Date: Fri, 20 Jun 2008 23:26:38 +0000 (GMT)
From: Talisman <narration2006@yahoo.ie>
Subject: The Assassin - Part 1

The ASSASSIN - Part I

I pull the rental onto a side street and park under a large Elm. I switch
off the engine and glance at my watch; it's almost midnight. I ease the car
door open and step out onto the road. The night air feels hot and humid
after the cool, air-conditioned interior of the car. I use my body weight
to muffle the sound and quietly close the door. A large moth flutters
against my face, I wave it away and walk to the corner, pausing to glance
both ways before moving onto the tree-lined street. I head for the narrow
lane between the houses, strolling at an even pace to match my steady
breathing. An old truck rumbles up behind me, the shift-stick grinds
noisily as it passes and I look away to conceal my face. As I near the
lane, an old man shuffles from a house to my left, a small white dog is
yapping at his heels. They're at least twenty metres away. The man stops at
the gate to allow the animal to urinate and I quickly duck into the alley
to avoid detection. I continue along the dark track and onto the path that
runs parallel with the back of houses. Except for my soft footfalls and a
gentle rustle of leaves from the trees above, all is quiet. The moon
appears from behind a cloud to cast long dappled shadows on the ground as I
squeeze through the gap in the hedge. I crouch low and keep on the left
side of the well-manicured lawn. In the distance a dog barks and I wait
with my back against the wooden shed. I take the gun from the holster and
methodically attach the silencer. The black leather gloves make it a little
awkward. I move across the patio and up to the glass doors. They're wide
open; the lace curtains flutter gently in the warm breeze.

The target is sitting at a large mahogany desk, he's going through some
papers and looks up as I enter. His eyes widen in fear and his hand quickly
reaches for the top drawer but he's too slow, way too slow. The bullet
makes a small neat hole in the centre of his forehead and the back of his
skull erupts in a volcano of shattered bone, blood and soft tissue. He
twitches and spasms, then slumps forward, his face striking the desk with a
loud wet thud. Blood quickly pools across the polished surface and his
brains roll like jelly.

I continue into the room, over to the empty fireplace. Above the mantle is
a large portrait of the target, his wife and two children. I tug on the
gilded frame and it swings outwards to expose the safe. I punch the code
from memory and it opens with a dull metallic clink. There are large stacks
of cash in various currencies, mostly American $100 bills. I push them
aside and reach for the square white envelope at the back, checking to see
if it's the correct disk before sliding it into my inside pocket. I close
the safe, replace the picture and quietly retrace my steps. I return to the
car and head back to Paris, stopping at a telephone kiosk to make the
call. Reeve's baritone voice answers in French. I reply in English, "I have
what you want, we meet as planned." I replace the receiver without waiting
for his reply.

Fifty minutes later I'm back in my hotel suite. Aziz, the swarthy youth I
picked up earlier in the evening is still sleeping. The mild sedative I
slipped into his drink appears to have done its job. I place the gun in the
drawer of the bedside table and conceal the disk in my suitcase. I undress
and head for the bathroom. I take a quick shower, towel dry and walk naked
to the bedroom and slip quietly into bed. I snuggle close to the youth; his
skin feels like fire against my muscular frame. He mumbles in his sleep as
I press my face to his hair and inhale the oily aroma. I seem to inhale his
beauty and youth, his very life force and like osmosis I absorb it through
my skin. I feel rejuvenated and reborn. My cock stiffens against him, its
length slipping along the cleft of his petite hairy buttocks. My hips begin
to rock back and forth and he mumbles drowsily "je suis fatigué." (I'm too
tired). I kiss the back of his neck and reach around to stroke his flaccid
cock, "à fatigué pour l'amusement." (Too tired for fun). He giggles and
slaps my thigh, then moves his hand to my cock and jerks it to match the
gentle rhythm of my rocking hips. He turns around to kiss me; his breath is
hot and sweet as our tongues dance together. I push him over and slide
across him, kissing his slender neck, his smooth shoulder and down to hard
nipples. I take one in my mouth and suck on it before moving to the
other. He is moaning now, eyes open and fully awake. I move down to take
his swelling cock in my mouth. It gets harder by virtue of my tongue. He
shivers and twists his head from side-to-side and his hips give a jerky
thrust. The tip of his cock caresses my throat as I drive my lips into his
pubic hair and he groans his appreciation. I pop it from my mouth to run my
tongue along the slicked up shaft. I attack his scrotum; the small wiry
hairs tingle against my lips. I suck his balls, rolling one in my mouth as
I massage his vast bush of dark pubic hair. I continue my journey
downwards, the salty-sweet sweat and earthy aroma of his sack heightening
my desire. I lift his legs to reveal his puckered treasure and bury my face
in the cleft as he squeals and grips the sheet and thrashes upon the bed.

I move up and reach for condoms and lube. I hastily snap the foil and
remove a moist rubber, pinch the tip between my fingers and roll it to the
base of my erection. He shudders and giggles when I squeeze a generous
amount of the slick cool gel onto his ass. I move up to kiss him and bring
my hips into position. He's panting now in expectation, his breath hot and
steaming against my ear. I place my arms beneath his legs so that the back
of each knee rests in the crook of my elbows. I push forward until his
knees are spread wide, almost in line with his nipples. The tip of my cock
slips back and forth across his crack until it finds some purchase. It pops
through his sphincter and he cries out as I slide in to the hilt. I stay
real still, my cock deep inside him and delight in the moist heat of his
taut slim body.

I tower over him; my muscled torso and broad shoulders seem to exaggerate
his smallness and I begin to thrust with smooth even strokes. He bites my
shoulder and then my chin and I release a protracted groan of pain and
pleasure. His lips meet mine and I keep thrusting, alternating between slow
and fast movements and feel him shiver and tremble beneath me. He squeezes
my nipples and the urge to cum becomes powerful. It overwhelms me with its
suddenness. I don't fight it, I let it advance, feeling it begin somewhere
deep within my groin. My hips go into overdrive and I feel it build and
build as I groan and whimper, desperate for release. He grips my shoulders
and wraps his legs around my waist. I keep thrusting, faster and faster,
slapping against his ass and thighs, mattress squeaking and headboard
thumping. Then my breathing stops, my body stiffens, and my mind explodes
with the animalistic ecstasy of orgasm, the tip of the condom swelling as I
spurt jets of warm semen. I slump down on top of him, panting like a dog;
my hot perspiring body squashed against his small impotent frame.

He begins to giggle and gasp for air. I laugh and roll over, remove the
condom with a snap and drop it to the floor. He sits up and straddles my
torso. With one hand he caresses my taut pectorals while the other jerks on
his cock. I run my fingers along his thighs and they begin to twitch and
tremble. His breathing is fast and shallow as he hisses through clenched
teeth. He cries out and holds his breath. I slap his hand away and envelop
his throbbing cock. He gives a little thrust and a cry and my mouth is
flooded with the metallic taste of his seed. It slides down my throat and
leaves a tangy, gooey residue on the roof of my mouth. We squash together,
hot and sweaty and breathless. He speaks in French, being playful and
teasing. I laugh and pull him close, enfolding him in my arms. I kiss the
top of his head and we snuggle down to sleep.

*****

"Bonjour Monsieur Hamilton, did you sleep well?""

I open my eyes and the youth is smiling down at me. He looks angelic in the
thin beam of sunlight seeping through a gap in the curtain, and a lot
younger than his 18 years; perhaps he lied about his age. He leans over and
kisses my lips, then sits up and giggles self-consciously. He's uncommonly
handsome, with fine, almost aristocratic features, a result, perhaps, of
his French mother and Moroccan father. He has a trim compact build; no more
then 5' 6''with honey toned skin and big brown eyes. His arms and legs are
dusted with a coating of downy black hairs but his torso is ultra smooth
and flawless. His hair is jet-black and shiny with a kind of bluish of blue
in the morning light. His eyes have an old sad quality as if they don't
quite belong to his youthful face. The overall effect is both masculine and
boyish and I like the ambiguity. I reach up and stroke his cheek with the
back of my fingers. He smiles, takes my hand in his and kisses my palm. I
feel a twinge of affection; it's almost paternal, it's a tiny feeling, no
more than a bat squeak but it isn't good, no it isn't good at all, he'll
have to go.

I sit up and playfully slap his thigh. "Yes my friend I slept very
well. What time is it?"

"It's a little after eight Monsieur, we have slept for almost ten hours."

"Good, I needed the rest. Now you must leave me Aziz, I have a busy day
today."

He looks crushed as I get out of bed and put on a robe. I walk to the
closet and take my wallet from my jacket. I remove several large notes and
crunch them in my hand.

"Here, use this to get home, take a taxi, you live in Paris, right?"

"Oui Monsieur, but I do not need your money; I can take a bus."

"Okay, but take the money just in case."

I toss the cash on the bed and head for the bathroom. I take a piss, then
brush my teeth and begin to shave. I take it slow and methodical, careful
to preserve the goatee. My brown eyes seem to sparkle with energy. I'm on a
natural high after the sex and a good night's sleep, plus a good clean
kill. I spread a towel on the tiled floor and do 100 press-ups, then 100
sit-ups before jumping into the shower. I stay for ten minutes, relaxing as
the hot water cascades over my body. I turn the tap to cold for the last
minute or so before switching off and stepping out. I put on the bathrobe
and return to the bedroom.

The boy is gone and the money remains untouched on the bed where I left
it. I sigh, place it back in my wallet and call room service. I order
porridge and fruit, poached eggs on toast and coffee. I switch on the TV
and flick through the channels until I find what I'm looking for. A woman
stands in front of the house; she is interviewing a neighbour. The shooting
of Monsieur Fritz, a German national is baffling; he was a quiet,
unassuming man with an attractive French wife and twin daughters.

After breakfast I dress in blue jeans, a crisp white shirt, black linen
jacket and black shoes. I pack my bag, head down to the foyer, checkout and
stroll towards the car park further along the street. It's a beautiful
spring morning, the kind you only get in Paris. I stand at the intersection
and wait for the lights to change. Suddenly I feel unsettled and exposed;
the tiny hairs on the back of my neck begin to tingle. I quickly look
around, am I being followed? I don't recognise anyone in the crowd. The
lights change and I scan the throng as I cross to the other side. The
feeling of unease grows stronger as I near the parking lot.

I enter the building and blink against the sudden gloom after the
brilliance of the sunlit street. I run down the incline and dash behind
parked cars. I crouch down and move from car to car, keeping as low as I
can. I make it to the rental, slide the bag underneath and remove the knife
from my boot. I wait; a minute passes, then another. I'm about to get up
but I hear footsteps approach, they're slow and deliberate. I lay prostrate
on the concrete floor and see a pair of legs move towards me. It appears to
be a man in jeans and white Nikes. He moves closer to the rear of the
rental. I watch his legs as he walks about; he stops and turns towards the
bright entrance. I leap up and reach out, cover his mouth with my hand and
pull him to me. I raise the knife to cut his throat but quickly lower it
when I see it's the youth, Aziz. I push him away, both angry and relieved.

"Jesus! What the fuck are you doing Aziz. I could've bloody killed you"

He is trembling, visibly shaken by my sudden appearance with the knife.

"P...pardon Monsieur. I...I came to warn you. There is a...a man and a
woman; they are looking for you. They stopped me when I got out of the
elevator. I did not know what to do, I thought perhaps the woman is your
wife so I..."

A burst of gunfire shatters the windscreen of the adjacent car. Immediately
its alarm begins to wail and the noise is ear splitting in the confined
space. I grab Aziz and pull him to the ground. He shrieks and thrashes as I
pat him down and check for blood. The next burst is close, too damn close;
they hit the rental and the concrete floor in little clouds of dust. I
crawl closer and open the rental's door, reach in and pluck a gun from
under the driver's seat. I hear a shrill scream and risk a glance over the
dashboard and through the windscreen. A woman with an infant in her arms
stands ridged with terror. She's halfway down the incline and is screaming
as she stares at a car to her right. I follow her gaze and see a shadowy
figure behind a car. I drop to the floor and see a polished black shoe and
a man's ankle sticking out from behind the rear wheel. I take aim and fire
twice. The second bullet shatters the bone and his screams match the
screams of the woman. Both are barely audible over the wail of the car
alarm. I open the rear door of the rental and begin to push Aziz inside. He
shakes his head and struggles against me so I hit him with the butt of the
gun. The blow isn't hard but it's enough to make him crawl and lie
prostrate on the back seat. I toss the suitcase in after him and jump in
front. I start the engine and with a screech of burning rubber, speed for
the exit at the back of the building.

I crash through the barrier and take a sharp left. Horns blare as I floor
the accelerator and speed in the direction of the Eiffel Tower. I quickly
pass it and cross the Seine on the Pont d'Alene, moving onto the Rive
Droite, the Right Bank, close to the Arc de Triomphe. Minutes later I speed
along the Avenue de New York and head back along the river towards the Quai
des Tuileries and the Louvre.

Aziz is slumped between the front and rear seats. He's whimpering and
mumbling in French. I tell him it's safe and to sit up front. He crawls
into the seat, he is crying, sobbing, and trembling with fear; there's a
wet patch on his jeans and the acrid stench of urine. I look from his pants
to his face and see a faint bruise from when I hit him with the gun. I feel
that emotion again only this time it's more than a bat-squeak.

"Christ!" I yell in anger, swerving to avoid a bus. "For God's sake Aziz,
stop fucking sniffling, c'est bien, you're safe, you can relax, Séjour
calmer, relax."

"J'ai peur, je ne veux pas mourir Monsieur. I cannot stop shaking. I want
to go home, please, I..."

"...C'est bien. It's okay, you are not gonna die."

"I am so thirsty, I..."

"...There's juice in the glove-box. Aziz, tell me about the man and woman."

"Monsieur, are you a...how you say...un agent de police, a policeman?

"No, tell me...the woman and the man Aziz, la femme et l'homme, vite!

"I...I...The woman was American and I think perhaps the man was from the
Middle East, he spoke Arabic. He was -- you...you are driving to fast
Monsieur."

"Okay, okay, relax, don't be afraid. I'll slow down. Tell me more."

"The man, he was short with black hair and brown eyes. He had many scars on
his face, like...like tiny holes. The woman had black hair; she was very
pretty..."

"...What did they want, what did they say to you?"

"The woman...she...she spoke French. She asked me about Mr. Hamilton or
Mr. Smith, or something, I do not remember. She said you use many names. I
told her I did not know you and I began to walk away but the man, he pulled
me into the elevator and when the doors closed; he slapped my face and
screamed at me in Arabic.

"What did you tell them Aziz? How did they find me?"

"I told them nothing. I said please Monsieur, please Madam, I do not know
this man. Then the woman slapped me and called me a lying faggot. The doors
of the elevator opened and some people came inside. When the doors began to
close again I pushed through and ran away.

"Why didn't you come back to the room and tell me. You could have used the
stairs. You..."

"...I should have...yes, but I was very much afraid Monsieur. Also I was
sad and angry about the money and how you chased me away. I was going to go
home and forget you but I could not do it Monsieur. I waited at a table
outside the café on the corner. I saw you pass and I was about to call out
to you but the woman was close behind with the man. I was very afraid. I
though she was your wife and was angry with you for having Homo sex with
me. I quickly called to them as they passed and I told them you were going
to your car, I lied and said it was on the top floor of the car park and if
they used the side street they could reach it before you did.

"Good. That was clever."

"Is she your wife monsieur? She was anxious to see you. They left in a
hurry and I ran after you...then you...with the knife and the gun. Who are
you, qui sont vous monsieur, a policeman?"

"I'm not a policeman. I'm no one Aziz, it's not important."

"If you are not a policeman, do you work for the British Government, as a
spy perhaps?"

I roar laughing. "You watch to much TV Aziz. Look, I'll take you home...do
you live with your parents?"

"Je n'ai aucune maman, aucun père."

"Where are they?"

"They are dead monsieur, they died when I was twelve."

"So who do you live with?"

"Je vis seul."

"You don't live alone Aziz, you must live with someone, you're just a kid,
there's no fucking way..."

"Merde! My age did not concern you last night when you fucked me
monsieur. I will soon be eighteen, I am not a child."

"Je suis Aziz désolé. I didn't mean to offend you. C'mon, tell me who you
live with."

"I live alone, my brother Tariq comes home every second weekend. He is a
software Analyst in Lyon. My Aunt lives nearby, she comes to cook for me or
I eat at her flat."

We continue in silence. I take the next exit and pull into a gas station. I
instruct Aziz to stay in the car and I watch him from the phone booth. I
dial the number but there's no reply, perhaps Reeves has already left. I go
back to the car and head towards the suburbs. Aziz is quiet and sullen as I
drive, speaking only to give directions. I look at my watch; I should be on
route to the airport. I have to return the car, give the disk and weapons
to Reeves and catch a flight to London. This was supposed to be a routine
job, a quick clean kill and get the disk. Now I have the police and
probably terrorists on my tail. And the boy, what to do about the boy? He
was a diversion, a simple diversion; an alibi in case I needed one. It's my
standard MO but in hindsight it was a mistake to choose one so young. Fuck!
I'll have to kill him and he's a good kid. He saved my life but I've no
choice, he knows my face and he'll talk.

We arrive at a dilapidated apartment block in a part of Paris not listed in
any guidebook. It looks like downtown Baghdad after a bombing. We get out;
I remove my jacket, toss it on the back seat and run to catch up with Aziz
as he hurries towards the building.

"There is no need to come with me monsieur. I can go alone. I am always
alone"

"I'll come in for a moment to see you are safe, okay?

"Okay, but only for a moment."

"It's all I'll need," I think as we push through the door. The sooner I get
it done the better. It'll be quick and painless. He won't feel a thing.

"The elevator is in need of repair Monsieur, it is always broken, we will
have to use the stairs. I live on the top floor."

"How many floors?"

"Fifteen."

"Fuck! Okay, lets go."

We begin the long climb. The walls are covered in garish graffiti; the
place is stinking, filthy and depressing and the thoughts of having to kill
the boy aren't helping. On the ninth floor we pass a girl in a headscarf
walking downstairs. I obscure my face and move on. She meets Aziz who's
lagging behind and they speak briefly in Arabic. Aziz runs up the stairs
and grips my hand in panic. "Monsieur, she says there is a woman waiting
for me outside my apartment, it must be the crazy lady, we have to leave
now, quickly, vite, vite, s'il vous plaît Monsieur. Please, I am very much
afraid."

"Shush, quiet, relax and stay close to me, je vous protégerai. We turn and
head back down. Shit! Who is this woman and how the hell did she know where
the boy lived so damn fast? Fuck it. I stop and turn to Aziz. I give him
the keys and tell him to wait in the car. He looks horrified but I tell him
to go quickly and quietly. I run up the steps two at a time, glad of the
physical exertion.

I near the top of the stairs and pause to snap the safety off the gun. I
raise my arms and turn the corner but the corridor is empty. A television
is blaring in one the rooms and a baby's wail can be heard somewhere far
off. I stay close to the wall and gingerly approach the flat. The lock on
the door is broken. I nudge it with my foot, it swings inward and I step
aside and wait with my back against the wall.

"Come in Monsieur Hamilton, we can talk about the disk. There is no need
for bloodshed."

I enter the flat with the gun at shoulder height and scan left to
right. There's only one room; it's sparsely furnished. It's shabby and
smells of old cooked food and spices. There's a kitchen in the corner and a
small bathroom to my left. The woman is sitting on a plastic chair by the
kitchen counter. An unlit cigarette hangs from her painted lips; she smiles
as she reaches into her handbag. The bullet strikes the wall above head and
she stiffens.

"Drop the bag or the next one won't miss."

She slowly lowers the bag, removing her hand; it's clutching a book of
matches. She lights the cigarette and takes a long drag before releasing a
cloud of blue-grey smoke. She speaks English with a nasally American
accent.

"So, we meet at last. I take it you're the elusive Monsieur Hamilton or it
is Monsieur Coleman today. You use so many names; it's difficult to keep
track. The CIA has been trying for years but they don't know your real
name, you leave so few clues, not so much as a fingerprint. MI5 suspect you
killed Ulrich in Berlin two years ago and Casper in New York last
year. Then there was Vito in Rome but I guess he doesn't count, he was a
Mafia dog. And let us not forget poor Professor Fritz last night. You have
killed many over the years, so many. Still, I'm delighted to meet you
Monsieur, I have waited a long time."

"I'm delighted to meet you too Madam but you have me at a disadvantage, you
know me but you haven't told me your name." I reply as I pop my head into
the small bathroom and check behind the door.

"You are right Monsieur, I am being frightfully rude as you English might
say. You may call me Simone. I have always liked the name and it is as good
as any other. Now let us talk about Reeves and the disk"

"Reeves, whose Reeves and what disk?

"Let's not play games Mr. Hamilton. We know all about Reeves."

"Where is he?"

"Reeves is dead Monsieur, so there will be no rendezvous at the airport
today. Where is the..."

"...You killed him?"

"An unfortunate accident. There was a struggle; he tried to kill Abdullah
so Abdullah stabbed him. It was unavoidable and such a waste because he
told us many interesting things before he died. He spoke highly of you
Monsieur. Is it true you only sleep with men?"

"Why don't you get undressed and we can find out."

"Mmm, it's very tempting but I think I'll pass. Now lets talk about the
disk."

"What disk?

"Don't play games, it's silly, we know you took the disk, you killed Fritz
to get it and we killed Reeves, quid pro quo. Now we want it back. Reeves
was a greedy little man and will not be missed. But you, you're smart, a
professional, we can negotiate."

I smile and lower the gun, making my first mistake. "I don't have the
disk. I posted it from the hotel lobby this morning."

"You're lying and it's lame. We know you were to give it to Reeves at the
airport."

I take a step towards her, making my second mistake. A heavy blow comes
from the loft opening above my head. It catches me on the left side, behind
my ear. I slump to the ground and roll onto my back. The room grows hazy as
a man drops to the floor. The woman appears out of focus but I can smell
her perfume as she rifles through my pockets. I reach down for my ankle
knife; my arm feels heavy and sluggish. I receive a second blow and the
world begins to fade away. I think about Reeves and how he introduced me to
this life, this lonely life of killing. I think about my sister who lives
somewhere in Spain and whom I haven't seen in many years. Mostly I think
about a boy, a Moroccan youth I once met in a gay bar. I think it was a
long time ago. Wasn't I going to kill him? I try to remember but it's
difficult and I'm tired, very tired. So I let it go, let it all drift away
as I close my eyes and embrace the darkness.

To be continued...

Copyright June 2008 narration2006@yahoo.ie

Comments always welcome.