Dawn of the Assassin

by Bill Brewer

  Once inside, things were different. The place was clean, well lit, Spartan in its interior design, but solid and functional. Diegert was escorted to a counter behind which stood a man who appeared to be in his midfifties. He was of medium height and looked to weigh about two hundred pounds with at least forty of those protruding out of his abdomen. He was bald on top with a crescent of gray above his ears and around the back of his head.

  “Hello, I’m Aaron Blevinsky, I’m the director of this facility, and I’ll be your host during your stay. We refer to this facility as the Headquarters, and it includes both learning centers and living quarters for individuals undergoing training. Today we’ll complete the intake process, get you situated in your quarters, and introduce you to your training officer. Where’s your driver?”

  “He’s in Bulgaria.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “I last saw him smoking cigarettes in Svilengrad. He’s OK, here’s the key.”

  Diegert placed the truck key on the counter, and Blevinsky looked at him quizzically, expecting more to the story. Diegert said nothing more about his ride to Videle.

  “Is there a bunch of paperwork for me to fill out?”

  “No, we have your data in the system, but you will need this.”

  Blevinsky handed Diegert a magnetic swipe card with his picture already on it. He then snapped open the long case and looked at the rifle and two handguns.

  “Personal weapons are not allowed in the living quarters. All personal weapons are registered and held at the armory. Do you have any other weapons?”

  “No other guns, but I do have a knife.”

  Blevinsky motioned with his hand. “All sharpened blades are to be registered.”

  Diegert placed his bag on the counter. Unzipping the bag, he stuck his hand in, searching for the knife. As he felt inside the bag, he was unable to locate the knife his mother had given him. He started pulling everything out of the bag, making a mess of all his stuff. With the bag practically empty, it became obvious to everyone that Diegert didn’t have a knife.

  “Damn, I’m sorry, but I must have lost it.” Diegert thought that Beduna had taken it, but that kid was never near the bag. No one else had touched the bag, and he never used the knife during the whole trip. Could he have left it on the boat? God, what a careless idiot, how could he lose something so special? He struggled to recall the Ojibwa inscription: The blade is both a tool and a weapon let it work for you and defend you. Great, he thought, you can remember that, but you lost the fucking knife.

  “If you do not have a weapon to register, then I’ll introduce you to your instructor.”

  Blevinsky and Diegert walked down a hallway with doors spaced every thirty feet. They turned a corner, and the hallway was half glass, so Diegert could see about a dozen men practicing hand-to-hand combat in a padded room. After traversing the hallway, they turned down another and stopped at a door. Blevinsky knocked. The name “Fatima Hussain” was engraved on a plastic nameplate. The door opened to reveal a Pakistani woman with jet-black hair and eyes. She was taller than Blevinsky, and Diegert figured she was not yet thirty. She looked strong and fit. Wearing the same black combat pants, boots, and black T-shirt that everyone wore, her clothes, especially the T-shirt, did not conceal her feminine form. With her terse look and her hair pulled back into a tight bun, she revealed no softness; instead, she seemed sinister, potent, and deadly.

  “David Diegert, I would like to introduce you to your training officer, Fatima Hussain.”

  Diegert extended his hand but said nothing; she shook his hand with an assured sense of strength and said nothing as well. Blevinsky said, “Fatima, will you please show Mr. Diegert to his quarters and the mess hall? Dinner begins in an hour.”

  “Of course,” replied the strong, confident woman.

  As Blevinsky left, Fatima turned to Diegert, saying, “Give me a minute to finish what’s on my computer.”

  She closed the door, and Diegert stood in the hall. As the time dragged, Diegert recalled the caption of a cartoon on the single restroom in the diner where his mother worked: The length of a minute depends on which side of the door you’re on. Diegert’s watch revealed that a “minute” for Fatima Hussain was more than eighteen minutes long. When the door opened, she stepped out, closed it behind her, and began striding away. Diegert stepped quickly to catch up and maintained a fast clip to keep pace with her. She turned down halls and climbed stairs, turned down several more halls and climbed more stairs, until all Diegert knew was that he was on the third floor. At Room 365, she stopped, swiped the lock with her card, opened the door, and walked in. Diegert followed her in to find quarters designed for single occupancy. The room was sparsely furnished but adequately appointed. Bed, dresser, closet, desk with a chair, and a computer, as well as his own bathroom.

  “See you in the mess hall in thirty-five minutes.”

  “But where is the mess hall?”

  “Follow the signs.”

  “I didn’t see any signs.”

  Fatima took a step closer to him, intensifying her words. “Then let’s see how good you are at reconnaissance. Follow the smell and make sure you’re wearing the right clothes.”

  She exited his room. Diegert stepped to the door, watching her depart, imagining her hips under those dark pants.

  Diegert changed into his black uniform, which was all there was in the closet. He left his room and used the time to walk around, familiarizing himself with the facility. He found the armory and indoor shooting range, the garage, the fitness center, the pool, and the locker room, which led to the outdoor training facilities. He was slightly concerned that the food may be bad, since the medical center was located next to the cafeteria. Diegert got in line, got a tray full of food, and sat down by himself at a table in the mess hall. The dining room had a dozen large, round tables, and there were about twenty-five people eating. The majority were men, who looked fit and strong. The few women in the room looked matronly and clerical. After sampling a few bites and finding the food to be pretty good, he enjoyed his meal. Fatima set a small plastic box down on the table and sat next to him.

  “I can see you were able to find your way.”

  “Oh, yeah… I’ve been around. In the Army: Afghanistan. I’ve also been to Miami, Paris, Athens, Somalia.”

  “Don’t forget Djibouti,” interrupted Fatima. “I know all about you, where you’re from, what you’ve done, and what I don’t know I will learn in your training sessions.”

  She opened her box and took a small bite of a spinach salad.

  “When do I get to learn about you?” asked Diegert.

  “You don’t. I’m the teacher. You’re the student. I’m the expert. You’re the newbie. You do what I say, when I say, and in the manner in which I instruct you. Thinking about and talking about who I am is a waste of time neither of us can afford. When you’re finished eating, report to the outside training area.”

  Fatima ate the rest of her salad without discussion. Diegert did the same, but not thinking about Fatima was going to take a level of self-discipline he doubted he possessed.

  Diegert returned to the locker room, which led outside. He noticed the lockers were large and wide. They were fronted by pressed metal screening through which Diegert could see heavy jumpsuits, boots, wet weather jackets, climbing gear, and helmets. He got the impression the outside training occurred regardless of the weather and probably involved heights. Outside, he found Fatima. “I sure hope finding the exit isn’t your best quality.”

  “I was just looking around.”

  “Come on, I want to show you some areas you won’t find on your own.”

  They walked down a trail and covered about a quarter mile before she turned onto another trail and continued a half mile deeper into the woods. Diegert observed that she had a pistol in an integrated holster sewn into her pants. The carrying mechanism allowed the weapon to remain concealed, yet it was firmly held in place by strong webbing and could be conveniently de
ployed through the extra-large pocket slit that ran parallel with her seam. That she was carrying a weapon was not surprising, but it was unsettling since he didn’t have one.

  When they arrived at the corner of a chain-link fence that ran through the woods, Fatima opened the sliding gate with her swipe card. They stepped inside and the gate closed. They walked a bit farther, and there was a second fence. This one was higher and topped by rolls of razor wire. Again, Fatima swiped the card and opened the gate.

  Within the woods, several structures appeared of different sizes and shapes. It looked like a ghost town or, more accurately, a movie set for a post apocalypse sci-fi adventure. Some buildings were just façades, supported only by scaffolding. Others were fully framed with skeletal interiors. Still others looked like the abandoned apartments one would expect to find in a war zone. Fatima continued the silent tour, showing Diegert an area with dozens of concrete blocks five feet high by five feet wide. The blocks were bullet pocked and worse. They had suffered many gun battles, and the dark-crimson splotches were evidence of the human toll taken in this training area. Finally, Fatima brought him to a swamp that was filled with high reeds and murky water. Through the swamp was a series of narrow bridges that were the only means of traversing this treacherous area. Fatima led Diegert across a bridge until they reached a dry stand of pines.

  “Is this the end of the tour? Can we go to the souvenir shop now?”

  “Not funny,” replied the humorless dark-haired lady. “Your training here is serious business. You will demonstrate a number of skills and abilities and accomplish several difficult missions, and when you survive all of that, you and other trainees will be placed in here to compete in a tournament.”

  “A tournament? You never showed me the tennis or shuffleboard courts.”

  Without a hint of a smile, Fatima narrowed her eyes. “This is a tournament to the death. As your trainer, I want you to win that tournament and show the boys that I’m better than them. The only way that happens is through you. I read all the dossiers of potential trainees, and yours was the only one that impressed me. I fought to be your trainer. Don’t let me down or show me I chose poorly. I want you to win, and I will help you do that.”

  “So we’re a team?”

  “No, you are my trainee, and you must win. Do not cloud your mind. You must win in here or we both fail. There is no team in the tournament.”

  “I take it you’ve won this tournament before?”

  “All instructors here are tournament winners.”

  “Then when do we begin training?”

  “No training is allowed in here, and technically I shouldn’t have shown you this place. So your first test is to keep this tour secret—tell no one you were here. Let’s go.”

  Returning to the compound, Diegert entered the men’s locker room. Inside were two guys who had just finished a practice session. They were dressed in tactical suits that were like nothing Diegert had seen before. The suits were a woven material that seemed to move easily as the guys were stowing their equipment. The outfits were formfitting without baggy or bulky parts. They had built-in harnesses for attaching climbing lines. The chest and back armor plates were flexible and appeared to be made of composite foam that hardens on impact. The suits made the guys look invincible, and Diegert hoped he might get fitted for one soon. The guy with the beard said, “Hey, new guy, what are you doing down here?”

  The guy was taller than Diegert, perhaps six foot four, and spoke with a Russian accent. He weighed at least two hundred pounds, and sizing him up gave Diegert reason to pause.

  “I was just touring around, trying to get the lay of the land.”

  “Oh, I’m Alexi Strakov, and this is Curt Jaeger.”

  The other guy didn’t have a beard but was practically the same size as Strakov. Diegert could see that these two would be a formidable team, and he hoped he would be on their side. They both shook hands with him, and Strakov said, “You really shouldn’t be down here without your trainer.”

  “My trainer is the one who was taking me on the tour.”

  “I don’t see your trainer,” remarked Strakov as he pulled off his outer shell, revealing the padded under portion of his suit.

  “Well, she’s not going to come in here.”

  “SHE!” exclaimed the big bearded guy. Both men began laughing.

  “Where did you go wrong to get the girl as your trainer?” asked Strakov.

  “Blevinsky must not think much of you if he assigned you to her,” said Jaeger, who had also removed the composite foam piece of the tactical suit.

  “Hey, maybe you get to fuck her.”

  Jaeger chuckled at the Russian’s comment, saying, “I never got to fuck my trainer.”

  Laughing, Strakov said, “Maybe you’re just the perfect guy to take orders from that bitch.”

  Diegert felt angry and embarrassed, but he didn’t reply to the joke except to turn and leave the locker room.

  “What’s wrong with the new guy?” asked Strakov. “Was it something I said?”

  26

  What a fucking idiot I am, thought Diegert. He hadn’t given the fact that he was being trained by a woman a moment of consideration. Training with her already put him on the wrong team from the rest of the guys. I have to change this. On the way back to his quarters, he stopped at Blevinsky’s office and knocked on the door. “Can I speak with you, sir?”

  Blevinsky was engrossed in his computer. Without moving his head, he raised an eyebrow and directed his pupils at Diegert. Returning his gaze to the computer screen, he said, “What can I do for you?”

  “I was curious about the process by which trainees are assigned to instructors.”

  “Are you really interested in the process or are you concerned that you have a female trainer?”

  “Umm... Yeah, I was wondering why I have the girl trainer.”

  Blevinsky took his hands off the keyboard, leaned back in his chair, and looked at Diegert.

  “What’s the matter, did someone make fun of you or are you just having a chauvinist moment? Fatima Hussain is one of the toughest, most resourceful operators I have ever seen. Whatever deficit she has in strength, and it ain’t much, she more than makes up for in intelligence, cunning, and perseverance. Her willingness to risk her own safety in order to accomplish missions is far greater than any man in this facility.”

  Blevinsky paused to let that assessment sink in before continuing. “No one rises to the position of trainer without fully earning it. As an instructor on my staff, she has proven herself, and for you to question her is absolutely insulting and will not be tolerated. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You should tell Strakov and Jaeger to go fuck themselves,” said the tired and agitated man. “I want you to know that I will be right here when your training is done, and you want to thank me for assigning you to Fatima Hussain.”

  Diegert swallowed hard but didn’t respond.

  “Hey, another thing,” said Blevinsky. “That girl you failed to kill in Paris. You actually did me a favor. I got rid of her for less than half of what I was gonna pay you.”

  “I won’t kill women.”

  “Yeah, right. Mr. Gender Restriction. Yet here you are bitching about your trainer being a woman. Fuckin’ get out of here and figure yourself out.”

  Back in his room, Diegert tried to figure himself out. Killing bad men, criminals, those who knew they were playing dangerous games but took the risk anyway, he could justify that. But killing women just didn’t fit. Blevinsky could assign him whatever he wanted, but if he wanted him to shoot a woman, Diegert decided he just wouldn’t do it.

  It was still early, only nine p.m., but the clean, comfortable bed beckoned to Diegert, who was looking forward to a good night’s sleep. He got himself ready and climbed into bed. He thought about his family, his father and his brother and especially his mother. It had been such a long time since he’d spoken with them, and it seemed as though it would be
a long time before he spoke with them again. As he thought about them, he realized missing his father and brother was an emotionally hollow experience. They certainly weren’t thinking of him. Missing his mother hurt, though; he knew that without him she was all alone in her own family.

  The thought of her living with Jake and Tom on the dirt road in Broward Minnesota made David feel very far away. He longed to go for a walk with her as she found beauty all around her in the natural world. She had a calming, reassuring effect upon him which he missed very much. Even a strong, young, powerful man like him still needed his Mother’s love. With a disconcerted sense of uncertainty Diegert fell into a fitful sleep.

  After too short a time, the door to Diegert’s room opened and someone quietly stepped in. “Don’t be alarmed,” said the pretty voice of a woman. “It’s me, Fatima.”

  Diegert opened his bleary eyes and saw her silhouette outlined by the light of the door. “It’s time to begin your training.”

  “What?” asked Diegert as he struggled to wake up.

  Raising her voice and slamming the door behind her, Fatima shouted, “Get up. It’s time to start your training.”

  Fatima hit the light switch, blinding Diegert with the fluorescent glare of the overhead rectangles. Disoriented and confused, Diegert remained under the blankets. Fatima grew furious. She forcefully extended her arm, snapping a collapsible baton to its full length. Diegert was alarmed by the loud, metallic snap, but he was shocked by the strike across his thighs as Fatima shouted, “Get out of bed now. Stand up and get ready for training.”

  Diegert complied and stood next to the bed, wearing only his boxer shorts. He eyed her with derision and contempt. Fatima stepped right up to him, placing the end of the baton under his chin and lifting his face away from her eyes and into the blinding brightness of the ceiling fixtures.

  “Don’t you look at me with such contempt. I’m your superior, not only in rank but in ability. We are not some weak-willed government agency. You will survive this training or die. There is no other option.”