Portrait Of An Assassin - Richard Godwin Read online

  Copyright © 2017 by Richard Godwin

  Published by Close To The Bone

  All rights reserved.

  Digital Formatting by Craig Douglas

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  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and unintended.

  Richard Godwin

  Richard Godwin is the critically acclaimed author of Apostle Rising, Mr. Glamour, One Lost Summer, Noir City, Meaningful Conversations, Confessions Of A Hit Man, Paranoia And The Destiny Programme, Wrong Crowd, Savage Highway, Ersatz World, The Pure And The Hated, Disembodied, Buffalo And Sour Mash, Locked In Cages, and Crystal On Electric Acetate. His stories have been published in numerous paying magazines and over 34 anthologies, among them an anthology of his stories, Piquant: Tales Of The Mustard Man, and The Mammoth Book Of Best British Crime and The Mammoth Book Of Best British Mystery, alongside Lee Child. He was born in London and lectured in English and American literature at the University of London. He also teaches creative writing at University and workshops. You can find out more about him at his website www.richardgodwin.net, where you can read a full list of his works, and where you can also read his Chin Wags At The Slaughterhouse, his highly popular and unusual interviews with other authors.

  Dedication

  for Page

  CONTENTS

  The Politician

  The Priest

  The Policeman

  The Necrophiliac

  The Arms Dealer

  The Actor

  The Goddess

  The Entrepreneur

  Klein

  Nameless enterprises, assignations with men of secrecy, I am the Assassin, sometimes they call me a mechanic, hit man, button man, hired gun; but it is more than a gun I use, and while you may judge, there is no room for judgement in a world of diminished morality, you do what you are paid to do in this world of fiscal exchanges.

  I

  My first hit was a politician. Major league.

  I was 21, and felt a hundred. I remember blowing his face off. Not the cleanest job. Nearly cost me another contract.

  But I learned. Always was a fast learner. Cleaned up my act for the next one. Used the money to clear my debts, and enjoyed myself a little.

  My story travels. It has mileage. It exposes a lot of lies at the top of the tree. Lies that affect you and me. Lies that the people who govern us, tell us, while they save their skins and burn our money.

  You don’t get that close to the real players without finding out their secrets and I got close enough to blow their breath away. I’ll tell you how it all happened, and it led me right to the heart of the government.

  Who am I? Ex–Military, trained marksman and explosives expert. Served with the Royal Marines as a specialist in reconnaissance and sabotage. Good at gathering information. And hiding it.

  I am faceless. Assumed names are all I need. I don’t know if anyone’s still alive who would know my real one.

  It all started with a simple job, and then it snowballed into something big, and really sinister. I was chasing a monster and it turned.

  I’d travelled a lot and made some contacts. They felt they owned me and I owed them.

  Recently I’d been wasting my life in casinos, on whores and I was about to find myself out on the street, again.

  I’d been there before and didn’t enjoy it. I’d seen enough luxury to want some, and was sick of being on the outside of it.

  One bleak November morning when I wanted to rip the London skies apart, two envelopes landed on my mat.

  The brown one contained a final warning on my rent arrears, the white one this:

  Call me regarding previous discussions. The job is yours.

  I recognised the number. I knew one day the contact would come.

  ***

  Luca Martoni was in London on business.

  I met him at his suite at the Lowndes, suitably known as London’s best kept secret.

  He was as I remembered him, immaculately tailored, polished and tanned, blending in with the discreet luxury of the place.

  “Good to see you, Jack.” He squeezed my hand and flashed his white smile at me. “Drink? Whisky, right?”

  “Are we alone?”

  “Of course.” He’d already drawn the curtains.

  He sat in a chair and swung one of his Gucci shoes over his other leg.

  “You recall our conversation last year at my villa?”

  “How could I forget?”

  “You will remember, then, how we spoke of certain matters that I felt at the time you could help us with.”

  “I remember.”

  I swigged the deep golden malt.

  “We need your help. I have a job, and I believe you are the man to do it.”

  I thought for a moment of what I was getting into. It’s only the first time you do that. A bit like stepping off a precipice, checking the rope. After the first one, you concentrate on the detail: the pay–off.

  I thought about the other options I still had, and the bailiffs.

  “So,” he said, standing up, “five now, and ten on completion.”

  “I don’t know what the job is.”

  “It’s a fair price, Jack. Unless, of course, you mess it up.”

  “In which case?”

  He flashed his teeth at me. “Another whisky?”

  He handed me back my glass and then opened his attaché case. “This will answer any questions you have.”

  He passed me a large manila envelope.

  It contained photographs, maps, press cuttings, a schedule of the man’s movements. And five thousand pounds in cash.

  “So?”

  I hesitated. I recognised the face. It had been splattered across every tabloid for weeks.

  “Why?”

  Leaning forward, he said, “He has defaulted on loans. Mr Stone is someone we have invested heavily in. We believed he would give good return.”

  “On?”

  “Oh, imports, information, free publicity, that sort of thing. But he has, shall we say, been less than honourable, so there is a little score to settle.”

  “Information?”

  “Jack, we live in a world where information is the new gold. At the same time, the old rules of the street still apply.”

  “You just want him taken out.”

  “Yes. And…” He looked at me, weighing me up.

  “And?”

  “If you can locate and retrieve some data, there is a bonus.”

  “What data?”

  “A file. It’s all there,” he said, pointing at the envelope.

  “Just run it past me anyway.”

  “It’s clearly marked, Jack. One file. Easy to find. In it you will locate bank details including passwords. Mr Stone has been careful not to leave what we want on computer, so he’s kept a manual record.”

  “I see.”

  “We feel confident that with your background you’re right for this.”

  I knocked back the whisky.

  “And the bonus?”

  “Another ten. If you need anything else, let me know.”

  “And if I only carry out the first part of the job?”

  He laid a hand on
my shoulder.

  “Jack, we have every confidence in you.”

  That day I left his hotel room with the money and the weapon, a Glock. Good gun, light trigger. It would do the job.

  I made sure I was not being followed and returned to my shabby studio where I spent the evening reading through the package.

  The next day I paid my arrears, much to the surprise of the letting agency.

  Then I got everything I needed for the job.

  I studied the target.

  II

  Stone had been ripping off his constituency for years, cheating on business deals, his wife and abusing his kids.

  I already knew about him from the papers, which were having a field day with the fact that he’d been charged with fraud.

  I carried out some preliminary stalking. His movements were exactly as the schedule gave them to be: a creature of habit, the easiest target.

  He had a mistress he visited in a flat in Shepherd’s Bush, probably paid for by the tax payer.

  I saw him come and go with a mixture of swagger and caution. His sexual proclivities made him sloppy, an easy target to watch.

  I thought about Martini’s brief, knowing the information was as important as the hit.

  Posing as a courier I visited his office.

  A bored receptionist sat chewing gum, reading an article until I cleared my throat. She’d seen me enter, but couldn’t be bothered.

  As she looked up I heard the door swing behind me. She stopped chewing, looked past me and smiled.

  “Good morning.”

  A man in a pin–striped suit brushed past me.

  “Sheila, lovely day, is he up there?”

  “I’ll buzz him.”

  I clocked the floor number he pressed.

  “Can I help?” she finally said, chewing loudly.

  “Parcel for Mr,” I paused, looking down, “Str–ack–ville,” I said, sounding as stupid as I could.

  “No one here by that name.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “You’ve got the wrong address.”

  “Sorry.”

  The phone rang.

  “Excuse me,” she said, swivelling her chair, turning her back on me.

  I walked to the end of the corridor and found the staircase.

  The back door had a weak lock, so it would be easy to make it look like a break–in if I did the job there.

  ***

  One evening I got a call from Martoni.

  “How near are we to completion?” he asked.

  “Sounds like you’re talking about a house.”

  “What’s the difference? It’s all business.”

  “I didn’t know there was a deadline.”

  “I leave town next week.”

  “I’ll do my best, I’m just putting the finishing touches on.”

  “Stick to the remit, Jack. Do what you’re paid to do.”

  “Some keys to Stone’s office would be useful.”

  “I’ll arrange for you to have them.”

  The line went dead.

  I looked out of the dirty window down to the street below. Cars hissed by on the tarmac, washed clean by the rain that had been falling since the morning. Pedestrians hopped around the puddles, umbrellas up, scurrying home from work. I realised I hadn’t been outside all day. The whole thing started to bother me. I felt dirty by association, and thought my only two options were completion or escape. But where would I flee to?

  I decided to go out for some groceries and booze.

  As I opened the door to the street two burly blokes pushed their way past me into the corridor.

  “Rent collection,” one of them said.

  The other fished some crumpled papers out of his pocket.

  “Says here you owe over a thousand pounds.”

  “I paid it.”

  “When?”

  “Two days ago.”

  “We don’t know anything about that, and besides, there’s interest.”

  “I went into the agency and gave them the money. Call them.”

  The larger guy did, hanging up after a few seconds.

  “Office’s shut.”

  “We need the money,” the other one said.

  “Or what?”

  “We take what you’ve got.”

  “Well, that’s not much.”

  “If you don’t mind, we’ll go and have a look.”

  They were starting up the stairs, when I thought of the Glock in my flat.

  “Look, how much interest are you saying I owe?”

  “Two hundred.”

  “What?”

  “It’s all in the paperwork,” the big guy said, scratching his arse.

  “I can give it to you, and then tomorrow you can ring the agents and clear all this up.”

  He shook his head.

  “Nothing to do with us. We need it all now. You’ll ‘ave to get a refund off the agent.”

  “That’s crap, I’ve paid them.”

  “How do we know that?” They were almost upstairs now. “Are you going to let us in?”

  “OK, come with me. I’ll get you the money now.”

  “Where?”

  “The cashpoint.”

  “You’ve got it all?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ll ‘ave to sign this,” he said, handing me the paper, “and you better not be messing us around.”

  I doodled all over it and passed it back to him.

  “Is that really the best they can do? Send two heavies round when I’ve paid my rent.”

  “They said you could be trouble. And how do we know you’ve paid?”

  “The bank’s round the corner.”

  “How far?”

  “Five minutes.”

  “We’ll drive.”

  “You won’t be able to park. It’s a red route and it’s quicker on foot.”

  They’d done me a favour. I wasn’t going to live like this anymore.

  Once I’d got them out on the street, it was easy. I took them into a back alley saying it was a short cut and swinging round, floored the big one first. He was overweight and quickly dropped to his knees clutching his groin while I took care of his colleague.

  He was slow and missed me. It was an easy duck. As I came up I hit him with a right hook that took him straight out.

  By now the other guy was coming up for air, so I kicked him hard until he stopped moving.

  I went back, stuck everything I had in a couple of bags and left the flat. The bus was pulling away when I saw the two guys lumbering back down the road.

  I booked into a hotel two streets away from Stone’s offices and started my new life that night. I never saw the bailiffs again.

  I gave Martoni my new address, and the keys dutifully arrived. Alone and totally outside the lives of everyone I’d ever known, I watched my prey.

  I sat in cafes planning the hit, while couples and workers came and went in another world.

  I was looking at life through a telescopic lens, squaring the heart of the cross with the target.

  I was planning the final stages. Making sure it would be just me and him when I did it. I knew his life. I could almost predict what he would do next. At night I searched his office.

  I went through every drawer, and realised the file I needed was not kept there.

  Blowing him away gave me access to what Martoni wanted, but Stone was holding the information. He was a hands–on guy: he’d already dipped his fingers in the public till, and I figured he’d keep what he valued close to him.

  I’d seen him coming and going and he always carried the same attaché case with him. My guess was he kept his most confidential papers in there.

  I was motivating myself to do it. To take him out.

  Effective killing is about a trained mind. Your hand might hold the gun, but the mind pulls the trigger. I was moving into a zone I’d been conditioned in, closing in like a shadow silently crossing Stone’s path. I was zeroing in on him. Taking aim.


  Still a stranger he was becoming familiar, becoming a reality. A reality my remit was to end.

  ***

  One afternoon, I went into the square at the back of Stone’s offices. I watched his movements from there.

  A boy ran across the grass.

  He was crying and his face was stained with tears.

  I guessed he was about five.

  A man on the other side of the square was calling him.

  “Adam. Come here!”

  The boy dutifully turned and ran towards him. Stone.

  He stood by the gates, hands in overcoat pockets, waiting for his son.

  “Shut up, you little crybaby. Look at you! How could you be my son? God knows who that whore of a mother of yours was screwing when you were born.”

  “Daddy you said I could have a balloon on my birthday.”

  He grabbed the boy by the arm and started walking him towards his car. I could see his face clearly through the railings as they passed. It was knotted with fury and disdain.

  “Birthday!? Grow up! Now get in the car.”

  With that he threw him into the back and drove off.

  I looked at my watch: 6 o’clock. He saw his mistress at half–past.

  I got there before him and watched him walk in with his swagger and the usual bunch of roses. He was sticking to the routine I knew now. It was strange, sharing his movements, as if I was willing him towards his end.

  He left two hours later smoking his cigar and headed into town to eat.

  Through the restaurant window I saw a man dripping with charm and joke his way through several bottles of vintage champagne. With his large hands he gestured and dominated the conversation.

  On one side of the glass he looked content and full.

  On the other side I had all I needed.

  III

  I planned to do it the next night.