Raymond Benson - 2012 - Hitman: Damnation (31 page)

 
          
I
couldn’t get away from what I was: a killer.

 
          
And
then—there he was.
Waiting for me at the end of a corridor.

 
          
The Faceless One.
Death.
He
beckoned me to come closer. I refused. I sensed that he was communicating with
me. He was offering me a way out of my predicament.

 
          
“What?
How?”
I screamed at him in my eight-year-old voice.

 
          
Death
held out his hand. He had one of my
Silverballers
.
Loaded.
Ready to go.
Its beauty
attracted me. The sleek gunmetal finish, the pearl handle, the pure art of its
design. I moved closer to Death.
Reached out.
Took the weapon.
It was heavy in my small hands. But it felt
… wonderful.

 
          
I
peered up at Death, again trying to penetrate the blankness that covered his
face. Who was he really? I was positive that he was someone I knew.
Somebody familiar.

 
          
You
know what to do. He didn’t speak aloud, but I heard him in my head.

 
          
The way out.

 
          
Yes,
I knew what to do, all right. I lifted the
Silverballer
and pointed the barrel at my right temple. All I had to do was squeeze the
trigger and it’d all be over. I would be just another one of Ort-Meyer’s failed
experiments. Let 48 or 49 or 50 be his pride and joy. Not me.

 
          
Just
pull the trigger. End it all.

 
          
Now.

 
          
Again,
I woke up in a sweat.

 
          
So
the withdrawal symptoms hadn’t completely gone away.

 
          
I
held out my hand. No trembles. I mentally examined my body. No headache. No
fatigue.

 
          
Only the dreams.
That’s all that was left.

 
          
I
had to beat them. I couldn’t stand them anymore. And there was only one way to
do so.

 
          
I
had to find out who Death was. That was the key to full recovery.

 
          
I
got out of bed and went to the bathroom.
Stared at myself in
the mirror.
My eyes—well, they appeared as they always did.
My skin—not as pale.
That was progress.

 
          
“I’m
going to beat you,” I said aloud, even though I knew no one could hear me.

 
          
No one except Death.

 
         
TWENTY-EIGHT

 
          
It
was the day of Wilkins’s meeting.

 
          
Agent
47 fashioned himself a new costume. It wasn’t safe to be a bellhop anymore, so
he managed to obtain a used waiter uniform—white shirt, black pants, apron—and
a white server hat to cover his bald head.

 
          
Another
problem was that the Nicosia police were all over the premises. The bellhop 47
had tied up and left in a guest room had been discovered the night before. The
victim made a statement that he was assaulted by a hotel guest who proceeded to
steal his uniform. The police were looking for a tall man dressed as a
“gaucho.” The bellhop’s description was wildly inaccurate, even suggesting that
the perpetrator had “long, curly black hair” beneath the bandanna.

 
          
So
far, Colonel Ashton’s corpse had not been discovered. When Katharina, the
masseuse, arrived at room 433 for the alleged reserved VIP appointment, Boris
Komarovsky
informed her that there was a mistake. But when
he saw how attractive she was, he allowed her to come inside and perform the
massage anyway. He tipped her handsomely for a happy ending, thus ensuring
Katharina’s silence about the incident. She never went back to the spa that
night.

 
          
 
 
*

 
          
As
for Helen McAdams, Wilkins had told her she could take the day off and lounge
by the pool if she wanted, but the dedicated Church of Will member and employee
had no intention of doing that. She wanted to be close to her mentor and be on
hand should he end up needing her after all. Despite her natural shyness, Helen
managed to assume some authority over the various bodyguards and security
detail that had been assigned to the reverend. She found that she had a
newfound ability to delegate instructions and give orders with confidence and
firmness, which was uncharacteristic for her. In fact, even Wilkins had
commented that Helen had “changed” over the last few weeks. He noticed that she
had blossomed from her customary introverted self.

 
          
The
truth of the matter was that she was happier than she had ever been in her
life, and it was all due to Stan Johnson. While it was still early in their
relationship, Helen was convinced she had found a soul mate in the quiet,
intense farmer from Iowa. He was definitely an odd duck, but, then again, so
was she. They fit together nicely. Helen was comfortable around him. Ever since
they had revealed to each other their dependence on drugs, she felt even closer
to him. She wanted badly to help him kick his habit. This desire gave her a new
purpose, something that fed her own battle against past demons.

 
          
She
was a bit concerned that Stan had no interest in sex. Helen firmly believed
that this would change, especially after he went into recovery from the
painkillers. They shared so much else, why couldn’t they become intimate? Helen
thought she understood him. Stan had experienced many hard knocks and
apparently had suffered from a broken heart once or twice during his history.
The Church of Will taught her that these things could be mended. Charlie always
said to “find the Will inside oneself” and all things would come to light. The
Church’s many tenets provided believers with the tools to search and locate
that Will. Up until recently, Helen diligently practiced the teachings, for
months and months, and hadn’t succeeded. She had made no progress until Stan
came into her life. For some reason, his arrival at Greenhill opened the well.
It was if she had found the pipeline to a rich and abundant source of new
emotions and ideas. She discovered her Will.

 
          
Helen
couldn’t wait to leave Cyprus and get back to Greenhill. She missed Stan
terribly. She was tempted to phone him, but she resisted the urge. She wasn’t
even sure what the time difference was between Virginia and the island. Last
night she’d actually thought she saw him in the hotel. The bellhop she’d
encountered outside the gym looked exactly like him. The man could have been
Stan’s twin brother. It was uncanny. Of course, it wasn’t him at all. How could
it be? Helen chalked it up to a trick of her imagination. She had been thinking
about Stan all day, so naturally her mind deceived her. Afterward she found it
funny.

 
          
Was
she in love?
Possibly.
She didn’t want to use that
word yet. Stan obviously wasn’t ready for it. She wouldn’t dare say it to
him—it would probably scare him away. Helen would wait until he was comfortable
enough to be intimate with her. Sex often broke down barriers, although she
admitted it sometimes also built them.

 
          
She
decided to take it one day at a time. Stan was a kind soul. She knew it. He had
some secrets, to be sure, and there were things in his past that were dark and
mysterious—even dangerous. But she would draw him out eventually. She believed
in her heart that Stan Johnson was a good person. And that he was capable of
love.

 
          
47,
wearing his staff disguise, accessed the immense kitchen on the ground floor
through the double doors in the Salon, where breakfast was the main attraction.
He simply walked through the restaurant as if he knew what he was doing,
entered the kitchen, and started loading a cart with plates, napkins,
silverware, and other items that would come with a catered order.

 
          
“What
are you doing?” a man in a chef’s hat asked.

 
          
“They
need this over in the business center,” the
hitman
replied.
“Some kind of VIP thing going on.”

 
          
The
chef obviously didn’t recognize the tall waiter, but employees came and went in
a big hotel; it was impossible to keep track of everyone.

 
          
“Very
well,” he said as 47 wheeled the cart out of the kitchen.

 
          
Now
suitably camouflaged with not only clothing and makeup but props, the assassin
could move freely about the building and no one would look twice at him. He was
just another lowly kitchen worker moving a cart of dishes from one place to
another. There was so much going on in Nicosia’s largest and most luxurious
hotel that such a sight would not be out of place. As an extra precaution,
though, he slipped three steak knives and three forks into his pocket. One
never knew when a weapon might be necessary.

 
          
47
noticed the police presence in the lobby and in some of the corridors. Had they
finally found Ashton’s corpse? If so, would that affect Wilkins’s plans for the
day? There was only one way to find out, and that was to check out the business
center to see what was happening.

 
          
It
was located on the ground floor and consisted of several meeting rooms, a
boardroom/conference room, and a choice of dining spaces used for corporate
gatherings. Wilkins had booked the
Ahera
meeting room
and the boardroom. When 47 wheeled his cart into the hallway outside the
Ahera
, he saw that the reverend and his guests had just
completed a meal there. The
hitman
pretended to
rearrange the dishes on the cart while eyeing the men as they left the
Ahera
and walked down the corridor to the boardroom.
Several men wearing uniforms stood at the entrances. Patches on their shoulders
indicated they were employed by CYPRUS A-1 SECURITY COMPANY. 47 also recognized
a couple of Greenhill bodyguards supervising the operation.

 
          
At
last, Wilkins himself emerged from the
Ahera
. He was
deep in conversation with a Saudi man dressed in a
bisht
,
the traditional cloak of prestige, and the
ghutra
an
iqal
headdress. 47 thought he might be a prince or another
member of royalty. The assassin wasn’t close enough to catch any of their
conversation. He continued to work with the dishes and silverware until all of
the VIPs
were
inside the boardroom. The door was shut,
and the Greenhill bodyguards stood sentry.

 
          
Interesting.

 
          
He
rolled the cart into the
Ahera
and froze.

 
          
Helen.

 
          
He
hadn’t expected to see her. She was supposed to have the day off.

 
          
She
was dressed in a smart business suit and stood with a clipboard in hand as she
talked to a Greenhill staff member 47 recognized as George somebody, another
one of Wilkins’s personal assistants. Hotel employees were busy clearing away
the used breakfast settings; 47 assumed that Helen and the other assistant had
been present at breakfast but had been left behind once the meeting in the boardroom
began. The assassin wheeled the cart closer to the pair, and then he squatted
on one side, his back to them, to “arrange” the dishes again as he focused on
the conversation.

 
          
“…
don’t
understand why we’re here, George,” Helen said.
“Did you hear what he told me? ‘Go swim in the pool.’ He doesn’t want me around
today. Why?”

 
          
George
shrugged. “I’m as clueless as you are. At least he kept you busy yesterday. I
haven’t done a darned thing since we arrived.”

 
          
“But
why does Charlie want to meet with those guys from OPEC and those foreign
banks? I thought we were supposed to be going on campaign stops.”