, you do what you want, but then you continue to do jobs for ICA. The
Agency’s policy is to eliminate former contractors that go off the grid. Why
aren’t you dead?”

 
          
“Ah,
but you see, ‘former’ is the operative word here, 47. I never was ‘former.’ The
Agency and I, well, let’s just say we have an understanding. I never really
left. I have something of a ‘nonexclusive’ deal with ICA.”

 
          
The
hitman
surveyed the surroundings. As it was midday,
the block was relatively quiet. A group of teenagers played basketball on the
court in the park. A few mothers were out with younger children and strollers.
No sign of any gangs. It was said, though, that a crime was committed every few
minutes in this part of town.

 
          
“Where’s
your pal?
Fei
Zhu?”

 
          
“Fat Pig?”
Birdie jerked his head toward the skyline. “He’s
in Chinatown on business.” Birdie was almost never without his sleazy—and
cruel—sidekick.
Fei
Zhu did most of Birdie’s dirty
work for him. Agent 47 was pleased that he didn’t have to set eyes on the
overweight, cocky thug.

 
          
“So
to what do I owe this surprise visit, 47?” Birdie asked.

 
          
“I
need some equipment. I understand you might have it.”

 
          
“Oh?
And what’ll that be? I see you’ve got your beloved briefcase. Still using those
fancy
Hardballers
? What else could you want?”

 
          
“You
have explosives.”

 
          
“Explosives?
My, my, what are we up to, 47?
You planning to join the New Model Army or something?
I hear
they’re taking volunteers.
Gonna
blow up a federal
building or two?”

 
          
“Are
you going to sell me something or not, Birdie? I don’t have time for your
games.”

 
          
Birdie
sniffed and wiped his nose, leaving a gooey mess on his jacket sleeve. A pigeon
must have sensed the treat, for it fluttered its wings, hopped up on Birdie’s
lap, and immediately began pecking at the spot on the man’s clothing.

 
          
“Can
you be more specific?” Birdie asked as he pulled a cigarette from a pack in his
shirt pocket.

 
          
47
nodded at the bus. “You keep everything in there, don’t you?”

 
          
“Oh,
you want to browse? I normally charge a browsing fee, you know.”

 
          
The
hitman’s
patience was coming to an end. “Birdie—”

 
          
“But
seeing it’s you, 47, I’ll waive that browsing fee.” The thin man stood,
flinging the pigeon to the pavement. He took a moment to brush feathers off his
pants and jacket,
then
he stepped toward the bus door.
He opened it and went inside. 47 took that as an invitation to follow.