by Bill Brewer
“No. You can take that and go.”
She stood up, slinging the bag over her shoulder. They continued to look at each other with curious but suspicious eyes. Their mutual moment of infatuated mistrust was broken by the sound of sirens wailing from the southerly direction of Chateau Lambert. Shei Leun Wong spun on her heels and exited the tiny apartment.
He sat with his conflicted thoughts. Pulling off the hit was exciting, exhilarating, a primal rush. He was becoming more comfortable with it, which concerned him. He didn’t want to lose his sense of self; he had to control his willingness to kill and not let it become an urge. What was his employer going to do, he wondered, now that he hadn’t killed the girl? Had he passed or failed the test? His disconcerting thoughts gave him no peace.
After two hours of solitude in the safe house with no disturbance at his door, Diegert figured he could go hang out in a club for a while. Shei Leun’s suggestion, Luna-Sea, was only fifteen minutes away, and the videos on his phone made him feel like he was holding the coolest party in town in the palm of his hand. A quick stop at an ATM put five hundred euros in his pocket. Twenty euros got him past the bouncer and to the coat check girl, who collected another twenty, even though he didn’t check a coat. Entering the cavernous space of Luna-Sea, he was struck by the décor, which was a clash of new-age gauche and postindustrial distress. The pulsing beat of the electronic dance music permeated every space and penetrated every structure so that the music was not only heard but felt. Surveying the room, he looked beyond the gyrating bodies on the dance floor to see a group of East Indians gathered in a large booth in the far corner of the club. He also noticed a mixed group of young people hanging out in a smaller booth much closer to the dance floor.
Making his way to the bar, he had to wade through the crowd of dancers, some of whom were grinding their hips in tune with the beat, creating an erotic scene from which Diegert had trouble looking away. Without colliding into any of the randy couples, Diegert approached the bar and soon had the tender’s attention. Gesturing to the unoccupied corner booth beyond the bar, Diegert said, “I’m going to take that booth. Please deliver a bottle of Grey Goose.” Diegert’s vodka request cost him two hundred fifty euros, but the order got the bartender to nod at the bouncer manning the posts and ropes. In the booth’s minibar, Diegert found drink glasses, an ice bucket, and enough juice and soda mixers to keep the vodka interesting. After mixing his first drink, he looked up to see five young ladies lined up along the braided ropes like a murder of crows perching on a wire above recent roadkill. Diegert dispatched three of them with a wave of his hand. Pointing and then moving his fingers, he invited two of them into the booth.
The two girls’ pretty faces degraded as they stepped from the inky haze of the club floor into the soft light of the booth. The one with short punky hair didn’t say anything as she grabbed a glass and reached for the vodka.
Diegert quickly got his hand on the bottle so he could pour the pricey alcohol for her. Her eyes never left the glass as she swilled the drink without a mixer. The one with longer hair held out her glass saying, “Hey, I want some too.”
Diegert held the bottle of vodka vertically. “Yeah, but you and your friend aren’t staying.” The long-haired girl looked at Diegert with desperate bloodshot eyes.
“What?”
“Get out.”
Diegert nodded to the bouncer and watched as the big guy escorted them out of sight.
The night’s big spender asked his waitress to tell the group crowded into the booth by the dance floor that the next round was on him. The news turned all heads Diegert’s way, and he nodded and raised his glass.
Several of the women cast long glances at the dark-eyed, dark-haired man whose complexion was just a shade lighter than soft buckskin. His looks were intriguing and somewhat mysterious because he could pass for an Argentinian, Arab, or Italian. Women who liked dark, rugged men found him attractive, while others felt a sense of danger.
Diegert had mixed his vodka with orange juice, which made it easy for him to consume several quick drinks. Watching the dance floor, he was entertained by the thrusting hips and the back extensions of girls whose breasts were pressed outward and skyward as they undulated with their partners. He was mixing his next vodka with apple juice when he noticed a tall woman with a short skirt approaching the booth. Diegert nodded, and the bouncer unsnapped the rope, allowing her to pass.
She held a long-stemmed martini glass and lifted it toward Diegert. “I want to thank you for the drink. Everyone appreciated it, but I wanted to thank you personally.” In the soft glow of the booth’s lighting, Diegert was taken by the woman’s beautiful Asian face. Her eyes were large, round, and brown and her cheeks dimpled when she revealed her perfect white teeth with a friendly smile.
“It looks like your martini is nearly empty. Sit down and let me fix you another.”
Stepping into the booth, the beautiful lady sat next to Diegert, whose eyes couldn’t help but notice the extra length of leg revealed as her skirt slid up when she sat down. The young lady offered her hand. “I’m Jung Hwa.” Her hand was delicate but firm.
“I’m John Sullivan,” Diegert said. “So what’s in your martini?”
“Pineapple juice and cassis along with the vodka.”
“I don’t think I have any cassis, but I do have pineapple juice.”
Gulping what was left in her glass and flashing an enthusiastic smile, Jung Hwa handed her glass to Diegert. “Do you live here in Paris, Mr. John Sullivan?”
“Please, just call me John, and no, I’m here on a business trip. How about you, are you in school?”
“Yes, I’m studying art at the Sorbonne. I’m from Seoul, my program will have me here for two more years.”
Diegert handed her the drink. “Let me know if this tastes any different.” Jung Hwa took a generous sip, and her eyelids widened as she swallowed her mouthful. Recovering from the surprise, she waved her hand in front of her mouth. “Whoa, it is very good.”
“But it is much stronger than the one from the bar?” Diegert asked.
Jung Hwa nodded as she emptied the rest of her drink. Diegert refilled the glass again, going heavy on the Grey Goose.
“Is your business going well?”
“Yeah, today was especially good.”
“What business are you in?”
“The stock market. I made a killing today.”
“So now you’re celebrating?” Jung Hwa raised her shallow glass and swallowed its contents in one gulp. As Diegert was mixing another, the music changed to a dance version of a popular song. Jung Hwa squealed with excitement. Diegert could see what she wanted.
“How about we get out on the dance floor?” he asked. Slurping down her refreshed drink, Jung Hwa grabbed his hand, leading him onto the crowded dance floor. As the floor filled up, Diegert could not deny the eroticism of the grinding hips that surrounded him. Jung Hwa faced away from Diegert as she backed into him, pressing her hips into his. Diegert picked up the rhythm and soon they both found the experience absolutely hypnotic. As the lyrics of the song faded away and the techno beat intensified, Jung Hwa turned to face him without reducing the contact at the hips. While they danced the coitus simularis, Jung Hwa leaned into Diegert’s ear. “Get me out of here.”
Out of the club, into the cab, and into her apartment in less than fifteen minutes. In that time Diegert had kissed the Korean beauty so enticingly that when the apartment door closed behind them, clothes were shed, and they recreated their carnal dance moves. In the bed, they found a passion neither of them had expected. Their libidos were driven by lust, and their bodies sought pleasure with a fervency neither had experienced before. Their intensity held up for nearly two hours until they fell asleep entwined in each other’s limbs.
Diegert slept soundly until the sunlight streamed onto the bed, shining in his eyes. The sound of sizzling and a soft voice humming brought a smile to his face as he woke up. From the kitchen, the aroma of fresh coffee
and eggs tantalized him out of bed. Poking his head into the small kitchenette, he got a smile from Jung Hwa, who wore a thick robe and had her hair tied in a bun on the top of her head. The glasses she wore gave her an intelligent look, which was, Diegert figured, probably well deserved.
“Good morning. Have you ever had gyeran mari?”
“Good morning to you too. No, I haven’t. What is it?”
“It a Korean rolled omelet. You’re going to love it. Do you want coffee?”
“No… I—I don’t drink coffee.”
She gave him the strange look he often received when he refused coffee. The caffeine dependent didn’t trust the unaddicted and couldn’t fathom why anyone would deny themselves the earth’s most popular stimulant.
“Some orange juice, then?”
“Thanks,” said Diegert as he poured himself a glass and looked over her shoulder at the rolled omelet cooking in the skillet.
“I like to make them for my guests. It’s a little bit of Seoul right here in Paris.”
As Jung Hwa lifted the finished gyeran mari from the pan to the cutting board, Diegert’s gaze was drawn to the small TV across from him. The news broadcast grabbed his attention. On the screen, the police were lifting a dead body from the river. In the corner of the screen appeared a headshot of a young woman; it was Shei Leun Wong. Diegert nearly sprayed the kitchen with his mouthful of juice. He coughed loudly as he choked down the juice.
“Are you OK?” asked Jung Hwa.
Waving his hand and nodding his head, Diegert replied, “Yeah—yeah, I’m fine, but what’s happening on the TV? I don’t understand the French.”
Jung Hwa had not been paying attention to the news but now focused for Diegert’s sake.
“They’re reporting that the body of a prostitute was pulled from the Seine this morning.”
“Oh,” said Diegert as his cheeks flushed. He didn’t know how to respond, but Jung Hwa was looking at him curiously as she sliced the rolled omelet into pieces, revealing their concentric rings. The broadcast now displayed the anchorwoman speaking. Diegert concentrated on the television while Jung Hwa instinctively provided translation.
“They say there is some evidence that the woman pulled from the river may have been involved in a murder last night at the Chateau Lambert.”
“Really?” said Diegert as a tingle of tension traversed his spine.
“Being a sex worker is so dangerous,” observed Jung Hwa as she served Diegert a plate of hot, fresh slices of rolled egg with a filling of vegetables and cheese. Lost in thought, Diegert considered the unexpected news as he hungrily filled his mouth with the delicious gyeran mari.
He wondered if Wong had said something about him before being killed. Was whoever killed her now after him or was the employer simply accomplishing what he had failed to do?
“Whaddya think?”
The simple question confused Diegert as he continued looking at the TV’s display of a well-dressed Gunther Mibuku. Did Jung Hwa know what he had done?
Realizing he was still engrossed in the TV, Jung Hwa clarified, “I don’t mean about that. How about the gyeran mari?”
Diegert was embarrassed and relieved when he realized she was talking about her cooking and not his killing.
“This is the most delicious breakfast I’ve had in a very long time. I love the blend of the filling and the egg. The rolled-up slices make each bite full of flavor. I love it.” Diegert could hardly believe himself for being so effusive, but it refocused Jung Hwa away from the television.
“Well, thank you, I’m glad you like it.”
They finished their breakfast together, and Jung Hwa told Diegert about her sister and two brothers in Seoul. She described to him the courses she was taking, and Diegert lied about his international business. Checking the time on his phone, Diegert said, “I’ve got a noon meeting, and then I catch a late flight back to the States, but I’ve really enjoyed myself, and if I could have your number, I’d love to see you again when I come back.”
Jung Hwa hesitated and pushed her glasses up her nose before saying, “I will give you my number but no guarantee I will see you when you come back.”
Recognizing the implications of their quickness to intimacy, Diegert replied, “Of course, I understand. There is no requirement here, but if you are available, I’d be happy to have dinner with you or tour an art gallery or anything else you’d like to do in Paris.”
Jung Hwa’s smile spread across her pretty face as her dimples tucked into her rosy cheeks, and she gave him her number.
12
Walking back to the safe house, Diegert received a message on his phone. His employer wanted another hit. The job was a Greek politician, Constantine Stavropoulos. The contract was worth fifty thousand dollars. The hit had to be public, preferably during a speech. The text on the phone directed Diegert to a secure website where the specifics on the job were laid out. In Athens, he would be put up in a safe house and supplied with a compact sniper rifle equipped with a remotely controlled automated sighting and firing system. He would be able to operate the weapon remotely carrying out the hit using his smartphone.
In the Gulfstream, on the flight to Greece, he discovered that Stavropoulos was giving two speeches in the next two days, then had no scheduled public appearances for the next four weeks. The first speech was in the atrium of a newly renovated hospital. The second was at a soccer stadium during a rally for the upcoming world cup bid. Greece wanted to host the soccer world cup tournament in four years. It seems they forgot all about the debt they still owed for the 2004 Olympics and the fact that the country was currently bankrupt.
Once he arrived in Greece, Diegert visited the hospital and checked out the atrium. It was a big space, but it was enclosed, and the vantage points to place the weapon were either too far away, requiring shooting through glass, or too close inside and would surely be observed. At the soccer stadium, a small stage was being constructed on the front steps. Across from the stadium and to the south was an apartment building whose roof proved to be an excellent vantage point. Thirty-six hours remained before the speech.
Diegert was very impressed by the rifle. It was a compact sniper design with a long barrel imbedded in a wooden stock. Since the rifle was designed to be operated remotely, the firing chamber made up the rearmost area of the unit. The triggering mechanism was pressure sensitive and operated by a servo. The sighting system fed digitally into Diegert’s smartphone, from which he could control the weapon. The sighting and firing mechanisms were integrated, so when the rifle was in optimal firing position the trigger was engaged. Tiny movement sensitive gyroscopes detected and corrected subtle variances from the ideal firing position adjusting for wind or vibration. The feed to Diegert’s smartphone allowed him to set the process in motion, but once it was engaged it couldn’t be altered. On the secure website, there was a video game–style training program; Diegert used it to teach himself how to operate the system. After a few hours with the program, he was ready.
He wished he’d had such a system in Afghanistan. If the Army deployed this technology, a lot of American soldiers wouldn’t be dead. Putting computers behind the rifles would not only have been safer but more effective.
The speech was scheduled for three p.m. Early that morning, Diegert was on the roof positioning the rifle. His employer was amazingly thorough, having included in the mission package everything he would need to pull off the positioning of the rifle. He used the digital sighting mechanism to aim at the point on the stage where his target would give the speech. He concealed the rifle in a foldout metal box that looked like an air conditioning unit. Only someone who knew the building well would be able to recognize that the box was a phony. Inside the box, he planted enough C-4 to destroy the rifle and all its components beyond recognition. He set up a pressure-sensitive wire mesh network on the gravel rooftop, fanning it out so that anyone who stepped on it would ignite the C-4 and destroy the weapon. After setting, concealing, and booby-trapping his weapon,
he went and had a nice brunch at a café with a view of the Parthenon, up on the Acropolis.
At two p.m. a few early birds showed up, by two forty-five a crowd had formed, and by three p.m. Stavropoulos was late. No one was surprised or concerned except for Diegert. He wondered if Stavropoulos was even coming. All the setup and training on the system, and if this guy doesn’t show, I won’t have another chance, worried Diegert.
At three thirty Stavropoulos was introduced by the director of the local soccer federation as he walked onto the stage and started speaking. Having no idea how long his speech would last, Diegert wasted no time activating the system.
Diegert stood in the middle of the crowd and blended right in while he looked at his phone throughout the introduction. On his screen he saw the reticle squarely on the politician’s chest. He engaged the system and instantly the rifle fired, hitting Stavropoulos. His chest imploded, and the bullet exited his back, ripping out his vertebral column. Lung tissue splattered the dignitaries behind him, and a quivering chunk of his heart fell onto the stage.
The panicked crowd stampeded. All video on his phone instantly disappeared, and his smartphone disconnected from the Internet. Diegert tried to ignite the C-4, but it wouldn’t work. He left the crowd and returned to the safe house. The Web filled up with amateur videos of the hit, and Diegert stopped watching.
A few hours later during the police investigation of the shooting, they found the equipment on the apartment roof and triggered the C-4, destroying the weapon and themselves. Three officers were killed, and a building maintenance man was wounded. Diegert grew angry. Their deaths were unnecessary. He should’ve been able to detonate the C-4 remotely. Why was his employer disabling his phone? If he could have detonated the weapon, the police officers wouldn’t have been killed.
His account now held a hundred and forty-five thousand dollars, but the unintended consequence of the police deaths weighed on Diegert’s mind and forced him to recognize the violent risks he brought with him to an area of operation.