by E G Ellory
The early evening flight to Düsseldorf is a quiet affair, the majority of the passengers businessmen flying to or from work in roles demanding perpetual meetings. The relative peace allows me to focus on the job at hand and the final face in the photographs I collected from Alexander Rowe’s hideout: Samuel Schwartz.
The other nine faces making up this gathering storm have been allocated a certain fate - some salvation and others execution. Jack Drummer and Harry Blye dead, along with Alexander Rowe whose betrayal led to Drummer and Blye’s demise; Andrew Levy in protective custody with a dossier triggering the current dismantling operation on Dominic Hass, Simon Fenstone and, now, Samuel Schwartz. Sennel, the assassin sent to kill Levy, in police custody with a record leading to a lengthy sentence.
The final two of the ten, Helen Young and Graham Dorlan, are the two agents extracted from Berlin before meeting the same fate as Jack Drummer and Harry Blye. All the consequences of Alexander Rowe going rogue for reasons he took to his grave.
As the plane banks to the left, I glance at the silent figures in view some of whom read the airline paraphernalia whilst others sit with their eyes closed, clutching at sleep before the relentless routine continues once they step off the plane.
I wonder how they navigate the mundanity of civilian life, recalling how numbing it became for me in my old life … existing rather than living in order to balance finances which are often wobbling precariously between managing and sinking.
“Any drinks or food?” I watch the air hostess ask, smiling politely at the lack of interest in many of the passengers.
I ask for coffee, fighting the desire to get a bottle of wine, knowing too well where that will lead. Alertness is the order of the day as the pilot informs us that we are forty minutes away from landing.
Forty minutes from an awaiting car … the number plate presented to me on a business card by George Ingram and committed to memory … the car which will provide me with the necessary tools for the mission, dropping me off in a location offering an effective vantage point of the man who prepares his own traps.
As I sip the coffee, I hope that Ingram has organised some effective tools for this particular mission. Carrying a gun isn’t part of my usual remit, but acquiring one is a necessity in order for the killshot to be enacted.
Of course, there is no record of my name or connection to British Intelligence on any database so, should I be apprehended with a weapon, I select silence until the necessary moves are made by the very shadows who conduct subtle acts of surrender. I study the bank of clouds out of the plane window, envisioning the forthcoming hours … coming face-to-face with the man whose demise will signal the end of my final audition.
My contact waits in the car park P 12 directly adjacent to my right as I exit Düsseldorf airport - an unremarkable vehicle whose only distinct feature is the private number plate I’ve committed to memory. Once stationed in the back seat, the driver nods his welcome and makes his way onto the slip road towards Alle Richtungen, heading for the A44.
The journey, I’m informed, will take approximately ninety minutes. After we’ve travelled some distance, it becomes evident that this journey will not involve conversation so I inspect the back seats for the promised itinerary, discovering it once I locate a hidden mechanism to unlatch and lift the vacant seat on my left.
As the leather seat detaches from its base, I find the button to reveal what’s hidden beneath: a small, silver briefcase containing a customised Smith & Wesson with a silencer and scope. A map is also provided with Schwartz’s hideout circled, along with a cross symbolising the suggested strike point. Now, all I need is the right vantage point to execute the killshot - a vantage point which will require a degree of novelty and split-second timing to ensure the effective dismantling of Samuel Schwartz.
According to Ingram’s final words as we left the derelict farmhouse, Schwartz is remaining in public view as an inverse form of protection, believing that a shadow agent will not strike in plain sight due to a need to maintain a degree of anonymity. It’s a ploy that is based on a mistaken understanding of the ways in which we operate, adaptability being central to the job.
Unlike the tracking of Alexander Rowe, engaging Schwartz within his residence is not a viable option; he is known to employ armed guards who have police immunity, shooting on sight and assessing the threat after the event. This will need to be a strike on a moving target, specifically Schwartz’s car as it makes its way from Niederdielfen towards Siegen.
Creating a vantage point for this has two benefits: the degree of cover the landscape around Niederdielfen will offer, and the ability to limit casualties. Hopefully, only one person needs to die today.
The silent driver drops me on the outskirts of Schwartz’s current hideout - the municipality of Niederdielfen in the North Rhine-Westphalia. With the small, silver briefcase in tow, the stream is my guide to the vantage point, the trees lining its arcs providing adequate protection from view.
The scope from the Smith and Wesson is removed from the case to act as my prop should I come across anyone, enacting my guise of a birdwatcher, covertly tracking black hawks which are known to frequent this area.
Using a scope rather than binoculars may raise some eyebrows should anyone approach, plus the fact that I’m hardly dressed for birdwatching, jeans replacing the black suit trousers with the shirt and jacket remaining. The silver briefcase adds a touch of eccentricity though and, should I come across company, I’ll rattle off information on black hawks based on the information contained in the briefcase. Not true, of course, but I doubt anyone will linger long to investigate.
It will matter little as I don’t expect to be hindered on my route, the vantage point I’ve chosen providing a clear view of the single-track road which Samuel Schwartz will take on his daily journey to his favourite restaurant in Siegen. The killshot won’t be an issue.
After that, it’s just a matter of disappearing into the dying light with Schwartz’s trigger happy security guards on my tail. With my point of attack less than a mile away, I make my way along the stream, alert to every sound of wildlife accompanying me on my journey.
The chosen point of engagement is as expected from the mark on the map, a relatively high vantage point close to the edge of a woodland which will provide adequate cover for my escape. From here, Samuel Schwartz’s best-laid plans will be foiled with ease for, unless he has a security team hidden across the plains surrounding his dwelling, he doesn’t have the protection he thinks.
His mistaken belief that a ghost working for British Intelligence won’t make a strike in open sight is about to cost him dearly - the typical consequence of arrogance. The secret nature of the work only applies to maintaining my anonymity, to the extent that this is possible.
In regards to this, the most Schwartz has to go on is the study of Sennel’s surrender within the crowded streets of London and, perhaps, a vague description from Simon Fenstone’s security guard. It won’t be enough to pick me out of a crowd; it certainly won’t be enough to save him.
With the silencer on the Smith & Wesson, I take my position within the cover of the tree-lined landscape I rest within. There will be no interruption here, effectively hidden from the hamlet I look down upon and, also, from general view.
So far, no complications have arisen, leaving the only possible problem being a sudden change in Schwartz’s schedule, but he’s a man of routine so he’ll be on the move in the next ten minutes - ready to meet a violent end.
As I wait, I recall my first assignment on the snow-swept Northumberland landscape, tracking Alexander Rowe - an elusive ghost I managed to put to rest. Schwartz, according to Ingram, won’t provide such an easy target. I’m yet to see proof of this assessment.
Perhaps Ingram understates my affinity for mapping shadows, sensing the best point of attack whilst adapting when movements or methods dictate. People can’t prepare for something they can’t see anymore than they can retaliate to it: the art of ghostwalking.
Samuel Schwartz appears on cue - a man of routine indeed - looking tired and drawn as he leaves the security compound he likes to call home. The gated building, typical of the architecture of North Rhine-Westphalia, is a symbol of his wealth and paranoia; a man who’s fully aware of the enemies he’s made.
Tucked away outside Siegen, in the quiet municipality of Niederdielfen, his base provides him with some sense of comfort, away from the bigger German cities of Düsseldorf and Frankfurt which are both within easy reach. Villages such as these witness little crime, the close-knit community offering some level of protection for Schwartz, judging from the way the locals who pass him offer gestures of deference. He is the veritable king of his castle - a castle about to disintegrate into sand.
Once in place within the sizeable, white BMW, I pay attention to the movements of his security team: three guards who join him in the car … a driver with the other two taking their position in the back alongside him. Schwartz is happy for his team to take a bullet for him, it seems.
It’s a simple but effective ploy, limiting an open shot on him as he leaves … but there’s always a shot … part of a vantage point is to make sure of this. The bullet will fly once the white BMW turns onto the country road, headed for Siegen, offering me a rearview where Schwartz will have no protection at all.
Timing is everything now … a combination of small, precise moves which requires me to appear from a hiding place momentarily in order to take the shot. Within this five-second window, I will be visible to anyone looking up towards this area of woodland, but not distinct enough to offer a physical description.
Being identifiable won’t be an issue - being spotted and fired at might prove to be, although my ghosting will have begun by then, using the woodland to close the curtain on the show. If the expected happens, and Schwartz’s security team follow, they will be added to the list of bodies in the battlefield, although no critical strike will be necessary: it will just be a matter of a well-placed bullet to halt their momentum.
The BMW turns into the required position … the back of Schwartz’s head in clear view … and I take the shot … the crack of the bullet exiting the gun echoing above as it penetrates the rear window and smashes into Samuel Schwarz’s skull. I remain stationary, studying each movement in this final act … watching as the car comes to a sudden halt and the two security guards accompanying Schwartz dive for cover.
A second shot penetrates the window, acting only as disorientation - a necessary part of my escape. With the third shot shattering the passenger window, I make my exit from the scene, remaining low to the ground as I head for the woodland … the sound of shouts and screams lifting on the wind.
11
Loose Ends
As expected, Schwartz’s security guards prepare to retaliate, maintaining their cover for some thirty seconds before moving out towards the sound of the gunshot, but it’s a trap designed to put them in open play - a position from which their desire for revenge will cease with a bullet.
Like most security detail employed by the wealthy, the men are ex, low-ranking military and move in predictable patterns, judging the terrain safe to move into purely on the basis that no enemy can be detected. They’re not trained to identify traps or countermoves - something that’s about to cost them dearly. The mission is one killshot; therefore, the next act will be one of pause rather than public execution.
My new vantage point is already decided upon - a mound running to the left of the woodland … high enough to provide adequate cover whilst the surrounding trees allow access to my targets … loose ends about to be tied up in a landscape fitting for this final act of brutal theatre.
The cartridge of the Smith & Wesson holds ten bullets although only three should be needed within this open playing field: Samuel Schwarz should have paid better attention to his own protection, a group of ex-military hired hands insufficient for a shadow they can neither locate nor anticipate.
The first figure appears in the woodland, firearm swinging left-to-right at every perceived sound; his slight frame is lost in the suit he wears - a mark of a man not suited to the job of killing. I keep him in the scope of the Smith & Wesson whilst awaiting the appearance of the other two guards who are equally unimaginative, I suspect.
The mound has been chosen as an obvious sign of cover, forcing the trio to close in on it, perhaps hoping that fortune falls in their favour. As the remaining duo make their appearance, it becomes clear what their ploy is - to react to my first strike … taking cover in the woodland on either side of me before storming in my direction.
As the wind rises, moving through the bank of trees offering me cover, I adjust the scope on the Smith & Wesson slightly, allowing me to target the specific place the bullet will rest in … the upper shoulder which will propel the closest figure backwards and escalate this minor firestorm.
With the trio moving nervously forward, ready to enact their kamikaze plan, I adjust my position and take the first shot, the bullet ripping through the air and colliding into the upper body of the closest target, causing him to jolt backwards in agony and stumble to the ground.
His accomplices leave him out in the open, enacting their plan of moving through the woodland at speed to catch me by surprise, but I’ve already adjusted my vantage point, using the mound as an additional weapon - its height and density allowing me to move into the woodland in the very direction my ill-equipped enemies are heading in.
The action moves quickly as I move between the trees whilst keeping both targets in sight; their plan to storm the mound I fired the first shot from is about to backfire as they realise they’ve walked into a trap.
The shaven-headed figure, dressed casually in jeans and a white T-shirt, realises the mistake he’s have made a split-second too late, turning to locate my whereabouts at the moment I take aim and fire, the bullet ripping into his hip and sending him spinning to the ground, face buried in the grass as he writhes in pain.
The final act of folly then ensues - the typical reaction of an individual who realises the odds have suddenly swung away from them - a desperate attempt to flee thwarted as I move out of the woodland, firing another shot into the leg of the second casualty who foolishly reaches for his gun.
His movements now limited to a crawl, I step out into the open, positioning the final victim in the cross hairs of the scope before letting off the shot which penetrates his left thigh, sending him sprawling, face first, into the long grass.
Schwartz should have known better than to surround himself with unimaginative henchmen; they are rarely superior in critical combat. Confident each of the trio is no longer a threat, I retreat into the depths of the woodland, finding an appropriate place to discard the silver briefcase.
The scene has the marks of a terrorist attack so standard procedures will ensue, including the arrival of armed police, some of whom are on Schwartz’s payroll - not for much longer. Carrying a weapon in this context is problematic, meaning adaptability is the order of the day. Without it, I’m a traveller who’s lost his luggage at the airport - a common enough experience and one which shouldn’t raise any suspicions at the hotel I’m headed to.
The world is a safer place with Samuel Schwartz making his unexpected departure; I just need to ensure my own safety now as I move through the woodlands. All that remains is to embed myself within civilian life whilst making my way to the place of rest: Hotel Siegen 10 miles away.
In the unlikely event that I’m questioned by the police on my journey to Siegen, I merely present my passport; however, by the time the po
lice and emergency services arrive, I will have blended into civilian life, taking a train towards Hotel Siegen where rest awaits as a reward for finishing the job I started.
I arrive in Siegen after the short train journey and make my way to the hotel, news of my recent parley with the enemy swirling news channels every few minutes. There is, of course, no sign of me on the footage - only the injured trio whose flawed plan to apprehend me ended with a bullet wound for their efforts.
They’re probably in a fit state to give statements and some form of description of me, although only one of them caught a glimpse in the distance - not enough to form anything beyond my mixed heritage and approximate height. My life in shadow surveillance continues without interruption for now.
I pick up reference to ‘foreigners’ as I pay for the room with the card provided by employers who I still only know by a single word: SALVO. I read the word to symbolise a number of things: protection for innocent civilians and a strange form of salvation for agents recruited by the likes of George Ingram.
Taking the lift to the hotel room allows me a moment to consider the extent to which my new identity has offered me salvation, and as the lift doors open, I remain convinced that shifting identities and impermanent locations remain infinitely better than an unwanted life I was slowly sinking in to.
Entering the hotel room - a rather impressive suite - I turn on the television to watch the coverage of my recent performance, studying the swarms of police and media attending to the scene of Samuel Schwartz’s demise - the white tent covering his temporary resting place.
For a man responsible for the deaths of hundreds of innocent civilians for personal profit, being hidden within a white frame is more than he deserves but, then again, dignity in death should be offered to all. Killing Schwartz completes my ‘final test’, as Ingram referred to it, and I wonder what the completion of my audition will lead to.