The Schliemann Legacy (7 page)

He was referring to bank accounts he had opened to hide money for operations unable to get official allocation. Like many agents, including David, Assi diverted part of the operational budget into these accounts. David had used the system many times.

"You'll still have certain resources available to you," Assi continued. "We can supply documents. You can obtain them on your authority from any station, unless someone begins to ask questions. Regardless, the networks are out of bounds."

"I won't need them. I'll use my own contacts." David was already thinking about the relays he would rig in his apartment before leaving for Munich.

Assi nodded. "I thought as much. Just remember, don't make too much noise. You have a tendency to create an awful commotion."

"You won't even know I'm out there," David promised.

Chapter 7 - DUMAN

Duman wandered past
le cedre de Jussieu
. During the early 1700s, Jussieu had brought the seedling for the huge cedar tree from England in his tri cornered hat. Today, three old men dressed in dark suits and black berets sat under it playing backgammon in the fading light. They played daily in this same spot beside the tree. As Duman passed, he wondered how the elderly eyes could make out the difference between the pieces. Years of practice or, possibly, they no longer cared who won. Their final years spent reliving past victories and past loves. Duman despised them and their complacency.

He knew when his time to die arrived, it would be exceptional. He would not merely fade from existence. The death of the greatest assassin and terrorist ever known would further the struggle of the people. His death would change the world. Those fools in the Middle East with their Jihads were puppets, controlled by those only slightly higher on the evolutionary scale. They replaced one domination with another. Their shortsighted plans limited their journey. But his path to greatness would be long and glorious. He would mirror his father's success, with one exception.

Duman traded in death.

* * * * *

Duman's father, Cahil, had been a minor merchant with a brilliant mind for business. He had built his fortune without the aid of a formal education, teaching himself by studying the biographies of past successes and learning the world markets by observation. Working from a detailed, long term plan, he nurtured his contacts throughout the international markets. By his thirtieth birthday, Cahil had stretched his empire throughout Europe and Britain.

During one business trip to England, he met and courted Elizabeth Estair. Much to her wealthy father's distaste, she ran away with the love struck Turk. The couple returned to Turkey where, less than eight months later, Elizabeth presented Cahil with a son, Hasad.

The boy was small for his age, which displeased his father. Cahil ignored the child while continuing to build his empire. The other children tormented Hasad because of his English mother and told him he did not belong in their country. Hasad loved Turkey and this insult hurt deeply.

As the years passed, he made up for his slow start in life and grew tall and strong. Soon none of the other children dared cross the boy. Years of repression had turned him sadistic and cruel. When one of his early tormentors was found dead at the bottom of a deep pit, most of the townspeople suspected Hasad but had no proof. However, the suspicion just further ostracized Hasad from the community.

Cahil died of a heart attack the following year. Because of her British heritage, the Turkish government denied Elizabeth and Hasad all rights of inheritance and the state took possession of Cahil's business interests. Although Hasad understood how his mother had been cheated, he still loved Turkey. He blamed the corrupt government, not the people, for stripping them of the family fortune and Hasad swore he would see justice done.

Elizabeth and Hasad returned to her late father's home in England. Suitors arrived to court his mother amid the luxury of the ancestral home. These men left a deep impression on the boy. Hasad hated the upper class. Those who had no skills of their own and nothing to offer that wasn't given to them by the accident of their birth. They took from the world and rarely gave back anything. He quickly equated them with those who had stolen his father's fortune - insipid takers who lived off the work and emotions of others. While attending Oxford University, he refined his ideas about the struggle of the people.

Through his interest in Marxism, Hasad's feelings about the ruling class became well known. His keen intelligence and ability in languages attracted the attention of KGB recruiters. Hasad was receptive but was afraid his mother would marry one of the upper class snobs if he left. The Russians accepted his decision, leaving the offer open.

The following month, Elizabeth died in a fire at the estate. The last tears he would ever shed during his life spilled over at her graveside. Three days later, he sought out the recruiters and transferred to the Patrice Lumumba University in Moscow. Supposedly a place of higher learning, the stately buildings actually housed the training center for non Russian KGB agents. Here, Hasad learned of Carlos.

Though Carlos had already completed his training, Hasad sought to compete with the international terrorist. The Turk's instructors capitalized on this one sided rivalry and drove Hasad to exceed all expectations. While the newcomer studied, Carlos forged a reputation for himself. This notoriety only spurred Hasad to work harder. Upon graduation, he sought to fulfill his dream for the people. He took "Duman", Turkish for mist or smoke, as his professional name. As he appeared, struck, and disappeared, the name became more and more apt.

Duman became a freelance killer and worked for the KGB as required to repay the debt of his schooling. When his KGB masters called, Duman was forced to respond. However, he was determined to see the end of that servitude. The day would soon be at hand when he would no longer work for the Russians. An expert with guns, knives, and poisons, his specialty was unusual and inventive bombings. Interpol attributed many key assassinations and devastating bombings to the young terrorist. His services were in high demand and he inflated his reputation by carefully picking his operations. Rather than attempt the more numerous but less significant kills as Carlos had, Duman chose a more selective route. Each execution was high risk and high profile with the added advantage of large financial returns. Also unlike Carlos in the early years, Duman never worked without a client.

His reliability became well known and that reputation brought abundant job opportunities. Rumors credited the terrorist with a chilling one hundred percent kill rate. And as his reputation grew, his need for more spectacular assassinations increased. As time passed, the collateral damage from the assassinations ballooned. Dozens of people often died along with the intended victim. With this notoriety, he became a target himself, sought by every major anti-terrorist force in the world.

Then Duman disappeared. For nearly four months, talk spread of his capture and death. Many suspected Carlos of having killed his young rival.

When speculation reached a peak, Duman struck. With the speed and precision of a surgeon, he eliminated eight men in less than twenty four hours. Duman served notice to the intelligence organizations of the world. He intended to lead the people in an international revolution to insure their inherent right to self rule. Anyone who stood in his way would meet with the same fate as the eight men - the Turkish officials who had orchestrated the theft of his father's fortune.

Duman claimed justice for the world.

* * * * *

Watchful of all activity on the street, Duman left the
Jardin des Plantes
and walked along the Seine. As night approached, this quarter of Paris came alive with the people he loved. The people of the night. Everywhere, they moved with the rhythm of the shadows. He could see prostitutes in scant clothing trying to make enough to pacify their pimps. The pickpockets, con men, and shills trying for the big score. All slaved for a better life, yet never had enough to satisfy themselves. They played the game the Overlords had created to subjugate the masses. Someday, Duman knew, the people would see their folly. They would be free and he would be the man who freed them. He would not be a leader, for the people did not need a leader.

He was their Savior.

Duman had seen the truth in Russia. There, he had discovered the possibilities open to the people although the perverted socialism of Russia was not the solution. The Russian Revolution had been a valiant attempt, but the course had fouled. The new rulers were no better than those of the past. The Tsars still reigned with bureaucratic titles and military uniforms. The current leaders, with their political machinations, replaced the rich and noble as the privileged class while ordinary people lined up for bread, meat, and toilet paper. Like flies on rancid meat, the scavengers had settled on the system, consuming the choicest morsels for themselves. In the end, even the leaders of the Politburo must die. Only another revolution - a world revolution - would reform the system.

Duman's burning desire was for world revolution. For years, he relentlessly pursued his dream, fighting, killing, and plotting. He created cells throughout the world, training the faithful, arming them, showing them how to disrupt their respective countries, governments, and religions. He guided them through demonstrations, strikes, and uprisings. The unrest fuelled the revolution. Next came riots, burnings, and assassinations.

Like a sea crashing against the shore, the demoralizing violence eroded the foundations of the governments. The revolution spread slowly, forcing governments into submission. The small countries would crumble first because they were the least stable. The democratic governments would fall next. Their free rule provided ample opportunity for disruption and subsequent escape. In time, however, the revolution would touch everyone. Then, the people would take over. The people would enjoy self rule and true freedom.

Duman glanced across the river at Notre Dame. The sight of the exquisite structure bathed in light helped to bring his racing mind under control. Although he despised what the church represented, he could still appreciate the beauty of its architecture.

* * * * *

Located in a seventeenth century building on Rue St Julien le Pauvre, the inn was both discreet and moderately priced. Duman ignored the front desk and ran up the small staircase, taking the steps two at a time. He stopped at the landing in front of room number three. He'd paid the rent for another two months and knew Chanda, whore that she was, would be incapable of resisting the free lodgings. The DST wouldn't bother to inform her of his escape and, unless she had seen a news report, she would imagine herself safe.

He knocked once.

"Just a second, please."

Duman felt elated at the sound of her voice. He could hear rustling from inside the room and knew what she would be wearing.

"Yes, what..." Chanda froze with the door half open. She stared at him, fear leaping into her eyes as they locked with his deep blue ones. She said nothing, but the ancient doorknob rattled from the force of her trembling.

Her expression was all Duman needed to convince himself of the truth. He smiled, his eyes becoming soft and inviting.

"Aren't you going to let me in?"

After a moment, Chanda threw the door open wide, giggling nervously as it banged against the wall. "Sure, come in. I...I didn't expect to see you. When you didn't come back, I mean, I thought... Would you like a drink?"

Duman eased the door shut, locked it, and quietly slid the dead bolt into place. He leaned against the frame and watched as Chanda turned to pour him a Scotch. As he suspected, she was wearing the short silk kimono he had bought for her in Hong Kong. It clung to her young figure and, when she bent over, he could see the pink curve of her naked buttocks. Turning, her breasts swung freely beneath the thin material. He felt himself begin to harden as she walked toward him.

Chanda's hand was steady as she passed him the drink. She had recovered. The fear had left her eyes and was replaced by the confidence he had always admired. She cleared her books and papers from the bed, positioning herself so he could see her cleavage. Her nipples stood out hard, aroused by the cool, smooth material. Finally, she leaned back against the headboard and loosened the tie of her gown.

"I missed you," she pouted. "Why don't you bring your drink over here? You can show me how much you love me."

Duman tossed his clothing on a chair in the corner of the small room and turned to face her. He was fully erect.

She smiled seductively and slipped the kimono off her shoulders. "Bring that over here. I want you."

Once on the bed, he began to work on her. With each touch, she relaxed more, content in her deception. Tender caresses, gentle bites, and strategic kisses had her moaning in minutes. Not allowing her to touch him, Duman stroked her breasts, sucking on the hard, dark nipples. When he finally slid his hand between her legs, he knew she was ready. He gently entered her.

With increasing speed, Chanda moved with him, her hips coming up to meet his. She uttered small sounds, her mouth wide. Her eyes fluttered shut and she tilted her head back. He sensed she was close to climaxing. As their tempo worked to a feverish pitch, he grabbed the kimono and, without breaking the rhythm, brutally shoved the silk material into her open mouth.

She stared at him in surprise. He wrapped his hands around her neck.

Desperately, she fought him, beating at his arms and shoulders with her small fists. He squeezed tighter, the muscles of his forearms bulging. Her face took on a flattering red color and Duman could feel her rapid carotid pulse beating fruitlessly against his fingers. Still inside her, he matched the bucking motions as she tried to throw him off. Her face turned a beautiful blue gray color.

As the life drained from her terrified eyes, Duman felt himself climax. The thrashings of her body ceased. After one final thrust, he collapsed on top of her.