“Anything else?” Paul asked.
“No, Sir.”
“Bye, Caleb.”
Caleb got up from his chair and left the office, taking a quick glance at the shadow box with his aunt’s dented folding stool, as he did each time he walked out. Caleb walked past Paul’s assistant and dropped off the itinerary. “Can you coordinate schedules with everyone for the Jerusalem visit?” Caleb asked.
“Yes, Sir,” the assistant said. As Caleb left, the assistant looked through the itinerary, where Paul was going to be and when. He copied the itinerary and put the copy in his jacket pocket. That evening his assistant left the Europe Ethnarchy government building, walked down the busy street, spotting a man wearing a red fedora walking towards him. As the man in the fedora walked by the assistant, the assistant reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out the itinerary, and held it to his side, where the man in the fedora surreptitiously grabbed the itinerary and handed the assistant an envelope. The man in the fedora continued walking down the street, the assistant never turning back to see where he went. The assistant went into a supermarket, took out the envelope, opened it, and flicked his thumb over the 10,000 hera inside.
The man in the fedora continued walking down the street, arriving at an apartment building about a kilometer away. He went up to apartment 449 where he slipped the itinerary under the door. A short, heavy, balding man wearing only boxer shorts and tank top picked it up off the floor. He looked at it, snapped a picture of the itinerary with his phone, then sent it to his supervisor back at Russia headquarters. His supervisor received the itinerary, printed it, walked from his desk down a hallway and knocked on his boss’s door. The supervisor could smell the cigar smoke through the closed door.
“Chairperson Popov?” the supervisor said as he knocked.
“What.”
“Ambrosi’s Jerusalem itinerary.”
“Give it.” Popov said.
The supervisor opened the door, put the itinerary on Popov’s desk, and left, not saying a word. Popov took the paper and turned his back to the supervisor while he looked at it. He then called out to his assistant, “Get Alexeev in here.”
Make it Clean
2066
G eneral Vadim Alexeev was Popov’s closest advisor. A crusty, blunt 80-year-old, with thinning gray hair, roadmap face, and booming voice, Alexeev was held in the highest regard among his peers and subordinates. Early in his career, he was a member of the supposed-to-be-disbanded KGB, working special operations across the world for the Russian government. Like Popov, he longed to someday see a revived USSR and saw the formation of the Russia Ethnarchy as a stepping stone to getting there. He was a good soldier, respected the chain of authority. He would take a bullet for Popov, and Popov knew it.
“Chairperson, you wanted to see me?” Alexeev asked.
“Who’s your best man in Jerusalem?”
“Maxim Dedov.” Dedov was a 35-year-old operative raised in Bethlehem by Russian spy parents who moved to Israel 50 years earlier. Known in Israel as Yaron Schneider, Dedov was married to an Israeli woman and had two young children. His wife only knew him as Yaron Schneider, computer engineer for Jerusalem Health. She had no idea of his Russian alter-ego as an expert marksman.
“I need him to kill Ambrosi.” Popov said.
“When?”
Popov looked at the itinerary. “March first at 11 a.m. he will be at the Europe Ethnarchy Embassy.”
“Anything else?” Alexeev asked.
“Make it clean.” Alexeev knew what Popov meant. He didn’t agree with Popov, but always followed orders.
“Yes, Mr. Chairperson.” Alexeev said. He turned to leave while Popov reclined back, put his feet on his desk, looked at the itinerary, the ash trail on his lit cigar growing longer.
Alexeev walked back to his office. “Get me Dedov!” he yelled to his assistant.
Alexeev told Dedov about the mission. Dedov lived for moments like this--killing Ambrosi would forever emblazon his name among the heroes of the Russian Ethnarchy KGB. He considered it an honor to be chosen for the assassination. Just as Dedov was about to hang up, he heard Alexeev’s voice.
“Dedov.” Alexeev said.
“Yes, Sir.”
“Take Nestor with you.”
“Sir?”
“Take Nestor with you,” Nestor was another KGB agent working in Jerusalem. Dedov and Nestor were rivals, neither liking the other. Dedov wasn’t happy about having to take Nestor along, but knew better than to question Alexeev.
“Yes, Sir,” Dedov said, then hung up.
Alexeev then called agent Nestor and told him about the assassination plan, that Dedov would be the assassin and that Nestor would go with him.
“What is my assignment?” Nestor knew Dedov was more than capable of doing the assassination on his own.
“Make it clean,” Alexeev said.
“Yes, Sir.”
Nestor heard Alexeev hang up and smiled as he put his phone in his pocket.
Brahms Lullaby
2066
T he gentle rain that started the morning on the first of March had turned into a heavy downpour. Agents Nestor and Dedov sat in their car at ten in the morning on a bustling street in Jerusalem, two kilometers away from the Europe Ethnarchy Embassy. Neither of them said a word to each other, with only the swiping sound of the windshield wipers breaking the silence. Both had done these types of jobs before, this was just another day for them. At 10:15 Dedov got out of the car and grabbed a backpack from the back seat. He closed the door, looking into the car at Nestor, “You coming?” he asked.
“Alexeev told me to stay down here and wait for you.” Nestor said.
That was just fine with Dedov, he didn’t want Nestor there anyway. Dedov ran to a tall building across the street, then made his way up to an office used by KGB agents on the top floor. He walked into the office and looked out the window, able to faintly see the embassy in the distance. He sat down on the floor next to the window and opened the backpack, taking out each item and laying it next to him on the floor. He carefully pieced together the stock, action, magazine, barrel, and telescopic sight, slowly rubbing his hand along the barrel as if caressing a lover. He opened the window slightly, pulled binoculars from the backpack and looked out the window at the embassy, marking the spot their car would pull up to the embassy entrance. The distance between the street and the entrance was 15 meters, with ten steps from the base of the sidewalk leading up to the embassy entrance. Earlier in the week he scoped out the area to determine the best spot to shoot. Anticipating crowds, Dedov planned to hit the target three steps from the top of the stairway; it was high enough to avoid hitting someone on the sidewalk. Anyone walking behind would be on lower steps, affording a clearer head shot. Dedov put down his binoculars and readied his sniper rifle capable of hitting targets up to three kilometers away. He’d used the very same rifle for other assassinations and loved the feel of it in his hands. He smirked to himself as he thought about how his wife had no idea he even knew how to fire a rifle, let alone being ranked as one of the best sharpshooters in the Russian military. He looked at his watch--five minutes before they were scheduled to arrive. He moved a small table to the window, took out a rifle tripod, placed it on the table, then set the rifle in the tripod cradle. Strong winds joined the rainfall, creating a sideways-blowing rain. He noted the wind coming from his back, so there’d be no air resistance to his shot. He took out his phone, selecting Brahms Lullaby from his music collection. His assassinations were always done to Lullaby, it was just his thing he liked to do. He picked up his binoculars and looked along the street for Paul’s motorcade, seeing four black cars coming from the north, stopping in front of the embassy. From the third car, three men wearing suits stepped out and began making their way down the 15-meter walkway to the steps that led up to the embassy. They were joined by six agents who arrived earlier, three walked in front and three behind. The three from behind opened umbrellas to protect the men wearing suits from the
blowing rain. Dedov could only see from the waist down on each of the three, their upper body hidden behind the umbrellas.
“Which one is he?” Dedov thought as he looked at the three at the base of the stairs. Dedov quickly thought through his options. He could just shoot the one in the middle, assuming Paul was between Sal and Caleb. But what if he were wrong? He knew Popov wouldn’t accept anything other than a successful assassination. He couldn’t go back to him with an excuse of shooting the wrong person. He also knew Popov wouldn’t accept a “didn’t want to violate protocol” excuse as to why he didn’t shoot. His least-worst alternative was to shoot all three, which he decided to do. As the three walked up the stairs he decided to shoot the man on the right at the fourth step, the man in the middle at the third step, and the man on the left at the second step. The three started up the stairs. With Lullaby in the background, Dedov trained his sights on where the man the right would be at the fourth step. He was cool and emotionless as they climbed the steps. He counted to himself, “seven, six, five,” then pulled the trigger to a loud pop, then positioning to the man in the center, pop, then the man on the left, pop. He watched as a clean bullet hole pierced the umbrellas, then saw all three go down, blood splattered on the three agents walking in front of them. He quickly disassembled the rifle, put the parts and binoculars in the backpack, grabbed his phone and silenced the music, closed the window, and left the office. He walked down the building stairway, exited the building, and calmly walked back to the car where Nestor was waiting in the driver’s seat. He threw the backpack in the backseat, opened the door and got in.
“Done,” Dedov said. As he was putting on his seatbelt, Nestor opened the driver side door, pulled a revolver from his jacket and put a bullet in Dedov’s head, blood and flesh splattering on the passenger window. Nestor reached in the back seat, grabbed the backpack, stepped out of the car, calmly opened an umbrella while walking across the street, then pulled a detonator from his pocket and blew up the car with Dedov’s body inside. Nestor then called Alexeev. “Done and clean,” Nestor said.
Alexeev hung up without saying a word, distressed that Popov ordered the execution of one of his best agents.
Black Eyes
2066
P aul’s brother and sister traveled to Jerusalem from Naples after they heard of the assassination attempt on Paul. They took turns day and night sitting next to their brother, holding his hand, stroking his hair. They talked with him about the amusing things they did growing up, their father’s funny quirks, how their father told Paul not to let life get in the way of love. They brought little family heirlooms into his hospital room that they hoped he would recognize if he opened his eyes. In the 24 days since being shot, he had not shown any signs of life, only being kept alive by the life-support system he’d been on for over three weeks. The Europe Ethnarchy constitution clearly established that the senate had power of attorney, making the decision whether a sitting chairperson could be sustained on life support. Alberto and Anna could be with him and comfort him but had no say in Paul’s life support decision. The senate had previously voted to keep him on life support until March 25th, then if he was still brain-dead he would be removed. On the evening of March 24th, Anna sat at Paul’s bedside, looking at his now graying wavy hair. He still had the same boyish good looks that she admired growing up, even with tubes coming out of his nose and mouth and cotton pads over his eyes to keep them from drying out. Anna learned to drown out the persistent beeping and whooshing sounds of the devices monitoring her brother and keeping him alive. She hated being there but couldn’t imagine not being there.
Later that night, Anna had dozed off next to Paul, when she was awoken by what started out as Paul stirring in his bed, then building to violent shaking. She heard the beep beep beep of his heart monitor speed up and saw his blood pressure shoot up. This went on for about ten seconds, with his final convulsion the tubes from his nose, mouth, and arm shot like projectiles from his body, completely disconnecting him from the machinery keeping him alive. Then everything went silent. No movement, no beeping. Three nurses and the on-call doctor rushed into the room to see him convulse, the tubes shoot from his body, then silence. Paul’s security detail, stationed outside the room day and night, stood in the doorway watching his still body. They all had been expecting that he would be removed from life support and die. It was like nothing they’d ever seen before in a brain-dead patient. The doctor came to Paul’s side, putting his fingers to his neck to confirm there was no pulse. As the doctor reached down, Paul’s body leapt from the bed, coming back down on the bed with such force that it shook the cotton pads from his eyes. The startled doctor put his hand on Paul’s neck.
“He’s got a pulse!” the doctor said. Paul opened his eyes, the first time since he was shot over three weeks ago. His normally blue eyes were completely black, looking as if his pupils had been fully dilated.
Anna leaned over him, “Paul, can you hear me?” she asked.
Paul blinked his eyes a couple times. “Anna?” he asked as he looked at his sister.
“Yes, it’s me!”
“Are we in Naples?”
“We’re in Jerusalem.”
“What are you doing in Jerusalem? Is Alberto at the store?” He asked.
Anna laid her head on his chest, starting to cry. The doctor and nurses couldn’t believe it, a man brain-dead for over three weeks who had showed absolutely no signs of life was now not only breathing on his own but alert and talking. Paul’s security detail stood at the doorway, watching the miracle of their boss seemingly coming back from the dead. His security chief called Senator Dalia Backus, who had assumed chairperson responsibilities since the day of the shooting. “He’s alive and talking.”
“What?” Dalia couldn’t believe her friend and chairperson was seemingly brought back from death’s door. “Is he still awake?”
“We’re in his room with the doctor, nurses and his sister. He just asked her what she was doing in Jerusalem.”
“Can I talk with him?” Dalia asked.
“I’ll put you on speaker.”
The security chief walked over to Paul and hit the speaker button on his phone. “OK, Senator.”
“Paul?” Dalia said.
“Dalia, how you doing?”
“I should be asking you that.”
“I’m thirsty.” One of the nurses brought Paul a cup of water with a straw. He took a couple of sips then leaned his head back. “I think I need to take a nap, then we can get back to work,” Paul said.
“Take all the time you need,” Dalia said. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, I love you Paul.”
“Love you too Dalia.”
Anna still had her head on Paul’s chest, still amazed her brother was alive. She called Alberto, then Caleb, to let them know the good news. Caleb rushed to the hospital to give a HoloMate broadcast update.
Caleb got to the hospital then up to Paul’s room. He saw Anna sitting next to Paul who was sleeping peacefully in bed, tubes strewn about the floor. He couldn’t believe his eyes. “What happened?” he asked Anna.
“He was quiet, then began shaking violently, then the tubes and cotton pads shot from his body, he opened his eyes, and asked me why I was in Jerusalem,” she said, laughing through tears. “He talked to Senator Backus, took a couple of sips of water, then said he wanted to take a nap. That’s when I called you.”
Caleb for sure thought Paul was going to die. Now he was napping and looking as if the past three weeks never happened, the only evidence being the bandage on his head where the bullet pierced his skull. “Let me get on LFTP-939.”
Caleb switched on his HoloSpecs on and put a second pair on the napping Paul, tuning both pairs to LFTP-939. He listened for his producer.
“Caleb, you’re on in ten.”
Anna ran her fingers through Paul’s hair to attempt to get him hologram-ready. Caleb was ecstatic to give the news to the world.
“Three, two, one.”
“This is
Caleb Todd with HoloMate News in Chairperson Paul Ambrosi’s hospital room.” Followers in LFTP-939 could see Caleb’s hologram standing next to Paul’s hologram lying in the bed. “Thirty minutes ago, Chairperson Ambrosi awoke from . . .” Caleb was interrupted.
“Caleb?”
“Chairperson?” Caleb said.
“Hey, Cuz,” Paul said. Caleb looked at Paul, amazed he was able to breathe on his own, let alone talk to him, noticing his black eyes.
“How you feeling?” Caleb completely forgot he was in the HoloRoom, it was as if it were just Paul and Caleb and not millions of followers watching them.
“Thirsty and tired.” Paul said. Caleb gave him a sip of water from the cup on the table next to the bed.
“You look great, Chairperson.”
“I talked to Dalia.” Paul said.
“I know.”
“I just need to take a nap and we’ll get back to work.”
“Certainly, Chairperson.” Caleb took the HoloSpecs off Paul, his hologram disappearing from the HoloRoom.
Caleb was overcome by the moment, never expecting to hear his cousin’s voice again. He stood there for a minute, then remembered he was still in the HoloRoom, the millions of followers watching him stand there by himself. He shook his head slightly as if to wake himself from a daydream. “HoloFriends, what you’ve just seen is nothing less than an absolute miracle. Chairperson Ambrosi is not only no longer brain-dead, but he’s talking and wants to get back to work, it’s almost as if he weren’t human.” Caleb started choking up, having to stop for a moment to gain his composure. He continued, “I’ll be here day and night monitoring every moment of Paul’s, I mean Chairperson Ambrosi’s condition and bring you news as it’s happening.” Caleb turned off his HoloSpecs and rubbed his eyes, trying to take in all that just happened. Alberto had just arrived at the hospital and joined Caleb and Anna in Paul’s room, the three of them hugging and crying, just as Paul did with his brother and sister when their mother died. This time, though, it was tears of happiness.
The Lawless One and the End of Time Page 23