by Slaton Smith
Sean, in the meantime, fulfilled the responsibilities of his bogus job. He visited a couple restaurants, wrote reviews and submitted them via his iPad. Sandy trailed him. Besides, his increasing food intake and working-out he really did little else. However, she was certain he would throw a wrench in the works. All it was going to take was a concert or sporting event he wanted to see.
Three days after Sean’s arrival, Waters’ team picked up the intelligence they were hoping for. Orlick and his team were going shopping the next day at Harrods. Orlick was looking for new suits and shoes and his girlfriend had a laundry list of items she could not live without. Waters had their scheduled appointment times with personal shoppers.
Waters felt like a kid on Christmas. He decided that the hit on Orlick would indeed happen at the world famous department store. It was the public venue he was looking for.
Waters and his team, however, were hard at work. They had hacked into the Harrods' computer system and now had control of the cameras located throughout the massive store. They were planning on creating a loop that hid Sean’s arrival and departure from the store. However, they were only going to take control of the cameras in the areas Sean visited and of course, where he would kill Orlick. All of the traffic cameras on the street for three blocks were also now under the control of Waters’ techs in Boston. Waters, like McFarland, saw potential in Sean and felt he was worth protecting. He might be able to complete a couple of missions and his shelf life could possibly be above average. They would know quite soon if that was true.
Waters and McFarland had already lost six men. None of them had even reached the operational stage. Three had died after the procedure and three had committed suicide. Besides being gunned down by a target, suicide was the greatest threat McFarland’s candidates faced. In some subjects, their minds and emotions could not handle the incredible stress suddenly thrust upon them. Some did not have a problem with it. Sean was one of those people, making him all the more valuable to Waters.
Waters and McFarland convened in his Boston office and reviewed the instructions that Waters was going to deliver to Sean.
The morning of the assassination, Sean had breakfast in his room. He had just finished pulling on his workout attire when his phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Ted Williams hit .406 in 1941,” Waters said, calmly. He was skeptical that this was going to work.
“Go on,” Sean said.
“You will go downstairs and get in a black van. The van will take you to a hotel. You will get out and go to room 781. I will call you then,” Waters said, in a very flat tone and hung up.
Sean immediately left the room, wearing wind pants, a sweatshirt and his running shoes. He took the elevator to the lobby and went outside to the waiting black panel van. The side door opened and Sean got into the second row of the van and scooted over behind the driver. Sandy was seated in the third row with a Walther PPQ pointed at Sean’s head. She kept it there all the way to the hotel. According to McFarland, Sean would not remember her or anything else when under Waters’ control. It was a short ten-minute drive. The van stopped in front and Sean got out, followed by Sandy. Waters’ Boston team switched the hotel’s security cameras to run pre-recorded footage on a loop to hide Sean’s presence. The street side, city of London security cameras were sent a similar feed.
Sandy and Sean walked into the lobby and straight to the elevator. Sean pressed the button for the 7th floor. Inside the elevator, Sandy kept the gun trained on Sean. He did not even acknowledge her presence. He stared straight ahead. When the doors opened, they both walked down the hall to room 781. Sandy opened the door and Sean walked in ahead of her. It was a small room and not nearly as nice as where Sean was staying. The carpet was worn and the room had clearly been home to a smoker, which the hotel’s housekeeping team had tried unsuccessfully to cover up with bad air freshener.
“He’s in the room,” Sandy said, speaking into her radio. She walked to the far end of the room and remained standing with the gun trained on Sean. Sean stood looking at the bed. Again, he did not acknowledge that she was even in the room.
On the bed was a black suit, a light blue shirt with a forward point collar, a black belt, black plain toe shoes and black socks. A pair of thin black leather gloves was next to the shoes. Adjacent to the clothing were three pictures of the same man, Lars Orlick. Beside the pictures were a loaded .45 caliber handgun and a knife. The knife was a
Swedish-made razor sharp, double-sided knife known as the “Garm.” It included a sheaf to attach to his leg under his suit. Lastly, there was an earpiece sitting on the lapel of the suit. Everything had been set up by one of Waters’ advance teams.
The hotel phone rang. Sean picked up the receiver.
“Hello,” he said, rather mechanically.
“The Indians won the World Series in 1948,” Waters said, again with no inflection. Back in Boston, McFarland listened in.
“Go on.”
Waters looked at the script of explicit instructions he had for Sean.
Sandy really began to get nervous and adjusted her stance, but kept the gun on Sean. In her mind, Waters could just as easily tell Sean to kill her.
“Sean. Pick up the earpiece and place it in your ear.”
Sean picked up the small earpiece and inserted it into his left ear.
“Can you hear me?”
“Yes”
“Good. Hang up the phone.”
Sean slowly returned the receiver to the cradle.
“Sean, I want you to take off what you are wearing and put on the clothes that are on the bed. Tell me when you are dressed,” Waters, commanded.
Sean quickly stripped off his workout attire and got dressed. The suit fit perfectly. It should. It was made to measure, based on the tailor’s measurements from a couple of weeks ago.
“Done.”
“Good. Now, I want you to take the knife and pistol from the bed. Place the pistol behind you in your waistband, attach the knife to your lower left leg under your suit and place the black gloves in your right breast pocket. Tell me when you are done.”
Sean did as he was told.
“Done.”
“Good. Now look at the pictures of the man that are on the bed. He is a bad man. He is planning to kill everyone you know. People that count on you. Brian, Tom, Michelle. He is going to torture and kill Brian and Tom. He will rape and kill Michelle. You can stop him. You have to stop him. Your friends need you. Do you understand?”
Sandy thought Sean’s facial expression changed slightly, but she was not sure.
“I understand.”
“I want you to kill this man and everyone that is with him. I want you to make sure he is dead and he can never hurt anyone again. This is personal Sean. Do you understand?”
“I understand,” Sean replied, staring at the photographs.
“You are from France and speak French exclusively. Do you understand?”
In French, Sean responded, “I understand.”
In French, Waters continued, “Now, I want you to go back downstairs and get in the van. It will take you to Harrods. You will enter through door number one. To the right of the entrance is the staircase to the Gentleman’s Lounge and the lower level. Take the stairs down. You will browse and if anyone speaks to you, you will be polite and say you are early for an appointment with a personal shopper. I will let you know when the man you are to kill arrives. He will be coming to the Gentleman’s Lounge as well. You will kill him and everyone with him.”
Sean immediately left the room, with Sandy right behind him. She liked the suit he was wearing. At least if he was killed, he would be a sharply dressed corpse.
Sean got in the van and made the short trip to Harrods. He entered door number one off of Basil Street and went down the stairs to the right to the Gentleman’s Lounge. He walked around on the lower level looking at shoes and shirts. In French, he politely declined help from sales associates and said he was early for an appointment.
Waters’ team had the security cameras running on a loop. Anyone looking at the security feed would not see Sean entering or leaving the department store.
Approximately twenty-five minutes after Sean’s arrival, Waters’ team announced that Orlick and his entourage were pulling up to the department store. They entered the store at door number ten, the ground floor, which was to the left of and across the store from the stairs that would take Orlick to the Gentleman’s Lounge.
In German, Orlick’s girlfriend, begged him. “Baby, I really want to go the lingerie department. Please. Let’s go there first.” She was wearing a dress that was too tight and too short. Her shoes had three-inch heels, keeping with the theme of the ensemble. She was not going to be doing the Pittsburgh Marathon in them.
“I have an appointment on the lower level. You know that,” Orlick responded, as if he were talking to a child. He looked at his watch and sighed. He nodded at one of the bodyguards.
In German, he said, “Take her upstairs. I will meet you in one hour at Harrods' Terrace for lunch.”
“Thank you!” she said and kissed him on the cheek.
Orlick turned, with his remaining bodyguards and strode towards the stairs that would take him to the lower level.
Waters alerted Sean.
In French, he said, “Sean, the man you are looking for is coming towards you. You need to kill him on the stairs. Put on your gloves and start towards the stairs. Do you understand?”
“I understand.”
“After you have killed him, leave the weapons and calmly walk up the stairs and out onto the street. A black van will be waiting for you. It will drop you off at a hotel. You will go to room 781. You will change back into your clothes, remove your earpiece and go back downstairs. The same van will take you back to another hotel. Go to your room. Room 1215. I will call you there. Do you understand?”
“I understand.”
Sean put on the thin black gloves and walked towards the stairs. As he reached the bottom of the stairs, he could hear a man speaking in German and the heavy footsteps of his bodyguards. Sean started walking up the stairs. Orlick was nearly halfway down the stairs when he and the bodyguards saw Sean.
In the blink of an eye, Sean reached behind his back and drew his gun. The bodyguards cursed and moved for their weapons, but they were too slow. Way too slow. Sean killed both with quick shots to the head. Their heads snapped back and the back half of their skulls exploded and splattered on the wall. Their lifeless bodies tumbled down the stairs. Sean stepped over them as he headed for Orlick.
The un-suppressed .45 made a thunderous sound in the enclosed space. There were already sounds of people screaming on either end of the stairs.
Orlick turned to run. Sean shot him in both legs and he fell, sliding on his stomach down the stairs, coming to rest in front of Sean. He dropped the gun at his feet. Orlick was screaming for his life.
In German, he screamed, “I’LL PAY YOU! STOP!”
Sean ignored him, placed his left foot on Orlick’s back, pulled the Garm from his left leg and held it at his side. He stood and brought his right knee down on the former Stasi agent’s back, knocking the wind out of him. Orlick tried in vain to reach the man who was seconds way from ending his despicable existence. With his right hand, Sean grabbed a handful of Orlick’s hair and pulled his head back. Then, with a violent sideways motion, drove the knife through Orlick’s temple. There was an audible “crunch” and then silence as the knife smashed through his skull and entered his brain. Orlick flopped back down on the stairs as Sean stepped over him.
Leaving the knife protruding from Orlick’s head, Sean calmly walked up the stairs. The rest of the shoppers in Harrods were not so calm. People were running for exits accompanied by a cacophony of screams, shouting and a piercing alarm. Sean walked out of the door he had used to enter the store and got into the van. He sat in the same seat; Sandy was in the same place as well, gun still trained on Sean. The van weaved in and out of pedestrian traffic created by shoppers fleeing the shooting. Once clear of Harrods, Waters’ team in Boston restored the camera systems for both the city of London and the department store.
Sandy looked Sean over quickly. There wasn’t a mark on him, he sat perfectly still in the van as it wove its way through the streets of London.
The van stopped at the same hotel as before, Sean and Sandy got out and headed to room 781. Sean did not utter a word. Sandy opened the door for him, keeping the gun pointed at his head. He immediately began changing his clothes. He took out his earpiece and placed it on the bed as instructed.
“Any injuries?” Waters asked Sandy over the radio.
“None,” she responded, watching him dress.
Sean dressed, walked back downstairs and stepped back into the van, which was to take him to his Leicester Square hotel. Arriving at his hotel, Sandy followed him to his room. Sandy opened the door for him and he went inside. She closed the door behind him and went down the hall to her room.
Sean stood in the middle of the room for several moments. The phone rang; he picked it up.
“Ty Cobb is the Georgia Peach,” Waters said.
“Go on.”
“Sean, take a nap. None of this happened. When you wake, get a bite to eat,” Waters ordered, then hung up, he looked at McFarland.
“How long is he going to stay in this state?” Waters asked the doctor.
“Not long at all. He will wake up and go about his day and will probably go work out again,” McFarland said, as he bit into a pear.
“Hmmm,” Waters muttered aloud.
“Robert, don’t fret. I would say this has been a tremendous success. He responded perfectly. The serum obviously aided him in the assignment. Even his OCD is working in our favor. In two weeks, he might be one of the fastest, strongest killers you have ever seen.”
“How long will he last?”
“We will see. So far, he is healthy as a horse. If he lasts more than four weeks, we will send him for a follow up-visit with a doctor under the guise of another cholesterol screening. We can read his vitals. Draw blood. If the serum does not burn him up, he will certainly be an anomaly.
Waters’ analysts were monitoring chatter in London. They were able to relay the gruesome details of Orlick’s demise. Waters was thrilled. MI6 would soon be contacting the CIA looking for information. Waters was off book. His CIA counterparts would only shrug their shoulders and secretly applaud the assassination.
The assignment was a success. Perhaps, the only thing Waters would have changed was to make sure he had a camera on the assassination. He wanted to see the next killing.
XIX
Screaming Headache
London
Sean woke up a couple of hours later with an awful headache. He sat on the edge of the bed and drank the entire bottle of water the hotel had provided. He went into the bathroom and splashed water on his face and saw his face in the mirror. He still looked tired. He washed down a couple aspirin with some water from the tap and went back into the bedroom. He had slept with his shoes on, which was weird. He chalked it up to the jet lag. He picked up his phone, headphones and hotel key and headed down to the gym.
Sandy’s phone notified her that he was on the move. She knew where he was going and followed him down to the gym. She brought a copy of Martin Cruz Smith’s novel about Chernobyl. She knew she would be sitting around for at least a couple of hours. She was dressed to run. Who knew if he might suddenly decided to bolt out the front door for a twelve-mile run? She hoped not.
The layout of the hotel helped her tremendously. The gym was adjacent to the pool, where a handful of lounge chairs were scattered about. She picked a comfortable spot and sat down with her book, her phone at her side. The room was a little humid, but not too bad. The smell of chlorine reminded her of her days playing water polo in high school and at Yale. She loved being in the water. Her father had taught her to swim before she was able to walk and she had loved the water ever since. She missed t
he days in high school when she and her father would swim for two miles or more in the ocean near their home in Santa Cruz. They would always race the last one hundred meters. She knew he always let her win. He would get out of the water and hold her arm up, like she was a boxer that had just won the heavy weight championship of the world. She knew that he probably could swim for hours if he wanted to, longer if he needed. She wondered what he was up to right now. Probably selling bikes out of his shop near the beach and having a fish taco from the stand down the street for lunch.
One hour into her book, Sandy looked over at the gym. She could see Sean’s silhouette through the frosted glass that separated the pool from the gym. He was still flying along on the treadmill. She picked up her phone and sent a secure message to Waters to let him know Sean was acting as if nothing had happened. Waters was requesting hourly reports regarding Sean’s behavior. Sandy did not know what had transpired in Harrods, but she knew Sean was successful based on Waters’ vague confirmation. She started wondering if she could take him down if she needed too. He killed three men or more and came out without a scratch.