But as I rounded the corner, one of the mansion guards appeared near the front of the building. Out doing his rounds.
Between me and my path to safety.
THIRTY-ONE
It wasn’t clear in which direction the guard was heading, so Agent 47 reversed his route and headed for the back of the mansion. He took the chance to cross west along the large window to the other side of the building. He thought perhaps going through the gardens would be a safer route to the gate. Glancing inside the office, he saw that Wilkins still had not arrived for his midnight prayer. Surely the reverend wouldn’t skip his appointment that night?
Someone had been watering the gardens, or maybe it had rained while the assassin was in Cyprus. The ground was wet and muddy. He couldn’t help stepping in it. Not good. Nevertheless, he reached the shrubbery and hid. The guard had been at the mansion’s northeast corner. Would he patrol along the east side toward the back of the house? Or would he cross in front to the west side? 47 thought it best to stay put until he knew for certain. He checked his watch—11:38. Placing the explosives had taken longer than he’d expected.
He winced when he saw the guard appear at the northwest corner of the house. The man began moving down the sidewalk on the west side between the mansion and the gardens, toward the employee entrance there. How far would he go? Would he notice the footprints the assassin had left in the mud? Would the man check the back of the house? Would he see the C4?
Agent 47 held his breath and stayed still and silent.
The guard approached the employee entrance.
Go inside! The hitman silently willed.
The man continued walking toward the back. He was almost to the end.
Maybe the guard was daydreaming and not concentrating on his job, like the first man 47 had encountered that night.
The sentry came to the end of the walk, right at the edge of the muddy spot at the back. He stopped. He grabbed a flashlight from his belt, flicked it on, and shone it on the ground.
He’d seen the footprints.
Now curious, the guard moved on, crossing the mud to the south side of the house. He pointed the torch along the shore. Then he cast the light at the large picture window.
That was it. He would see the explosives.
Agent 47 removed the Fiberwire from his pocket and rushed out from behind the shrubs. Moving quickly and stealthily, he reached the guard, wrapped the wire around the man’s neck, and pulled hard. The sentry dropped the flashlight and tried to scream, but the garrote mutated the sound into a gurgling sputter. The man struggled and did his best to elbow and kick backward at the assassin, but 47’s grip was too strong.
The guard collapsed in the hitman’s arms in less than a minute.
No time to lose. 47 dragged the guard back to the garden and dumped the body behind the shrubbery. His watch now read 11:46.
He moved north through a row of shrubs toward the front of the mansion, reaching the edge of the garden. He’d quickly dash to the gate and hustle back to Helen’s apartment before—
He froze where he was.
Helen was at the gate, talking to a guard. She was dressed, had her purse in hand, and gestured as if she had lost something. The guard swiped his keycard and the gate opened. She went through and headed toward the mansion.
No!
47 didn’t want her anywhere near her office. The C4 would go off in a little over ten minutes!
As usual, she didn’t go through the front entrance. She headed around the west side of the building and down the path to the employee door. The hitman watched with horror as she knocked on it since she didn’t have her own keycard. Helen waited a moment and then knocked again much louder. The door finally opened, and none other than Wilkins greeted her. 47 heard her explain that she’d somehow lost her key, that she couldn’t sleep, and she decided to do some work. The reverend stepped aside for her to enter, and then the door closed.
But it didn’t snap shut. Wilkins obviously hadn’t pushed the door hard enough, so it stood slightly ajar. Not locked.
47 had to get her out. That decision surprised him, for in the past he would have walked away and paid little attention to collateral damage resulting from a hit. This time, however, the destruction included Helen. He did care about her. As much as he’d used her and lied to her, he had sincerely connected with her in ways that the world’s greatest assassin had never experienced.
He bolted out of his hiding place and darted to the door. 47 quietly and slowly pushed it open and peered inside.
A short foyer ended at a T-corridor, stretching north and south. He moved forward, hugged the wall, and glanced into the passageway. To the north was a short empty corridor that took a right turn. To the south, he saw Wilkins and Helen turn left and disappear into another hallway. 47 followed them.
When he reached the turn, they had disappeared. Office doors along the hallway were closed. Which one was Helen’s? In the middle of the corridor, another long passageway cut south. Exactly where Wilkins’s office would be.
The hitman headed there, peripherally noticing the religious artwork and sculptures that lined the walls. The door at the end was open. 47 drew the Silverballer, flattened against the side, and moved commando-style to the threshold. A quick look inside—and he saw that the reverend wasn’t there. The room was full of plants and more religious artwork. The luxurious space was dimly lit, just as it had been earlier. The picture window looked out at darkness. The assassin figured that Wilkins probably turned out the interior lights when he prayed so that he could get a good view of the water.
He looked at his watch—11:50.
“I’m going downstairs and don’t wish to be disturbed,” announced a familiar smooth voice. It came from the east–west hallway where the office doors were located.
Wilkins.
If the reverend was “going downstairs,” did that mean he wasn’t going to pray that night? Would the explosives be for naught?
Forget about the C4.
The assassin chose to kill the man as soon as he saw him. A double tap. A bullet to the chest and one to the head. He had to go to plan B. Improvise. It was what he was good at.
With weapon in hand, 47 moved back up the ornate corridor and reached the T-intersection. He saw Wilkins round the corner to the east. The hitman followed him, reached the end, and turned north. No sign of the man, but there was a stairwell a few feet ahead and to the left. The sound of Wilkins’s footsteps descending to a basement level echoed against the walls. The killer took the stairs and crept to the lower landing, waited a second, and then continued to the bottom. The only direction to go was an east–west concrete hallway parallel to the one above. 47 followed it until he reached yet another southward tunnel leading to a door identical to the one to Wilkins’s office. Words on the outside read: PRIVATE—AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. It was ajar, and flickering candlelight streamed through the opening.
47 skulked forward. There was music coming from the room beyond. Classical music. Schubert. Ave Maria. A piece that had many connections to the hitman and one that was extremely personal to him.
A coincidence?
Too late to back out now.
The assassin lightly pushed on the door, swinging it completely open.
The entire room, which mirrored Wilkins’s office on the floor directly above it, was lit by dozens of candles. Except for a fairly empty space in the middle of the floor, there appeared to be hundreds of pieces of artwork stored there. Stacks of painted canvases leaned against the walls. Statues littered the place—reproductions of the Virgin Mary, Jesus, Buddha … The reverend knelt at a bizarre altar on the north end of the room, his back to 47. The hitman had never seen anything like it. A fresco adorned the entire north wall—it was a larger, near-perfect copy of a detail from Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel painting in which God reaches out to touch the index finger of Adam. Between the celebrity reverend and the fresco were erected several other iconic religious images—a cross, the Star of David, a B
uddha, a green tapestry with the Arabic symbol for Allah, and others 47 didn’t recognize. Was Wilkins praying here instead of in his office?
47 stepped inside.
Two men on either side of the door stepped out of darkness and aimed automatic weapons at him.
A third man, dressed in military camouflage, appeared from behind a concrete column on the west side of the room. He held a handgun in his left hand; his right one was a prosthesis.
“Drop your weapon,” he commanded.
47 had no choice. He did.
“Kick it over to me and raise your hands.”
The hitman complied.
Then Wilkins stood and turned to face the assassin. He stepped forward and looked the captive up and down.
“The legendary Agent 47,” he said. “I thought you’d jump at the bait.”
THIRTY-TWO
Agent 47 narrowed his eyes at the reverend.
This was a setup?
He looked back at the man with the prosthesis.
Cromwell.
His was the abnormally waxy face that appeared on telecasts made by the New Model Army when they claimed responsibility for an attack. The man’s features were obviously altered by plastic surgery. It seemed clear that Cromwell had seen serious combat at some point, since he had lost an arm and walked with a limp. The hitman instinctively knew that the man should not be underestimated or taken for granted: He commanded a fierce militant force that had wreaked havoc across the United States and succeeded in establishing a mystique that had captured the imagination of the American people. Cromwell was not only a clever military strategist but also a highly intelligent leader.
And a terrorist.
47 quickly scanned his immediate surroundings for a way out of the predicament, but the room was too large. Apart from physically attacking his captors, which would result in being shot, there was nothing he could do. Instead, he bent his upraised arms enough so that he could see his watch.
It was 11:53. Nine minutes to go.
Wilkins turned to Cromwell and said, “At last we have the man who assassinated your sister, Cromwell.”
The militant’s nostrils flared and his eyes burned holes into 47.
Now the killer understood. The picture had been there in front of him but he didn’t have the final piece of the puzzle. Cromwell was Darren Shipley. The brother of Dana Linder. The marine who was missing in action and presumed dead had in fact gone into hiding and changed his identity.
“Did you kill my sister?” he asked 47.
The hitman didn’t answer.
“Of course he did,” Wilkins said. “He works for the CIA and President Burdett. As I told you, he’s part of a government conspiracy to wipe out the New Model Army, the Church of Will, and me. He is here at Greenhill to assassinate me, Cromwell. He infiltrated the Church by deceiving one of my employees. I am also convinced he was somehow responsible for the death of my friend, the Colonel.” At this, he turned his attention to 47. “Ashton probably deserved it, though, for disobeying my orders when he and his guards grabbed you the other day. I expressly told him I wanted you kept alive until I returned from Cyprus, but being a man of initiative, he got a little carried away.”
So that explains the business with almost being buried alive in cement, 47 thought.
“Inspector Karopoulos in Cyprus has confirmed that a tall bellhop matching his build was seen in the hotel gym the night the Colonel disappeared. Cromwell, this man is a professional hitman.” The reverend looked at 47. “Do you deny it?”
The killer remained silent.
“We shall call the police after you are shot dead by my security team. We’ll tell them that you attempted to end my life and my men acted accordingly. The world media will learn how the current administration hired you to kill Dana Linder and then sent you here to murder me. Such pitiful and atrocious reelection strategy! Burdett won’t have a chance after this. Agent 47, Mr. Johnson, or whatever your real name is, you’re looking at the next President of the United States. But before you die, we will—”
A distant female voice interrupted him. “Charlie?”
Helen. Most likely calling from the stairwell outside the door.
The reverend stiffened. “What the—” He lowered his voice to an angry whisper. “What’s she doing down here? We can’t let her see him.” He moved past 47, Cromwell, and the two armed men, and shouted through the door, “Helen? I’ll be right there! Wait for me upstairs!” Wilkins turned to Cromwell. “He’s all yours. Hurt him as much as you like, just don’t leave any marks. I wanted to watch, but I have to see what that stupid woman wants, and it’s almost time for me to pray, goddamn it. Prolong his pain until I return. Then shoot him. Be sure to make it look like you were protecting me.”
“No problem, sir,” Cromwell said with a grin.
Wilkins slipped out the door and slammed it shut.
47 could have called out and warned her. Run, Helen! Get out of the building now! The reverend is insane!
But the job came first. If he had to sacrifice her—and himself—in the imminent detonation, he would. It was no longer possible to keep her from harm. He had failed her, but he would have completed the mission. And that’s what counted.
The hitman stole a glance at his watch—11:56.
He turned his head back and forth to the two armed guards. They were standing just beyond his reach. If he jumped at one and attempted a disarming maneuver, the other one would surely shoot him. But if he could somehow get hold of Cromwell’s handgun—or his own Silverballer—he might have a chance to take out both men with the split-second timing he had perfected all those years ago during his training at the asylum. He needed to distract them. Talking his way out of the situation wasn’t his preferred tactic, but it was worth a shot.
“Everything he said is a lie,” 47 told Cromwell.
The man laughed. “You would say that.”
“So what happened to you, Shipley?”
Cromwell stiffened.
“You are Darren Shipley, aren’t you?”
“That person doesn’t exist anymore. He died in Iraq. Alone. Betrayed by his country’s government. My name is Cromwell now.”
“But you apparently still have feelings for your sister. In your heart there is still some connection to your former life.”
“What do you know about it?” The terrorist gestured with the gun. “Step forward. Slowly.” 47 did so. “Now kneel.”
The assassin was happy to do so. His Silverballer lay on the floor six feet away. Now he was that much closer to it.
“Lie facedown. Arms stretched out.”
The hitman lay prone.
“I assure you, if you attempt to move, my men will drill you full of holes, although you might prefer that to what is about to happen now.”
Cromwell then moved away and rolled a flat cart on wheels from behind the column. There was a box on the platform that resembled a large car battery. Wires connected it to a batonlike object. At first 47 thought it was a flashlight, but then he saw the two metal prongs on its bronze-covered end.
The militant picked up the wand and flicked a switch on the box. The machine hummed. That confirmed 47’s alarm that it was a battery containing a rheostat to raise or lower voltage.
“This is a picana, Agent 47,” Cromwell said. “It is an illegal device that originated in Latin American countries, specifically for human torture. It uses the same principles as a hotshot—you know, a cattle prod—except that a picana delivers shocks of very high voltage and low current. The voltage is ample enough to cause significant pain, but the low current means that it is less likely to kill you or leave marks on the skin. I’ll give you a little taste now. When Charlie returns, we’ll really have some fun. We’ll strip you, tie you down, and use the picana to abuse all the sensitive areas of your body, and, believe me, there are more than you can possibly imagine when it comes to electric shocks. And the authorities will never know when they perform your autopsy.”
With
that, Cromwell thrust the prod forward and held it against the back of 47’s outstretched hand. The pain was sharp and intense, causing the hitman to involuntarily jerk his arm away.
The terrorist laughed. “Now do you see? Is the situation perfectly clear to you? Imagine what it will be like when you are restrained and can’t avoid the agony.”
The man poked 47 on his shoulder blade, causing the hitman to roll to his side. Another jab went to a kidney. A further nudge attacked the ribs. Despite the pain, the assassin did his best to rotate his body closer to the handgun.
“Do you feel that? That’s what it was like there,” Cromwell said. “Iraq, I mean. It was torture. Yes, I was a marine. I believed in America, so I enlisted. I believed in the cause. Charlie taught me that. I found the Will inside me, and that’s what it told me to do. I wanted to serve my country.” Cromwell laughed wryly. “Boy, was I wrong. It wasn’t long before I found myself questioning authority as my squad grew more and more unhappy.”
47 couldn’t help watching Cromwell’s face. The man’s eyes clouded over and he seemed to disappear into a painful memory, forgetting who he was addressing. Suddenly the man thrust the picana into the hitman’s lower back, delivering a few seconds of misery. Then he resumed his reverie.
“My sister was in politics, and I figured my enlistment would help her. Good PR. That’s what Charlie told me, and I’d do anything for Dana and for Charlie. Reverend Wilkins taught us that when we were young. We had lost our parents, and Charlie, well, he became like a father to us.”
There was indeed a darkness that ate at Cromwell’s soul. The man paced back and forth, gesturing with the picana as if it were a general’s sword. The hitman eyed the handgun, now five feet away. His watch read 11:59.
Three minutes!
Raymond Benson Page 20