Raymond Benson - 2012 - Hitman: Damnation (33 page)

 
          
She
breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh, okay, I … I just … It’s good to hear your
voice. When will you be back?”

 
          
“I
should be there this afternoon. No worries.”

 
          
“That’s
good. I can’t wait to see you. I guess you heard about what happened in
Cyprus?”

 
          
“It’s
all over the news. I repeat, are you all right?”

 
          
“I’m
fine, but really tired. It’s been very stressful. Poor Charlie is a train
wreck.”

 
          
“I
can imagine.”

 
          
“I’ll
tell you all about it tonight.
Dinner at my place?”

 
          
“Sounds
like a plan.”

 
          
After
Stan hung up, Helen thought he had sounded a little different. Perhaps it was
only her imagination, but he seemed distant. Maybe she was being paranoid and
reading nonsense into the conversation.

 
          
George
stuck his head into her office and said, “Something’s happening.”

 
          
“What?”

 
          
“We
have visitors. Some school buses with a bunch of men just came through the gate
and are parking in the barn.”

 
          
“Huh?
Who are they?”

 
          
“I
don’t know.”

 
          
She
got up and followed him outside the mansion. Sure enough, Mitch Carson was
directing traffic, pointing the way for the drivers of three yellow buses. The
barn was some distance away, but it was within the restricted area, near the
guardhouse. When the men climbed out of the buses, Helen noted they were of
various ages, between early twenties and late forties, and were dressed in T-shirts
and blue jeans or camouflage army pants. Helen thought they looked like
soldiers out of uniform. In fact, they moved and acted like military men.

 
          
She
watched as Carson greeted another man decked out entirely in army fatigues. He
wore sunglasses and a broad cowboy hat that prevented her from seeing his face.
But he walked with a limp and appeared to have mechanical pincers in place of a
right hand.
A prosthesis
.

 
          
Carson
led the man into a side entrance to the mansion. They were probably on their way
to see Charlie.

 
          
Greenhill
continued to grow more mysterious by the day.

 
          
Agent
47, wearing the Stan Johnson trademark overalls and flannel shirt, knocked at
precisely seven o’clock. He heard her running footsteps,
then
the door swung open. Helen immediately threw herself at him and wrapped her
arms around his tight, muscular frame.

 
          
“Stan,
I’m so glad to see you!”

 
          
The
hitman
didn’t expect the enthusiastic welcome and
wasn’t sure how to react. He lightly placed his arms around her. She looked up
at him and then planted a kiss on his mouth. Again, he was taken aback but
managed to retain character.

 
          
“I’m
glad to see you too.”

 
          
She
released him and pulled him into the apartment by the hands. “Come in. Dinner’s
almost ready. I made a chicken casserole; I hope you like it. I can’t believe
Charlie let us go so early. I thought we’d have to continue working through the
night. But I guess even he decided he needed to get some sleep!”

 
          
The
assassin had encountered no problems reentering Greenhill. After landing at
Baltimore/Washington Airport earlier that morning—there was a layover in
London—the assassin picked up one of the
Silverballers
and the C4 from his briefcase but kept the rest of his stuff in the locker.
Then he rented a car. He parked it in the compound’s community lot and walked
to Main Street as if he’d never been gone. His apartment was still a wreck, so
he spent an hour straightening it up. He was relatively confident that Ashton
and his two goons were the only security men who knew his identity. Whether or
not Charlie Wilkins was also aware, time would tell. He was willing to risk the
exposure. He had invested too much in the assignment to walk away now.

 
          
Helen
served the meal and spent the next half hour recounting her experience in
Cyprus. Even though she complained of being exhausted, she was lively and
animated. Helen had not been outside the United States in years, so in many
ways it had been a grand adventure. The killings obviously frightened her, and
the subsequent news about the Colonel was shocking, but she seemed none the
worse for wear.

 
          
47
had forgotten how much he liked listening to her voice.

 
          
“You
know, I thought I saw you in the hotel,” she said, laughing and shaking her
head. “There was a bellhop I swear could’ve been your twin. I must’ve really
missed you, Stan. I was seeing your face everywhere, I think.”

 
          
47
chuckled with her and replied, “Well, it couldn’t have been me. I was having
knock-down drag-outs with men I didn’t care for. It was murder.”

 
          
“Where, in Iowa?”

 
          
He
took a sip of wine and then nodded. “Davenport.
Lawyers.
IRS officers.
You
know,
bad
guys.”

 
          
“Stan.”
She picked up her glass of wine and
clinked
his. “I
missed your company.”

 
          
After
an awkward pause, 47 announced, “I have news.”

 
          
“Do
tell.”

 
          
“I
quit the pills. I’m going cold turkey.”

 
          
“Really?
Oh, Stan! That’s wonderful!” Then she realized he
looked as well as ever. “How … how do you feel?”

 
          
“Not
bad. The first couple of days were pretty awful.” He shrugged. “Now I’m fine.”

 
          
“But
how can that be? My God, Stan, it took me weeks to get through withdrawal. You
can’t kick the pills in three days. It’s impossible.” She shook her head. “I’m
afraid you still have more to go through. It’s not that easy.”

 
          
“I
guess my metabolism is different. I don’t know.”

 
          
“Stan,
I had to go to a rehab clinic for two months. I thought I was well, and as soon
as I was out, I started using again. That’s when I tried to—you know.” He
didn’t say anything, so she continued. “I went to a different clinic and they
made me go cold turkey. It was a nightmare, Stan. If there’s a hell, then that
was it. I’ve been to hell and back. I still have trouble. There are moments
when I crave it. I’ll never be completely cured. I don’t see how you can
possibly be all right.”

 
          
He
didn’t answer.

 
          
“You’re
not lying to me about quitting, are you? Just telling me what I want to hear?”

 
          
“No,
I’m not lying about that.”

 
          
At
least that was true.

 
          
She
fell asleep on the couch as they watched a movie on television. The wine and
fatigue did her in. Prior to that, though, Helen had once again dropped hints
that she would’ve liked to be intimate, but 47 couldn’t bring
himself
to do it. He cared about her too much to hurt her
like that. Because that’s what would happen—she’d eventually be terribly hurt;
in fact, it was inevitable. So he held her at arm’s length for her own good. It
was still a new and unfamiliar sensation for him to care about anyone.

 
          
He
thought about the painkillers and how easy it had been to quit them after all.
It was the genetic engineering that had done the work. What most addicts
endured for weeks and months took only two or three days. No more shakes,
headaches, or bad dreams. Actually, that wasn’t quite the truth. 47 still had
vivid dreams in which Death appeared. The
hitman
was
no closer to discovering who the Faceless One was, but he would find out soon.
He knew it.

 
          
Oddly,
he wasn’t tired. Jet lag never bothered him, and the assassin could always go
for long periods without sleep. Nevertheless, it had been an intense few days. He
should get some rest while he could. But having Helen by his side was an alien
experience. Feeling her warmth, watching her breathe, smelling her perfume—that
was about as normal as it got.

 
          
And
Agent 47 came to the conclusion that he couldn’t let go and enjoy it. Never in
a million years.

 
          
It
was a little after ten when he noticed the indicator light on his
cellphone
.

 
          
A message from the Agency.

 
          
Helen
was still asleep. Now her head was in his lap and she had curled into a fetal
position. She looked so peaceful. No troubles.
Almost
childlike.
Without disturbing her, he picked up the mobile, signed in to
his voice mail, and listened to the coded communication.

 
          
When
it was over, he punched in the numbers to indicate that the message was
received and acknowledged.

 
          
There
were two parts. The first one directed 47 to a secure FTP site, where he could
view some photos. Jade had found three pictures of Charlie Wilkins shot during
or prior to 1976. The first two were from small-town newspapers in Arkansas and
Maryland, dating from 1973 and 1974, respectively. The oldest picture was a
shot of an early Church of Will tent, where Wilkins would have exercised his
mission in a fiery, theatrical way, one that attracted local citizens who were
susceptible to a fire-and-brimstone-style presentation. A young Wilkins stood
with an equally youthful Mitch Carson and two others—a man and a woman. They
were not identified.

 
          
The
picture from 1974 displayed a newer, bigger Church of Will tent. A larger staff
posed in front.
Wilkins in the middle.
Carson to his right.
The woman and man from the first photo
stood on his left. This time they were identified as Wendy and Eric Shipley.
She was next to Wilkins.

 
          
The
third snap, from a ’76 Towson, Maryland, newspaper, revealed Wilkins emerging
from the courthouse after Eric Shipley’s inquest. Wendy Shipley was at his
side. He had his arm around her as they avoided reporters.

 
          
Agent
47 studied the Shipley woman’s body language in all three photos and came to a
conclusion.

 
          
The
second part of Jade’s message was more significant.

 
          
The
client had given the green light to assassinate Charlie Wilkins.

 
          
And
it had to be done that night.

 
          
THIRTY

 
          
While
Helen slept, I formulated a plan. I hoped she was so tired that she’d sleep
soundly for the next couple of hours. That way, I could do what I had to do and
get back to her apartment before she woke up. I could simply leave the
compound, but my absence the next day would attract attention. The target was
so high profile that I needed to maintain the cover a few more days, if
possible. What better alibi than being asleep with one’s “girlfriend”?

 
          
I
carefully lifted her head off my lap and rose from the sofa. Then I draped her
legs over one arm, supported her back with the other, picked her up, and
carried her to the bedroom and her bed. She stirred a little and looked at me.
I went ahead and did it—I kissed her—and said, “You’ll be more comfortable
here.” I covered her with a blanket and lay beside her.