Messenger of Death

by Alex Markman

  The eyes of the interviewer glowed with apparent delight. A good answer for the public could be an even better achievement for him than embarrassing a prominent politician. Monica was pleased with herself as well. Her experience in public speaking and her habit of thinking with a cool head while heat raked her nerves had helped her in another pinch.

  III

  For the next two weeks Monica was busy preparing for the last meeting, at which the final version of the bill would have to be adopted. Although the draft stopped short of declaring the outlaw motorcycle clubs criminal organizations, it did contain numerous provisions that compromised the constitution to make investigation and prosecution of bikers a much easier task for police.

  In the late evenings, she enjoyed the company of her nephew and his family, who had moved in with her temporarily, until their problems could be solved. One day before the final session of the task force, she returned from work earlier than usual. The sun was already throwing long shadows across the street, but dusk was still an hour away. Monica was thinking about her husband and how nice it would be if he was still alive. It had been three years ago . . . she had arranged a small barbeque at home, and he had called and asked if she needed any last-minute shopping.

  “Some whiskey,” Monica advised. “Don’t be too late, though, darling.”

  Crossing a large intersection with the yellow light, he had been hit by a heavy truck and died instantly. How fragile human life is, she thought. How stupid and premature death could sometimes be. Bikers have no respect for life or for death, she thought, be it their own or others. What makes them so fearless, so thoughtless, and so disrespectful of all that governs the rest of humanity? Why did even the most sophisticated of them choose this terrible way of life and its inevitable outcome of a premature and painful death? What a puzzle.

  She pulled her car up to her house and stepped out. Only then did she notice a man stashing an envelope into her mailbox on the porch.

  “What are you doing here?” Monica asked. Her voice had a menacing tone, a tone that could have intimidated a tiger. The man turned slowly, as if he had more business to do. As his face came into view, she was stunned with what she saw: The man’s face was hidden behind a mask suitable for Halloween—the distorted face of a woman, mouth opened wide in a cry of despair, and red tears of blood painted under the eyes, running down one after another until they reached the bottom of the mask.

  “Happy Halloween,” the man said and passed by.

  “It’s not October yet. What kind of Halloween is it?” Monica yelled after him.

  The man uttered an ugly, rowdy laugh and hopped onto his motorcycle.

  “Who are you?” shouted Monica. The man had already fired the engine of his bike.

  “A messenger,” he shouted back, raising his voice above the noise of the roaring engine. “Read the message.”

  The motorcycle jumped forward and disappeared with an angry rattle. Monica removed the envelope from her mailbox, opened it up with trembling fingers, and read the short note:

  Death Certificate:

  Name of Deceased: Monica Godette

  Occupation: Political Prostitute

  Date of Birth: July 3, 1953

  Date of Death: October 1997

  Delivered by: Messenger of Death

  With a huge knot in her stomach, she glanced around. No one was on the street, but its very emptiness was more frightening than a crowd would have been. She ran up the short flight of porch steps, unlocked the door, and sneaked inside. Toulouse and his family were already waiting for her, peacefully sitting at the table.

  “Anything wrong?” Toulouse asked anxiously. Monica made an effort to smile.

  “Everything is okay, dear. Oh, dinner is ready. How nice. Give me five minutes, though.”

  She climbed to the second floor and went into the bathroom to wash her hands. The nauseating spasms in her stomach did not go away. Monica splashed her face with cold water, but it didn’t help.

  Back in her bedroom, she pulled out the biker’s note and read it again. It seemed even more frightening than it had the first time. They had issued her a death certificate! How terrifying. Despicable. What kind of a sick mind does one have to have to intimidate this way?

  Monica went downstairs to the dining room and said in the calmest possible way, “I’m sorry, but I don’t feel well. I can’t join you for dinner. Please, excuse me.”

  An outcry of sympathy and regrets was the response.

  “I have a very important meeting tomorrow morning,” Monica continued. “I’d better retire early tonight. Enjoy your dinner, darlings.”

  Lying in the bed, she leafed through some papers that were pertinent to the proposed change in legislation, but she was not able to concentrate on anything. Exhausted, she fell asleep. In a dream, she saw a tall man with the face of a very ugly, tormented woman. Under her eyes were large tears of blood. The man chased her, crying like a woman. She woke up, terrified, disoriented. Listening to the feeble sounds and cracks of the house, she fancied that somebody was walking in it with the cautious steps of an assassin. She was expecting a sudden bang on the door, after which the killer would appear in the opening, pointing his gun at her. Nothing happened, though, but in the morning, she left the bed tired, as if she had already worked a full day.

  The final meeting of the task force was scheduled for 10 o’clock, but coffee and a continental breakfast were supposed to be ready by 9:30. Some task force members took advantage of it, having neither the time nor the desire to cook at home. Monica had never shown up for it, but she did arrive early, not for breakfast, but with the hope of meeting Bertrand. Luckily, he was there, sitting at the table alone, enthusiastically devouring a large doughnut. He noticed her at once: This man would not miss an ant under the table, Monica thought. Chewing with an enviable appetite, he waved his hand at her in genuine welcome, inviting her to join him for breakfast.

  “What brought you in so early?” he asked.

  “To tell the truth, I wanted to see you,” she responded.

  “Me?”

  “Why not? I need your advice, possibly your help.”

  She produced two papers: one, the letter of appreciation from the Devil’s Knights; the other, her death certificate.

  “I got these two notes within a short time period,” she said. “This one was brought to me yesterday by a biker wearing a terrible mask. It was rather frightening, Bertrand.”

  Bertrand read the notes and shook his head.

  “They went too far,” he said.

  “It’s beyond my comprehension how these people have the guts to fight against the government.”

  “It’s very simple—they believe in our democracy.”

  “Don’t be so cynical, Bertrand. Anyway, what do you think about this death certificate? Is it serious?”

  “Everything the bikers do must be considered seriously. However, I don’t think you’re in any immediate danger, but some precautions must be taken.”

  “What precautions?”

  Bertrand shrugged his shoulders.

  “Move temporarily to another location. If you have relatives, move into their home for awhile, until everything is settled. I’m sure that after the bill is adopted, they won’t be a threat. Why would they need to hurt you after that?”

  “That’s the advice of a policeman?” Monica asked more loudly than she had intended, which attracted unwelcome attention from different corners of the cafeteria.

  “What else could you do?” Bertrand raised his eyebrows in sincere surprise.

  “I can’t do much. You should do something.”

  “For instance?” Bertrand asked.

  “For instance, provide protection for me and possibly the other members of this task force.”

  “Protection?” Bertrand echoed in a disapproving note. “Where could we find the funds to provide protection for everyone who’s scared of criminals? Somebody has to foot that bill, don’t you know? Give us the budget, madam, and we wil
l do whatever you want.”

  He picked up another doughnut and began eating it, a gleam of appreciation in his eyes. Monica saw that the last one was still on the plate, and she felt a great temptation to throw it in Bertrand’s face. He had called her “madam” instead of “Monica.” She was no longer a prominent politician to him, but simply one of those citizens whom the criminals had threatened—madam.

  “A week ago there was an article in one of the newspapers that the police had aborted the assassination of Marcel, leader of the Devil’s Knights.” Monica was speaking in a stern voice, which she hoped would precede a devastating argument. “This tells me that you have the means to know what gangsters intend to do. With the information I’ve given you, could you provide protection for us?”

  “Not for us. For you, Monica. Your understanding of the subject matter, though, is not correct. We don’t have information of any kind about what bikers intend to do. We just arranged to have around-the-clock surveillance for the most notorious leaders of both gangs. We know some of the places they frequent. Our people happened to notice the preparations for Marcel’s assassination and aborted it. What else were we supposed to do?”

  “Nice!” Monica uttered in a sarcastic cry. “The most dangerous leader of one of the notorious biker gangs is in fact under police protection. You’ve found funds to protect his life, but not mine!”

  “Good gosh, Monica, what are you talking about? Don’t you think I would single-handedly arrange around-the-clock surveillance for you?” Bertrand wanted to say something else, but a voice from the meeting hall made him stop.

  “Please, take your seats, ladies and gentlemen,” Robert said, appearing at the doorstep.

  “Let’s continue during the break,” Monica suggested, rising to her feet.

  “The draft of the bill, along with some supporting materials, has been distributed around the table for everyone. There’s no need to study the papers—every paragraph of this important document has long been under the scrutiny of each member in this room,” Robert told them. The current version had a rather loose definition of a criminal organization, one that could easily be interpreted as needed, or desired, by a judge or the police. Monica knew that every member of the task force sincerely thought that common sense and honest integrity would prevail when application of the law became necessary. After all, the final verdict of guilt or innocence would still rest upon a judge and a jury.

  There were also provisions that allowed for the confiscation of the property of criminals and criminal organizations, for the gathering of information from civil organizations and agencies, and for conducting covert searches, as well as the use of telephone wiretaps and listening devices.

  Monica knew that in any other circumstance, she would have voted against such a law. She also knew, for sure, that a few other members of the task force shared her concerns about the law and its implications.

  Still, the bill was adopted—unanimously.

  Chapter 7

  I

  Claude spent almost a week in painstaking reconnaissance, trying to plot his attack.

  The muffler shop was located in a business–industrial area of town, off a street that was almost desolate, with few pedestrians and hardly any traffic. He quickly realized that parking a car there without it being noticed is not an option. The one possible place for it to blend in was a parking lot between the muffler shop and a furniture factory next door. But it was always full and likely under the surveillance of Iron Ghosts. A neighborhood grocery store down the road would not provide much cover or distraction either, because its visitors were very occasional, as well—workers from the area or residents from a row of single-family houses that ran along one side of the street, further south. The opposite side of the street had no buildings, only a small park.

  Hans suggested using the park—a small Japanese motorcycle, he told Claude, could be easily hidden behind one of the benches. From there, it would take him less than half a minute to get to Claude, pick him up, and escape. Claude agreed that the suggestion was a good idea and they began to finalize plans for the hit.

  A few days later, Claude received the secret combination of numbers on his pager. The message was from Marcel and the display on the screen meant one thing: Ready. Claude called Hans, who arrived on a stolen bike ten minutes later. He was not as nervous as he had been in previous hits. Practice and Claude’s exemplary behavior had slowly made him more confident in his skills and in the existence of Lady Luck.

  They traveled to the park’s rear entrance as planned, via a twisting side road. Nobody was there, as the time was only 10 o’clock in the morning. Blue-collar workers would not be arriving until later, during their lunch breaks to eat, drink, and chat. Hans turned the engine off and rolled the bike inside the park. Holding the handlebars as if they were a stubborn goat’s horns, he pushed the bike toward the nearest bench, which was littered with remnants of food and paper bags.

  For the end of September, the weather was still warm but the trees, tired of making new blooms and fresh leaves all summer, had begun to fade. Their dry, gray branches were shedding an amazing number of tired lifeless leaves, dropping them to the ground, one upon another, to create a rustling, red–yellow carpet with all the beautiful colors of death. Some of the tree branches were almost bare, which enabled Claude to peer between them to observe the muffler shop, from which Stanley must eventually appear.

  “I still don’t know exactly who we’re after,” Hans reminded Claude.

  “As I said, it’s a muffler shop owner,” Claude said. “Five grand in two hours—not bad, eh? That’s all you’ve got to worry about.” If Hans had known who they were actually after, he might have refused to take part in such a dangerous hit.

  Now, sitting behind the thinning veil of yellow foliage, Claude was beginning to realize that the success of the task was almost entirely in the capricious hands of fate. If Stanley exited the building unaccompanied by his bodyguards; and if there were no pedestrians on the street, in the line of fire at that one, specific moment; and if there was sufficient time to approach him without being noticed so Claude could reach a distance short enough for an accurate shot; and if Stanley was not armed . . .

  So many if’s.

  Of course, Claude could allow Stanley to get into his car and then shoot him at the first stop sign or traffic light. The option of killing Stanley inside the muffler shop was definitely out of the question as Marcel had told him that the Iron Ghosts inside would be armed. Considering everything, the best decision would probably be to cancel the ambush altogether and tell Marcel the reasons. That, however, would require another team to find out exactly when Stanley was visiting his muffler shop again. And, who knew if, and when, such a chance might come along?

  On the other hand, the success of this hit would make Claude one of the most respected of the Devil’s Knights. The road to the gang’s higher circle was over Stanley’s dead body.

  Watching the entrance into the muffler shop, Claude felt sweat gathering in his palms and under his armpits. Staying cool when one’s death might be a few minutes away was not that easy even for the toughest guys. Having a steady arm and fast, precise reactions at such moments was the ability of a select few. He was sure of being one of them.

  “Anything wrong?” Hans asked, giving Claude a sharp look.

  “Not at all,” Claude responded in his usual confident tone. “It’s just taking a bit longer than I had thought.”

  At last, a man about thirty years old, with hair receding from his forehead, came out of the main entrance of the muffler shop. He was dressed in a business suit; holding a briefcase in one hand, he adjusted large glasses on his nose with the other, and walked briskly to the parking lot, where he climbed into his car, and drove away. A minute later, an old woman appeared on the sidewalk as if from nowhere, pushing a stroller with a baby inside toward the grocery store. Suddenly, Stanley came out of the building and headed toward the grocery store, a few steps ahead of the woman with the
baby. Claude touched the gun that was stashed beneath his belt and stood up.

  Stanley briskly crossed the road. Claude followed closely and moved up to hide behind the woman. He sped up, shortening the distance between himself and Stanley, and then pushed his mask up to cover the lower part of his face in case the old bitch might recognize him later. He passed her, his hand still on the hidden gun. Stanley was about twenty yards from the grocery store when he looked back. In an instant, he darted forward and disappeared behind the corner of the building.

  Roll the dice, Claude said to himself, rushing into a deadly game with Lady Luck. Whatever comes . . .

  His gun ready, he turned the corner.

  The hand of Providence, though, did not throw the dice in his favour.

  He saw Stanley—standing still, his outstretched arms steady, holding a gun. Stanley fired. Claude pulled the trigger, too, but he was on the run and well aware that the accuracy of his shot, even at point-blank range, would never match that of his stationary adversary. The mingled sounds of gunshots reverberated along the narrow street, and Claude saw a flash of fire coming out of Stanley’s barrel. At the same moment a crushing blow hit his chest below the left shoulder. It seemed to him that a huge, red-hot boulder had been thrown by a powerful force, knocking him down and incapacitating his body and mind.