by Bill Brewer
Before checking into the Hotel Fontana, Diegert spent time looking at the historic Trevi Fountain. The eighteenth-century sculptures, having recently been restored, looked fantastic, especially lit up at night. Even though it was 10 p.m., the throng of tourists was thick. The plaza in front of the fountain was a sea of people moving and changing as much as the constantly flowing water that was pumped over the rocks. Diegert smiled though to see happy couples, families and tourist groups, all wearing the same colored t-shirts, posing in front of the imposing likenesses of Oceanus and his seahorses. The sculpted women on both sides of the king of the water were intriguing. Diegert read a placard which identified them as Abundance and Health, both of which are dependent on water. The whole fountain represented the importance and value of water. The effort, energy, and commitment that went into building and maintaining this massive work of art seemed even more impressive to Diegert when he understood its meaning.
Diegert was grateful his room was in the back of the hotel, it was quieter, and he was looking forward to a good night’s sleep since Masoni was an early riser.
Up before sunrise, Diegert checked the belongings he would carry. Euros in his wallet, map of Rome on his phone, a folded knife in his pocket and something Avery gave him to use if necessary. Avery called it a stinger. The device was a one-inch square which looked like a super-strong band-aid. When the backing was peeled, adhering it to the skin delivered a potent dose of benzodiazepine, the anesthetic that incapacitated Diegert at the Ambassador Hotel. The early hour was necessary because that’s when Masoni went for a morning run. Diegert was dressed for running in a pair of shorts, an Under Armour t-shirt and his favorite pair of Nikes. He hoped he could convince Masoni to return to London with him, but if that failed the stinger gave him another option. Since he would not be returning to this room, he zipped up his bag, left the key on the stand and headed to his car. The drive to the park, which surrounded the zoo and bordered several museums including the National Gallery of Modern Art took under fifteen minutes at this early hour. Parking his car along Via Strasse, Diegert exited the vehicle just as the sun was starting to rise. The roadway wound through the park to a section flanked by trees beyond, which open fields were used for football, dogs chasing balls, and people having picnics. Right now though, there were only a few healthy people up taking advantage of the coolness of the morning.
Diegert used a park bench to stretch his legs. He moved his joints to the point where muscle tension was not yet pain, and there he held his position allowing his nerves to register the current length of the muscle tissue as the new normal. It was in such a position, with his hip flexed and his knee extended that Diegert saw his target approaching. From the dossier, he knew what to expect but like so many things in life, seeing the actual, startled him for a moment.
Masoni stood just over 6 feet tall, an inch or two shorter than Diegert, but he was a compact man, muscular and formidable. He was dressed in black tights, a gray shirt with black and red trim. His Adidas runners were bright green. Masoni was jogging, slowing down having already completed the more intense part of his workout. Sweat soaked his shirt and beaded on his forehead.
On his approach, he only paid enough attention to Diegert to avoid running into him. As he passed, Diegert surprised him by shouting, “Hey, Jarod.”
Masoni brought his jog to a stop and turned back.
“Hey it’s good to see you,” said Diegert.
Masoni snapped a glare at Diegert. “Do I know you?”
Diegert stepped forward to the polite edge of Masoni’s personal space, “No, not really. I’m here on behalf of a friend of yours.”
Diegert could see the guy was bracing himself. He figured as an assassin for hire, Masoni was not unfamiliar with being approached in unconventional manners.
“What friend?” asked the Italian cautiously.
“A friend from London.”
Diegert could see the tension that the British city’s name triggered in the man.
Masoni’s eyes darted left and right, scanning for additional threats. “Is this friend from Cerberus?”
“Avery sent me to encourage your return to service.”
Masoni chuckled, but it did nothing to lighten the mood. “Avery’s an asshole, and there is no way I’m going back to London.”
“He told me to tell you he is willing to meet your demands and accommodate your earlier request as well as increase your compensation by thirty percent.”
Masoni rolled his eyes as he snorted at this offer. “That sounds like bullshit to me.”
Diegert removed his phone from his pocket. “He’s willing to speak with you directly.”
“No fucking way. I’m not talking to that guy.”
“What is your problem with Avery?”
“The guy is the most psychologically manipulative person in the world. He can twist your mind to believe things you shouldn’t, to get you to do whatever he wants.”
Diegert took a small step closer, “Like killing?”
“No,” said Masoni with a shake of his head. “But believing things.”
Crestfallen that Masoni dismissed concern about killing people, Diegert pressed him to explain. “Believing what? What do you mean?”
“Look just forget it. Tell Avery whatever the fuck you want, but I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“You know I can’t just walk away.”
“Yeah,” said Masoni as he slowly clenched his fists and slid his left foot back, setting his fighting stance.
“You really ought to just talk to Avery.”
“You really ought to shut up and get outta here.”
It was Diegert who threw the first flurry of punches. He came straight at Masoni, testing his defenses. He kept up the barrage, forcing the other man to give ground but was unable to land a significant strike. This guy was good, effectively defending his center mass. Diegert moved to the left, Masoni pivoted continuing to face him. Diegert kept the attack on, never giving the Italian a moment to attempt a counter. Diegert’s movements were strategic. When he lashed out with a front kick to the hip it sent Masoni staggering back to collide with the park bench. The immobile piece of seating caused the man to fling both arms out to the sides. Diegert was right there to shove him in the chest with both hands. The high force combined with the immobility of his legs sent Masoni toppling over the bench.
Masoni turned his fall into a flip landing awkwardly but decidedly on his feet. Rounding the bench, Diegert tackled Masoni, taking him to the ground. All that wrestling as a Minnesota teen made Diegert very comfortable when the fight went to the dirt, and the game became one of joint locks and submission holds. Masoni didn’t want to get pinned, and he had no hesitation about using his fists. As Diegert sought to control the man’s center mass, Masoni punched him in the head and chopped him on the neck. Diegert drove his feet against the ground plowing Masoni forward, putting the man’s back to the ground and his head in the dirt. The punches opened a gash above Diegert’s right eye, which bled down his face and onto the Italian. While Diegert struggled to grab Masoni’s right wrist, he managed to straddle him with his legs. His hips were positioned on the center of Masoni’s abdomen. Once he had Masoni’s right arm in his grasp, he pressed it to the ground. Diegert sat up, reached into his pocket to extract the stinger. Panic streaked across Masoni’s face as he lashed out with his left arm pounding against Diegert’s body. Ripping open the package with his teeth, Diegert freed the adhesive tranquilizer. Masoni trained his eyes upon the band-aid-like device in Diegert’s hand. As the American tried to stick the small patch on the Italian’s skin, Masoni used his left arm to block Diegert’s right while at the same time rotating his hip to the right causing Diegert to lurch to the side and put his hand on the ground. When the stinger hit the dirt, the adhesive clung to sand, grass and leaf debris. Diegert righted himself, but the tranquilizer could no longer be delivered.
Using his right arm, Diegert grabbed Masoni’s left wrist and drove it to the gr
ound as well. Diegert now had both of the Italian’s arms pressed to the dirt while sitting on his chest.
Leaning over his pinned opponent, Diegert shifted his head to the right, so his bleeding gash no longer splattered Masoni’s face.
“I’m not going back,” persisted Masoni.
“Why not? Tell me why not?” insisted Diegert.
Masoni continued to struggle, but Diegert knew just how to exert force at the right time, and in the right place, to counter his efforts. Diegert also kept an eye on Masoni’s legs ready to deflect any attempt to use them as weapons.
With a great deal of resignation, Masoni said, “It’s a woman. I’m in love with a woman.”
Diegert could feel the tension leaving Masoni’s body. He held tight though not wanting to be the victim of a ruse. “I don’t get it. What’s the problem?”
“The problem is, Avery doesn’t believe that an assassin should be in love.”
Diegert raised his eyebrow in disbelief, forcing blood to ooze towards his nose.
Masoni said, “Avery believes that defending Crepusculous is the highest calling an assassin can have. He thinks it should be your whole life. Not just a job. He sees people you love as a vulnerability. A weakness in the web that protects Crepusculous is unacceptable to him.”
“So he threatened her.”
“Exactly, so I moved her here, and now you’ve found me. What are the full parameters of your mission?”
Diegert realized what he was asking. “My mission was to acquire you and return you to London, nothing else.”
“Are there other operators on this mission with you?”
“No.”
“Did your dossier include the address where I live?”
“No. The plan was to encounter you here.”
“I don’t trust Avery. If he sees something as a threat to Crepusculous, he won’t let it go. There was this journalist who wrote for one of the Omnisphere news blogs. She was investigating the membership of the Board. As she got closer to the truth, Avery had her killed. Not by me, but by one of the other Cerberus operators.”
Diegert’s thoughts were conflicted. He kind of liked Avery, but now he had to see him in a different light. Was Masoni’s story true, or was it emotional manipulation? How could he remain in control and confirm any of what was being said?
“What’s your girlfriend’s name?”
The muscles in Masoni’s cheeks bulged as he clenched his jaw.
“If you can’t even tell me her name, why should I believe any of this?”
Diegert could feel the tension return to Masoni’s muscles as he blurted out, “If right now, another operator is harming her while we’re here in the park, I will kill you both, as well as fucking Avery.”
Diegert brought his face closer to Masoni’s, dripping blood on his cheek. “I swear I do not know of any plan to harm her. Now, what’s her name?”
“You don’t need to know her name, besides Avery already knows. He’s met her.”
Diegert’s thoughts were jumbled. Avery never mentioned a girlfriend. Why would he leave that out? Did working with Avery mean a life without love? Celibate assassins whose only role is to protect Crepusculous. Avery seeking to control all aspects of the lives of those who serve within Cerberus. Could Masoni’s, girlfriend actually be in trouble as he had him pinned to the ground?
The screech of tires pulled Diegert from his thoughts. A Ford Fiesta stopped in the road opposite the bench. The window went down and a concerned, but striking, face of a young woman with dark blonde hair, peered out to ask, “Jarod? What the hell’s going on?”
Masoni lifted his head, and Diegert turned to see the perplexed woman getting out of the car.
Diegert released Masoni and stood up. The Italian quickly got off the ground, stepping to meet the young woman on the other side of the bench.
“What’s going on? You’ve got blood on your face.” She reached out to his forehead.
Placing his hands on her shoulders, he said, “It’s OK, it’s not mine.”
She looked to Diegert who stood defiantly on the other side of the bench. “Who is he? What’s going on?”
Masoni put his arm around her waist and moved closer to her. “I don’t know, but we’ve got to go.”
As he directed her to the car, she kept looking at Diegert.
Diegert realized he must be a sorry sight with the gash above his eye dripping blood all over him.
When she was in the car, Masoni stepped back to Diegert. “If you have any decency, tell Avery you killed me. If another operator comes for me, or anyone harms her, I’ll kill them, and then I’ll find and kill you too.”
As the car sped away, Diegert realized the failure of his mission may have revealed more than he ever expected.
CHAPTER 15
Embezzlement is a crime of greed. It requires only dishonesty and access. Gerald Hempstead oversaw the accounting processes for Exceptional Insurance, a subsidiary of Truststone Management, one of Omnisphere’s most substantial financial services companies. Exceptional Insurance underwrote the risks associated with owning luxurious vacation homes, exquisite yachts, exotic sports cars, private jets, all the bells and whistles of the lifestyles enjoyed by the world’s wealthiest people.
Gerald was well to do, making more than 250,000 Digival a year, but it was a pittance compared to the money his clients spent on entertaining themselves for a weekend. So it was when Gerald reviewed the monthly receipts he had found a deceptive way of disguising his removal of 10,000 to 20,000 Digival each month. Hiding the money was easy for such an accomplished electronic accounting whiz, he told himself. Gerald created a digital hide for his stolen electronic bits, tucking it into an account that billed in excess of 5 million Digival a year.
Dishonesty was most typically revealed by hubris and arrogance. Unfortunately for Gerald, he practiced both. His dual faults had ripened at the same time so that, what he had been doing for years, blossomed into a flower an audit could not help but stop to savor. Tech Sec had found Gerald’s secret slush fund when justifying expenses against an inventory of client assets.
Tech Sec’s investigative branch was interested in what Gerald was doing with the money, so they followed it. Gerald, it turned out, was a man who enjoyed a good bottle of wine with a fine meal all on the bare midriff of a lovely lady named Sheila Lamb. They would meet at a chateau, which had a large and well-appointed kitchen. Sheila would cook a substantial meal and open a bottle of fine red wine as she waited for Gerald to arrive with a ravenous, lustful appetite. She would then recline on the dining room table where Gerald would serve himself generous helpings of her gourmet dish directly upon her flat, femininely sculpted abdomen. Her naked body appetized the gastronomic fantasies of the sex-crazed accountant. He would first feast upon her and then of her, ending his meal with food festooned sex. Sheila embellished it all, as women paid to provide for perverted benefactors always do. Dinner theater sex became the norm for her. Gerald paid her well, but he also promised her a future of wealth and abundance even though she was left to clean up the mess after he belched a few times, wiped the wine and beef stroganoff from his mouth, chest, and crotch before exiting the chateau.
Clandestine video captured several of the disgusting rutting and glutting events allowing Tech Sec Director Ken Kindler, to share his findings with Abaya Patel. The gentile and gracious CEO of Omnisphere was so disgusted that still pictures were all she wanted to see. The video was then secretly delivered to Avery Forsythe who saw an opportunity to both put an end to the embezzlement while making an example of what he considered to be reprehensible behavior. From Klaus Panzer, he received authorization to immediately plan and execute a terminal sanction.
Shelia Lamb arrived at the chateau, grocery bags in hand. As she unlocked the door, a dark form came behind her, shoving her through the entrance. Sheila screamed as she stumbled, dropping the bags of groceries to the floor. The dark form shut the door behind her as she threw off her hood revealing a stern-faced wo
man a few years younger than thirty-year-old Sheila.
“What are you doing? What do you want?” shouted a frightened Sheila.
The young woman placed a finger over her lips ushering a short, “SHHH.”
Sheila grew tense but silent.
The young woman spoke. “I know all about you and Gerald.”
“Gerald,” screeched Sheila. “The man is not named Gerald.”
“Gerry, perhaps,” offered the younger woman, whose short dark hair had bleached blonde highlights. Her dark eyes, set in lids edged by dark lashes, projected controlled intensity.
“His name is Christoph,” blurted Sheila.
“Of course it is, but your man is actually a thief. He has been stealing from his employer for years.”
“He’s an artist. He doesn’t have an employer.”
“He’s an artist all right, a con artist.”
Sheila knelt to the floor gathering up the groceries.
“I can’t believe this. He’s shown me his art.”
“Where?”
“On his website.”
With the food back in the bags, she walked to the kitchen setting them on the counter. Pulling her phone from her pocket, she brought up a website with impressionistic paintings of nude women. Much of the art depicted misogynistic bondage and female mutilation.
The young woman frowned with disgust. “All right,” she said pushing the phone away, “that’s enough.”
“You see, he’s an artist.”
“He’s a liar and a thief, and I’m here for a little justice.”
”Justice? You’re no cop.”
“That’s right, and this justice might get a bit rough, but first I’m going to need your help.”
“I’m not helping you.”
“Let me ask you, what promises has Christoph made?”
Indignantly, Sheila faced the younger woman, who was shorter by at least two inches and lighter by twenty pounds. Sheila removed her jacket, revealed a plunging neckline. The young woman’s gaze took in the deep cleavage formed between the massive breasts pressed together by a constricting bra.