Raymond Benson - 2012 - Hitman: Damnation (16 page)

 
          
The
stench was unbearable. Birds in cages squawked and flapped as the two men
passed down the aisle. Feathers flew, and 47 had to use his free hand to wave
them out of his face. At last they came to the back of the bus, where Birdie
stored several trunks full of goods.

 
          
“Explosives,
explosives … ah, here they are.” Birdie lifted one case and threw it on top of
another to get to the trunk he wanted. He stooped, swirled the knob on the
combination lock, and opened it. 47 moved closer to peer inside. “I’m out of
TNT,” Birdie said. “But there should be something in there that’ll work for
you.” Like Cherry Jones, Birdie stocked a variety of grenades and small bombs,
sticks of dynamite, and limpet mines. 47
was
interested only in the bricklike white packages.

 
          
The
hitman
reached in and removed one. “C4.”

 
          
“That’s
right.”

 
          
“I
assume you have all the accessories? Blasting caps, a timer?”

 
          
“Sure.
I throw in all that stuff with the purchase. Each of these bricks has a
detonation velocity much higher than your average military C4. Let’s say you
want to blow up this bus. A quarter of a brick would do the trick. A whole
brick would blow a hole in a concrete wall. Three or four bricks … well, if
placed correctly at key structural points, you could bring down a building.”

 
          
47
examined the brick and determined it was sound. “I’ll take three, and I’ll need
a remote detonator.”

 
          
“
Cellphones
or stopwatches are always best for that.” Birdie
moved forward in the bus and rummaged through some cardboard boxes in the
seats. “Here we go. What do you prefer?” He pulled out two old
Nokias
. “That’s one thing nice about outdated
cellphones
. They can always be used for something.”

 
          
“I’d
rather have a stopwatch.”

 
          
Birdie
shrugged, dug out one, and showed it to 47.

 
          
“Fine.”

 
          
“Need
any knives?
Garrotes?
Oh, wait, you have that wire
thing you like to use. Never mind.
Poisons?
How about
some plastic zip ties? Excellent tools for securing someone’s wrists behind his
back.”

 
          
“They’re
breakable, Birdie.
If you know how.”

 
          
“True.
Still, most people don’t know how.”

 
          
47
thought about the contents of his briefcase and asked, “What kinds of poisons
do you have?”

 
          
Birdie
raised his eyebrows, moved to another seat on the bus, and unlocked a
strongbox. He pulled out a vial and said, “Here you go. Clear, odorless, and
undetectable in an autopsy. Victim looks like he had a heart attack.
Comes in both fast-acting and slow-acting formulas.”

 
          
The
hitman
recognized the label, nodded, and said he’d
take a vial of each.

 
          
Birdie
packed the goods in a brown paper bag from Trader Joe’s grocery store. The two
men discussed terms, haggled without malice, and then Agent 47 paid in cash.
Business completed, they climbed out of the bus together. The
hitman
did his best to avoid stepping in bird feces.

 
          
“Want
something to eat, 47? I have some chicken left over from last night.”

 
          
The
thought repulsed the assassin. “I don’t think so.” 47 started to walk away.

 
          
“Aren’t
you
gonna
say ‘thanks’?” Agent 47 stopped and turned
but didn’t say anything. “Oh, I forgot. You have the personality of a fire
hydrant. Say, I heard your handler flew the coop. What happened? She got tired
of your shiny bald head?”

 
          
47
narrowed his eyes at the shifty criminal. “What do you know about her?”

 
          
Birdie
returned to his seat, reached into his jacket pocket, and tossed some bird feed
on the pavement around him. The act initiated a feeding frenzy among the
pigeons.

 
          
“Nothing, 47.
Only that she left the Agency under a cloud. I
never met Diana, but I heard she was a looker.
A real swan.”

 
          
47
took a deep breath to control his temper. There was something about Birdie that
made the
hitman
want to punch the guy. “If you hear
anything about her, especially where she might be hiding, see if you can get
word to me.
All right?”

 
          
“Sure,
47. Does this mean we’re buddies now? We can go out drinking together? Chase
women? Share our innermost secrets? Join a club and play golf?”

 
          
The
assassin waited a beat before replying, “No.”

 
          
The
thin man laughed, but it came out more like a snivel. “You’re a strange bird,
47. See you later.”

 
          
47
walked away, briefcase in one hand and brown bag in the other.

 
          
He
didn’t look back.

 
          
FOURTEEN

 
          
The
Church of Will’s recruitment center was busy.

 
          
Ever
since Dana Linder’s assassination, Helen McAdams had noticed an increase in
membership applications. Ten to twenty people from all over the country showed
up at Greenhill daily wanting to join, asking how they could volunteer, if
there were any openings for Church jobs … but Helen and the other recruitment
staff had to reject them, because all of the on-site apartments were taken.
While many applicants could live away from the compound, come and go, and still
join the Church, those who wanted to live on the premises were placed on
waiting lists or sent to Church branches in other states.

 
          
Sundays
were particularly popular, not only for applicants but for tourists and the
curious. When Wilkins wasn’t available or was traveling, morning services in
the sanctuary were conducted by various assistant pastors called “adherents.”
These men and women took turns at the pulpit, and most of them were eloquent,
captivating speakers. But no one was like Charlie. When it was known that he
was present at the compound, visitors flooded the gates to hear him speak.
Hundreds always had to be turned away. Helen considered it a treat when Charlie
was present. She supposed it was similar to when lucky Roman Catholics visited
the Vatican and the pope was in town to preside over Mass.

 
          
Even
so, Helen barely had time to work at the recruitment center. Ever since Charlie
Wilkins had announced his candidacy for president, all the personal assistants
were putting in extra hours per week. Wilkins had hired a completely
independent campaign-managing committee, and the key players had moved into the
mansion’s guest rooms. Helen’s new responsibilities included conveying orders
and requests between the committee and Greenhill administration. Thus, the past
several days had been nonstop. Normally all Church members had the day off on
Sunday, except for those involved in sanctuary services. However, with the new
political developments, Helen and the others were expected to be available at
any time.

 
          
After
that morning’s service, Wilkins had told her she wouldn’t be needed in the
afternoon, as he had business with his guests. So, having nothing better to do
and not wanting to be by herself in her apartment, Helen decided to work at the
recruitment center. Staying active was always a good thing. She found that if
she spent too much time alone, unpleasant thoughts crept inside her heart.

 
          
For
some, memories were cherished. For Helen, the past needed to stay where it
belonged.

 
          
“Daydreaming
again?”

 
          
The
voice startled her. Helen turned to see Mitch Carson standing by the desk.

 
          
“Oh,
hi, Mitch,” she said. “No, I was just thinking: Where are all these people
going to go?” She indicated the long line of applicants straggling out the center’s
front door.

 
          
“We’ll
find places for them—if not here, then in other branches. But we can always use
the volunteer work if they’re willing to keep their homes where they are.”

 
          
Mitch
Carson was the general manager of Greenhill. That meant he was technically
Helen’s boss, but of course any orders by Wilkins superseded what Carson
instructed her to do. In his sixties, single, and efficient to the nth degree,
Carson was not well liked by most members. Slightly effeminate and possessing a
somewhat high-and-mighty demeanor in his dealings with others, Carson was
definitely a yes-man to Wilkins and a no-man to everyone else. Because he had
been with Wilkins since the Church’s inception in the 1970s, Carson wielded a
lot of power at Greenhill on the administrative side.

 
          
“By
the way,” he said. “We have space for a groundskeeper slash maintenance man.”

 
          
“Oh?”

 
          
“Yeah.
Philip died last night.
Heart
attack.”

 
          
“Oh, no!
I’m so sorry to hear that. I liked Philip.”

 
          
Carson
shrugged. “He was old and he’d already had, what, two or three bypasses? We
knew he wasn’t long for this world.”

 
          
“He
was good at his job.”

 
          
“Until
he got ill and could hardly work.”

 
          
Helen
thought Carson was being insensitive. “Will there be a memorial service?”

 
          
“I
haven’t been able to talk to Charlie about it yet. In the meantime, though, if
you have any applicants who could fill the bill, Philip’s job is open, as is
his apartment.”

 
          
“Okay.
How soon will it be cleaned out?”

 
          
“I
have a crew working on that right now. It’ll be ready for someone to move in
this evening.” Carson looked at his watch. “I’m supposed to meet Charlie and
the Colonel here. They’re a few minutes late.”

 
          
“Charlie’s
coming here?” she asked. The man rarely appeared in front of recruits.

 
          
“The
Colonel wants to evaluate all the security measures we have in place at
Greenhill.”

 
          
Carson
stood for a moment in silence. Helen guessed what was bothering him.

 
          
“You
knew Dana Linder, didn’t you?” she asked.

 
          
“I
watched her grow up.
Her brother Darren too.”

 
          
“Did
you know their mother?”

 
          
“I
did. Wendy. I also knew their father, Eric. They were both early and very loyal
members of the Church of Will when we were first starting.”

 
          
“What
happened to them?”

 
          
“Eric
was out hunting and was accidentally shot. If I remember correctly, it happened
just before the kids’ twelfth birthday.”

 
          
“Oh, my, how awful!”

 
          
“Charlie
never liked hunting and always cautioned Eric against it. We all wish Eric had
listened.”

 
          
“What
was Wendy like?”