The Dublin Hit

by J E Higgins

Removing the blade from the plastic, she coated the blade with a fresh layer of oleander and wrapped it in a paper bag. At first glance, it would look like a purchase from a local shop ─ one extra level of cover as she got in close.

  She paused for a moment looking out into the ocean. She took several deep breaths as she prepared herself for what was about to happen. Even the most seasoned operatives, if not mentally prepared, lost control of their faculties when adrenaline and nerves took over. One last breath, a last look around, and Sauwa turned toward the door.

  Dressed in her thrift store clothing ─ a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved undershirt over a black T-shirt and covered in a grey tweed overcoat ─ she made her way out to her motorcycle. Like everything else, Sauwa had taken the precaution of hiding the bike in the far-off corner of the warehouse under a plastic cover and added debris.

  Tucking the weapon into a large canvass bag she had bought at a local flea market, she mounted her vehicle and rode out ready to carry out the mission.

  The Sherrfield Café was quiet this morning. Sauwa counted three young waitresses rushing about serving a scattered collection of older people enjoying their morning get-together. All chattered happily over large mugs of coffee.

  Having conducted numerous recces over the last several days, she had decided the best to staging point would be the bookshop a few buildings down. The shop was run by an elderly couple who kept to themselves unless approached by a customer; otherwise, they stayed at the counter hidden deep in the far back of the store. A shabby, overstuffed chair near the bookshop entrance was a perfect place to wait and watch for the opportune moment. It was close to the target location, gave her ample cover, good visibility and a quick way to leave at a moment’s notice. Plus, the shaded glass and natural darkness of the shop ensured she was not likely to be seen by anyone outside.

  Settling into the chair, she adjusted its angle for the perfect view out the window and waited. A copy of William S. Burroughs’ classic, The Naked Lunch, served as both a cover and entertainment. As expected, the elderly couple remained behind the checkout counter unaware of what was going on. Her eyes shifted lazily between the pages of the 1950s classic and the entrance to the Sherrfield. She was just another bookstore beatnik.

  A half-hour later, the procession of cars pulled up to the curb, one and two at a time. The detectives followed their routine: they emerged from their vehicles, made pleasantries to colleagues out on the street, then shuffled into the coffee shop.

  Sauwa caught sight of Marston Donovan’s blue Nissan as he drove it up the road and slipped, with precision, into an opening along the curb. Sleek as always, the car gleamed in the sunlight. The well-dressed figure of Marston Donovan popped the door open and hopped out onto the sidewalk, met by two other detectives. The three exchanged warm greetings before moving toward the entrance of their favored establishment

  It was now just a waiting game for Sauwa.

  An hour later, true to form, the detectives began to leave, crowding out the Sherrfield front door, laughing and engaging in playful antics.

  Nestling her book amongst a disorderly collection, she tucked her hair up under a grey knit cap to better camouflage her appearance and strolled out of the bookshop onto the street. She took her time slipping on a good pair of latex gloves not only to prevent leaving fingerprints but also to allow her a tighter grip on the weapon handle.

  By now, the mid-morning brought small crowds of tourists and everyday shoppers. Sauwa walked slowly up the street pulling the paper sack with the weapon from her side bag. With one hand in her pocket, she carried the bag and looked around like an indecisive shopper. She took a few deep breaths as if feeling the results of a great deal of walking. In reality, it was to help calm her nerves and control the rising adrenaline rush.

  At the edge of the Sherrfield, she stopped and glanced at her watch. A common act. The detectives gave her no notice. It gave her needed time as she waited for her target.

  Donovan came through the door of the café enjoying a light-hearted laugh with another set of detectives. He was now in place. She watched him maneuver through his colleagues, talking and back-slapping, while shoppers intermingled around them

  Sauwa moved toward him almost within an arm’s length, turning and shifting as he addressed different people. She planned to hit Donovan’s right side from behind to pierce the liver. She removed her free hand from her pocket and repositioned the canvas bag behind her.

  With a small collection of firecrackers she had asked Banker to obtain, along with a lighter, she lowered her hands to her waist, hidden under her coat. Tucking the paper sack into her coat pocket, she lit the party favors throwing them to the side into the crowds.

  As predicted, the crackling explosions set the crowd into a panic.

  Detectives shouted, “Shots fired?”

  Several onlookers shrieked with fear. A passing car clipped the back of a detective’s parked car, creating an even bigger diversion. This served to distract the policemen even more, and Sauwa moved in for the kill.

  A veteran cop, accustomed to the sound of gunfire, Donovan smiled as he watched the crowds reacting with confused hysteria to the party favors. Taking the sack from her coat pocket, Sauwa closed the distance between her and the detective. He turned, leaving his sports jacket wide, providing an opening. She lifted the bag at an angle and, as she had rehearsed, drove the blade into his torso. The skin and stomach lining were tougher than the burlap and sand she had practiced with, but the sharp blade sliced into it easily. She could feel the blade cut through the soft tissue of the man’s organs. Half a second later, she felt the grip of her weapon against his shirt. At once, she snapped the cubed handle with one quick jerk and continued moving casually up the street.

  She shoved her hands back into her pockets and walked at the same pace as the rest of the crowd that had not been stunned by the firecrackers. It was not easy. Her adrenaline and basic instincts told her to run—everything that would draw attention to her. She breathed deeply through her nose calming herself. Eventually, her system returned to some normality, and she followed the flow of fleeing pedestrians.

  Sauwa was two shops past the Sherrfield when she heard shouts from detectives for someone to call an ambulance. They had discovered their comrade’s wound. Again, she maintained control and did not turn around. Behind her, the chorus of shouts grew louder as the detectives began to comprehend what had just happened.

  Resisting the urge to duck into an alleyway, Sauwa crossed the intersection. Behind her the detectives, having regained their professional alertness and attention to detail, would be scanning the area for signs of the assailant.

  It would be foolish to rush into the first side street. She had planned out the route of escape and two contingency plans beforehand. At the far side of the intersection, she turned and made her way down the road, picking up her pace.

  A few blocks down, she stepped into a side street and disappeared from view.

  Away from the crowds, she quickly removed her coat and knit cap, stuffed them into her canvas bag and dumped the bag and its contents into a grease collection tank along the way. The tank wouldn’t get emptied for another few days. By then, everything would be submerged in the oily substance and would be too stained for police to use for evidence.

  She came back onto the main road, crossed the street and was soon in another alley heading toward a large green dumpster. Removing a stack of greasy, discarded boxes, she pulled down some additional cover to find her motorcycle where she had left it earlier that morning. Revving up the machine, she kicked it into gear and sped into the crush of traffic, every second putting greater distance between her and the body she had left behind.

  12

  Banker didn’t need to be a psychic or a genius to figure out what he had gotten himself into. It couldn’t have been a coincidence.

  He received a sudden call from his contacts telling him to go ahead and pay the mysterious young woman and organize her transportation out of the
country immediately. The call came only hours after the announcement of the slaying of veteran Garda Detective, Marston Donovan, by an unknown assassin.

  Fetching the money from his secret apartment office, he crossed the complex parking lot toward his car, his mind awash with thoughts and concerns. He wasn’t scared. He had been in the business long enough to understand such affairs. Even an extreme like assassinating officers of the Garda did not necessarily surprise him. Given the excessively cryptic way the whole operation was being handled, coupled with the amount of the payment involved, it had to be something big.

  Everything was falling into place. His concern lay more with the after-effects about to transpire. The police would devote serious resources to this investigation. This meant they would be pressing contacts all over the city and casting their net far and wide. It was also during something like this that the perpetrators and their masters would be inclined to do their own evaluation of the affair and determine what loose ends may exist.

  Banker had provided all the support and logistics for Sauwa. He need to play out the rest of the job intelligently and ensuring he was protected from both sides.

  The police had nothing that could connect him to the killing or even make him a suspect. Neither the assassin nor her employers saw anything that would make him a liability. Professionals in the underworld tended to avoid killing unless it was absolutely necessary. After all, dead bodies were a complication and violence tended to bring unwanted attention. Only idiots who had seen too many movies or had something to prove killed without a pressing reason.

  Sliding into the driver’s side of his car, Banker turned the ignition and drove out of the parking lot. He eyed the knapsack he had shoved on the floor; it would be just his luck if he were to get robbed or pulled over. He’d be relieved to finally be rid of the responsibility of playing banker to a hitman.

  Sauwa gathered all the clothes she had used over the last several days walking the neighborhood of the Sherrfield Café while conducting her recce. She had taken the precaution of changing her appearance for each visit to avoid people getting used to seeing her and be able to provide a description.

  The mission was over, and she needed to destroy all evidence immediately. She’d collected everything pertaining to the mission in a single location in another room, keeping her covert world well apart from her normal life, so as not to accidentally keep any trophies or mementos that tied her to her previous operations. This had been the downfall of many operatives who had neglected to properly dispose of operational materials and wound up leaving evidence for police or other intelligence agencies to trace or help build their case.

  She was alerted to someone entering the warehouse by the sound of glass bottles skidding across concrete. As a security precaution, she had bits of glass and bottles arbitrarily laid about. In the darkness, they were hard to see and easy to run into. This make-shift alarm system gave her ample warning of would-be attackers.

  Gripping her Browning 9 millimeter pistol, she moved against the wall opposite the door opening. The Browning was a favorite of military and police units around the world. It was a very good weapon in a gunfight and existed in abundance making it easier to obtain.

  Sliding down to one knee she took a tactical position, waiting. If it were assailants, they wouldn’t know where she was and would have to search rooms randomly. Over time fatigue and stress would set in. Hopefully, they would be less alert when they finally got to her room.

  She heard the sound of a door cracking open and figured it was her living quarters. Whoever it was, they apparently knew exactly where she was staying. The footsteps continued toward her. By the sound of shoes on concrete, she deduced it was either one man or, at best, two.

  “Anyone home?” The familiar voice of Banker called out gently.

  “I’m here,” Sauwa replied as she slowly rose to her feet. She still kept her weapon ready to fire in case this was an ambush.

  The door opened all the way. Banker entered. Seeing the weapon in her hands and the serious look on Sauwa’s face, he knew to tread lightly. He stepped to the side to give her a visual of the hallway and show her no one else was with him. From her position, she looked out to verify there were no signs of anyone else. She still kept the man in view through the corner of her eye.

  Sensing she was on as much of an edge as he was now that the mission was done, Banker lifted his sports jacket and turned around slowly to show he was not armed. Only when she was convinced he was no threat did she lower her weapon and tuck it into her waistband.

  “I brought your payment,” Banker opened the conversation. “Your employers called me a few hours ago and told me to go ahead and pay you.” Carefully, he slid the knapsack off his shoulder and lowered it to the ground.

  “Open it, please,” she commanded in a soft, yet stern voice.

  As instructed, he unzipped the bag and opened it wide for her to see the contents. It was the bundles of money she had seen in his apartment. Noticing he wasn’t wearing any gloves gave her a sense of relief. More sophisticated organizations were apt to use the less obtrusive method of poison when removing troublesome problems. Such poisons were not always ingested. “Please pull the money out onto the floor.”

  With a shrug, Banker reached in and proceeded to pull stacks of money onto the floor before her. Sauwa was relieved to find that neither the money nor the bag was laced with an adhesive toxin. Something she had used herself to dispatch targets in the past.

  She nodded.

  Taking that as a sign that he was okay, Banker stood back up and stepped away from the money. “I’m making arrangements for your departure. I will have your instructions tonight.”

  “I’ll contact you through our usual means,” Sauwa replied. “We’ll arrange to meet and discuss the details. How long will you need?”

  “Right now, for what I’m planning,” Banker shifted his eyes from side to side. “You’re looking at possibly two days. I’m using a fella I do business with to smuggle stuff in from the continent. I’m reaching out to him to provide a means out of here.”

  She nodded. “How far do you trust him?”

  “My opinion doesn’t matter,” Banker stated, his voice sharp. “Given the nature of your situation, you don’t have the luxury to compare travel accommodations. If it would make you feel better, I would tell you I’ve done business with him for a few years now. To date, he’s always been square with me.” He looked Sauwa over trying to guess her thoughts. She was utterly stoic. “I’m not the one resting my unknown future on him. And, you don’t know me well enough for my opinion to mean shit to you. I also have every reason to put your mind at ease, because my job is to get you out of this country as quickly as possible. You would think that I would have vouched for anyone if it made you no longer my concern?”

  “Those thoughts have all crossed my mind.” Sauwa stared back at the man in an assessing way. “We agree. I’m not exactly in a position where I can shop around for a means of travel. I have to take your recommendation and hope for the best.”

  Banker shrugged. “You do, and I’m sorry for that. If it is any consolation, I was sincere. The man I’m making the arrangements with has always lived up to his end of the deal.”

  “I’d like to believe that,” Sauwa sighed. “As you’ve said though, I don’t know you very well.”

  “I’ll be waiting for your call around the usual time.” Banker started toward the door. “I recommend we meet someplace. I don’t want to discuss such sensitive information over the phone.”

  “I agree,” she replied. “But, until I’m gone, I pick the meeting sites.”

  Banker was almost through the doorway when he turned to face her. “I assume that will be our arrangement from this point forward.” He turned and started out the door leaving Sauwa to continue her clean up.

  13

  Jeffery Talamadge read the collection of documents with all the adrenaline one would get reading a fast-paced spy novel. The archival records brought i
n from the South African embassy were an astonishing revelation into the depth of the Dark Chamber operation and the missions they skillfully carried out entirely under the nose of Britain’s legendary MI-5 organization. What was more unbelievable was the chilling reports accounting for the missions undertaken specifically by Sauwa Catcher.

  The documents provided were in both Afrikaans and English, which was rare. Thankfully this dispensed with the need to have them translated. Talamadge rubbed his sweat-soaked forehead for the third time. After reading for the last half hour, he had come to understand why she was such a priority for the South Africans. The accounts documented were astonishing. The asphyxiation of the son of a prominent member of the House of Lords had been made to look like a suicide. The boy had been working as part of a far-left political group trying to lobby the government to supply weapons to the ANC and other anti-Apartheid groups. He had died from carbon monoxide poisoning in the garage of the family cottage. The carefully planned and executed killing orchestrated and carried out entirely by Sauwa Catcher sent chills down the veteran counter-intelligence officer's spine.

  Another incident described a fire that killed four people representing the South African Communist Party and three members of the Provisional Irish Republican Army. The fire had allegedly been started by a spark that ignited a basement full of old newspapers and a pile of wool bundles. In the confined and stuffy quarters, the toxic gases from the wool rose quickly beyond the fire itself and managed to poison all attendees of the meeting before the fire was even close enough to be heard or felt. Though ruled an accident by the fire inspectors, the detailed documents described a far different scenario.

  The list of atrocities went on. All were attributed to one individual, the one Ravenhoof constantly referred to as the Angel of Death. The Englishman stared at the ghostly looking figure in the small black and white photograph delivered with the file. All he could think about was the report he would have to use to brief his superiors, and the utter black eye it would have on the whole organization. His mind also burned with another thought ─ she was the Devil, and she needed to be brought down.