Kill on Command (31 page)

Sean’s erratic and exhausting behavior continued for the remainder of the time prior to his London trip, giving Sandy fits.

The day of Sean’s departure to London, he was running late, which meant the team following him was running late for the same flight.  Sean drove his Jeep to the airport at breakneck speed, ran through the airport, first to check his bag and then to make his way through security.  Unlike Sean, Sandy did not have a first class seat and therefore did not have access to the priority line at the TSA security checkpoint.  She was stuck with the rest of the poor slobs flying coach.  Bill and Bob were at the airport, but were already booked on a second flight and were not facing the same difficulties.  She watched Sean get on the tram inside security that would take him to his terminal.  She looked at her watch and then the line.  She was not going to make it.

“Shit,” she said, under her breath. There were nearly sixty people in front of her.  She had one option, but hated it.  She was going to have to be charming.  She walked past the people in front of her, telling everyone a sob story about missing a wedding.  Most bought it, especially the guys.  She finally got to the front of the line.  There was a man in his forties at the front of the line and an older woman behind him.

“Excuse me.  I am running late.  I am heading to London for a wedding.  The bride will kill me if I don’t get there on time,” she said, in her sweetest voice and using everything her ice blues had.  She was dressed conservatively.  The eyes were all she needed.

“No problem.  I don’t want you to be late,” he said quickly.

She put her hand on his arm.

“Thank you,” she said handing her boarding pass and ID to the TSA agent.

“Hold on!” the woman behind the man screeched.

“What is it lady?” the TSA agent asked, scowling.

“You need to stop her.  She can’t cut line,” the woman continued.  Her better days, if she ever had any, were behind her.

“Look.  It is his decision if he lets her in front of him.  I do security, not lines.  Now if you say another word, you will not be getting on your flight.  I can arrange for extra screening,” the TSA agent said abruptly.  In the world of frequent travelers, the TSA agent is god.

The old woman shut her mouth and Sandy flew through security in time to make the flight.  She was in coach but could see Sean up front.  This seating arrangement would end up being a pattern over the next several months, Sean living it up in first class and Sandy sitting in the back, smashed into a middle seat.

XVIII

A
Killer of a Shopping Trip!

London

Early June, 2011

Sean landed in London and took a cab to his hotel in Leicester Square. It was a far cry from the Holiday Inns he had been staying in most of his career.  He checked in, went straight to his room, where he quickly changed and went down to the hotel’s gym.  Although he was taking the medication provided by McFarland’s team, he was still spending an inordinate amount of his waking hours running, doing push-ups or lifting in the gym.  The OCD was not gone but was managed.

Waters did not care what Sean was doing.  He was in London to kill and not get killed - Waters really only cared about the kill.  More than likely, Sean was going to die in London.  According to the analysts back in Boston, Sean’s chances of making it out of London alive were slim.

Sandy now had to rely on the tracker implanted in Sean’s body.  She was staying at the same hotel, although she was not as relaxed as Sean.  It was nearly game time.  Several things could happen.  He would be successful, but apprehended.  He would be killed by the target, or mortally wounded by the target and she would be tasked with finishing him off.  She knew the geeks back in Boston would give him all the help they could by killing cameras, putting footage on a loop, spotting the target and leading Sean to the objective.  At the end of the day, it was going to come down to McFarland’s science and whatever the doctor had dredged up from Sean’s unconscious mind that would drive him to complete his assignment.

Back in Boston, Robert Waters reviewed the latest intelligence on the man Sean would be sent to kill.  Waters’ team had intercepted emails, phone calls and had listening devices planted that had so far provided a clear picture of where Lars Orlick would be over the next three days. 

Waters wanted Orlick dead, not just dead, but executed in a bloody, very personal way.  It had to be public.  According to McFarland, Garrison was the man for the job. 

Lars Orlick, a German national and former Stasi was an arms dealer.  Stasi.  East German secret police. Nasty people, people that tortured and intimidated.  Orlick parlayed his repugnant skill set into a small fortune.  He procured weapons for terror organizations ranging from the IRA to factions of Al Qaeda.  He worked with Iran from time-to-time.  He also traded in information, information that put agents’ lives in danger.  Not just CIA, but MI6 among others.

Orlick typically traveled with three, well-trained bodyguards and his twenty-one year old girlfriend.  According to Waters’ intel, all five would be in London for the next three days.  They had a full itinerary.  Dining.  The theater.  Shopping.  Waters probably knew more about where Orlick was going to be than Orlick himself. 

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 7
th
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.