The Good Assassin

• Sky O'Brien, Grade 9
• Short Story
• 2010

0130 HOURS

It was the ideal time for something to go wrong. Gale force winds and pouring rain threatened to attack with no mercy, and it seemed as if it would never end. Bad weather in Germany was never enjoyable; especially at midnight. Nobody saw the man as he climbed the wall and moved in between the V of two rooves. He wasn’t meant to be there, no one was. This area had been overlooked by a team of lazy sentries a few hours ago, willing to get to the warmth of the local pub. The man was average height, well built with a white tan, he had long hair and a beard; he wore all black and walked with a limp. He had no name. He was carrying a small backpack containing: two different pairs of clothes, a screwdriver and torch, a VA10 Silver Laptop, a KNT-308 Rifle and a shaving kit. He made his way to a spot in the roof where some tiles had been tampered with by a crew of bribed workers. He pulled them away and found himself peering into sheets of out of date insulation. Slowly he transferred his weight on to the old timber framework inside the roof. He left the tiles as they were, as the hole in the roof was his only escape route. Cautiously he moved along the wooden timber, careful not to make a sound. Here and there a creak could be heard, but nothing too dramatic as to cause a commotion. He reached into his backpack and pulled out his laptop. He typed a word into the search tab, and it instantly came up with the file he was looking for. He double clicked it and found himself staring at the Blueprints of this building. He swivelled it around to the right angle, and worked out where in relation he was to his destination. After two or so minutes, he closed the laptop and placed it neatly in his backpack. He crawled along the beam for about ten metres and then stopped. He had come to the only manhole in the roof. It was old fashioned, as was much of the building, and was loosely fitted with old hinges. He grabbed a screwdriver from his pack and unfastened the rusting hinges with ease. He then lifted up the plastic cover separating him from the cathedral below. White light and finely polished wooden floor boards stared at him as he glanced down from the ceiling. He was exactly thirty five metres high, a daunting experience for anyone afraid of heights. He quickly scanned the area, deciphering last minute plans and procedures. The cathedral was large and vast. There were five rows of ten chairs facing a small stage, with a microphone in the middle. A banner reading “Ending Terrorism” was strung from wall to wall. On each chair was a brochure explaining what would be discussed throughout the meeting; with some literature on the topic. He took all of this in slowly. Everything looked genuine, but it was all put together for cover. In fact, this meeting was not about ending terrorism at all, but quite possibly the opposite. And if anyone had decided to look, they would have found that the first row of chairs actually held a different brochure under the seat. He knew that there was at least one person in the building, for there was a Black VW Golf parked outside. That would not be a problem. The man in the roof had been paid to assassinate the person speaking at the cathedral this morning. He did not know the name of this person or who he was in relation to the world. He did not ask questions or seek assistance in any way. He had his orders and a pay check waiting for him at the end of the day. How he did his job was totally up to him. Silently, he reached into his backpack and pulled out a case containing his prized KNT-308 Sniper Rifle. He opened it up and saw the powerful piece of mechanism screaming to be used. It took him less than five minutes to set it up correctly. Then with immaculate precision he set it aiming in a rough estimate of the position where his target might stand. His orders were to shoot and kill the man before any information escaped his mouth. When he had loaded the rifle and everything was ready and set to go, he put the cover to the manhole back in place. He flicked on his torch, and constructed a cushion from his backpack. He lay down and made himself comfortable. It would be a long, hard night, but nothing that the man wasn’t used to. He turned off his torch, and immediately the light was cut off and darkness began to eat away the remaining light.

0700 HOURS

Franc Basteun was awoken by his alarm the very moment he felt scared. It was an unusual experience, because he could not recall ever feeling scared before in his entire life. He brushed the thought away with a little frustration. How could he be worrying about feeling scared before a top secret speech? No, that wasn’t how things worked. Franc Basteun was in his late thirties. He was a touch on the small side, and had a habit of walking with too much arrogance. He smoked expensive cigars and wore overpriced suits. He owned nine banks in Germany, and two in Sweden. He was tremendously wealthy, and it showed. He owned a large mansion off the coast of Italy, and a small apartment in Germany. But his job did not involve accounting or countless hours behind a desk. Instead he worked as a spokesman for ICA, International Crime Association. His job was simple. He would be assigned a task of informing a squad of criminals about a top secret scandal, bank robbery, break in etc, using top secret information stolen from government offices around the world. Today he would be informing a group of high class terrorists about the location of Air Force One with the President on board sometime next week. It was something quite extraordinary, and he was being well paid. He knew that he would be partly responsible for what ever happened. He turned to look at his clock: 7:00am. A car would be picking him up from his apartment at 9:00am. It was a forty five minute drive from here to downtown Germany, give or take a few minutes. So he had two hours to get ready and have a light breakfast. Easy, Franc Basteun thought to himself as he began to rehearse the lengthy speech in front of him.

* * * * *

0900 HOURS

The silver BMW was already waiting when Franc made his way outside. He was dressed in a white two piece suit and wore black, polished shoes. He had arranged his greying hair in a comb over, and in his left hand he carried a black leather case. He opened the passenger door and was greeted with the fresh smell of mints. The driver glanced at him and spoke in friendly German.
“Guten Morgen”.
“Guten Morgen,” Franc replied.
The driver was eagre to get going and pushed his foot down on the accelerator. The new BMW was a powerful make and took off smoothly without a problem. The driver had the radio turned on, and Franc heard a news reporter ranting and raving over minor incidents that were of no interest to him. He preferred quiet before a big speech and asked pleasantly if he could have it turned off. It took them just over forty minutes to reach their destination. Franc looked up and saw the cathedral, large in size, and made mostly of wood, bricks and glass. It was a survivor of the World War 2 bombing attacks made by England, and it showed, as there were areas in one wall where wood and bricks had been ruined and left to rot. It had been a long drive, and Franc was eagre to stretch his legs. He opened the door and stepped outside. The bad weather that had started a few days ago seemed to be growing worse by the minute. The noise of the wind sent a chill running down his spine. Perhaps he could fly over to Italy and stay in some nicer weather for a bit? No, there was too much work to be done. He moved around to the driver’s side and peered in. The driver responded by winding down his window and facing him. Franc then pulled out a case from his pocket and asked in German whether he would like a cigar.
“Möchten sie eine Zigarre?”
“Nein,” Replied the driver.
Franc lit one for himself and breathed in a puff of white smoke. They were top class, hand made in Cuba and imported by plane to Germany. He then thanked the driver and glanced back at the cathedral where two large men were waiting for him outside the door.

0940 HOURS

It had been a fairly uncomfortable night’s sleep up in the roof. The dust was unbearable, and the old, stale smell of insulation had continued to clog up the man’s nose as he slept. The noise from outside was worse than ever, threatening him to stay awake again and again. But eventually grey light crept through the open space where the tiles had been removed, and the man was able to gather his thoughts in a clearer state of mind. By nine o’clock he had changed his clothes and removed the cover of the manhole. It wasn’t until ten am that everyone had taken their seat in the cathedral. He knew who his target was the instant he walked in to the room. He was short and had an arrogance about him that made him stand out. He was ready and in position by the time his target started talking. His one problem was that of concealment. He was unsure whether the man below would see him if he were to look up. His KNT-308 was mainly black, and his body was totally out of sight. He was taking a risky gamble, something assassins should never do. He would have to rely utterly on luck and the darkness of the roof. He planned to shoot the man when he began his speech, before any secret information left his mouth. Then, as he looked through his lens, he saw his target looking right up at him. He did not move a muscle. If he was seen now he would have to shoot right away. It was a long five seconds before the man below moved his gaze back to the waiting audience. Had he been seen? He would never find out. As the soon to be dead man started to address the awaiting criminals, the man in the roof looked down through the manhole one last time. He then focused his eyes on the target, and aimed with delicate precision. Two bullets were fired in quick succession…

1000 HOURS

One by one cautious criminals entered the old cathedral in downtown Germany, like young birds learning to fly. Each person sat down in the first row of chairs and were instructed to lift the hidden brochure from underneath their seat. It was just past ten o’clock in the morning when the last attendant entered through the great big doors of the cathedral. With everyone inside and waiting to be debriefed, Franc thought it would be the ideal time to address his audience. The two large men who had been assigned as guards stood silently by the door. They would make sure that no one entered the cathedral from now on. He would be speaking to the people seated before him in perfect German, although he was fluent in over five other languages. He had a glass of water on a bench next to him. He reached for it now. As he drank, he could feel the water as it trickled down his throat, soothing, calming. He took one last look at the script in front of him. He was well trained in public speaking, and knew how to use tone, pace, pitch and volume in all the correct ways. It was when he was looking up that he spotted out of the upper corner of his eye a small opening in the vast roof. He wasn’t sure what it was, but something about it unsettled him. There were many reasons as to why it could be open, so why was he worrying about it. He shook the thought away. He had a speech to complete. And so he cleared his throat and began with his opening line.
“Hallo, bevor wir anfangen, möchte ich…”
A quick flash of light joined by a lightning bolt sound entered the cathedral from above. The man was killed instantly. To the audience it was as if Franc Basteun had paused midway throughout his sentence. It was only until they saw dark, red blood protruding from two holes in his head, that they knew something was deeply wrong. Franc Basteun dropped to the floor and lay lifeless as a pool of blood formed around his white head. As if being told, each and every person in the room turned at the same time, and looked straight up at the ceiling. All they saw was the roof and a covered manhole. The two guards that had been standing by the door reacted quickly. One pulled out a TDI Vector Sub Machine Gun and started firing blindly at the ceiling. Shredded pieces of wood exploded from the ceiling as deadly bullets cut through the out of date roof. Cascades of shrapnel plunged down onto the people below, leaving deep gashes and deadly splinters in helpless bodies. They were like sitting ducks.
Bullets continued to escape through the barrel of the powerful gun. Then the guard lowered his gun and barked a command at his companion. The other man did not hear, so angrily, he repeated himself.
“Haltet ihn, bevor er entkommt!”
The man understood immediately, and with no hesitation he left the building in pursuit of the assassin. Common sense told him to scan the roof before he made a decision. He retrieved his Beretta 92FS Pistol from his jacket pocket. The grip was reassuring between his fingers; it made him feel safe in a funny sort of way. As he turned to look behind him, he felt a sharp pain in his right hip. He looked down and saw blood escaping from where a bullet had hit him. He was a well trained bodyguard, and knew first aid well. He removed his belt from around his waist and fastened it around the wound. It would stop the blood flow for now, but he needed medical attention, fast. He limped back to the safety of the cathedral, and saw his boss shouting into a mobile phone. The bullet shots had alerted the locals, and in the distance, he could hear the prominent sound of police sirens piercing the air. He limped towards the parked car outside. With too much effort he hoisted himself into the driver’s seat, produced the keys, and brought the engine firing to life. His boss stumbled into the passenger’s seat and yelled out orders for him to follow. The tyres screeched from beneath the car as the Black VW Golf sped off, leaving the cathedral and approaching police far behind.

1010 HOURS

As soon as he had fired the two bullets, he slid the cover back over the manhole. He had little time to
get out of the ceiling and back to the safety of the tiles. He quickly collected his rifle and baggage and crawled with painstakingly slow movements back to the opening in the roof. He was lifting himself up and through the hole when an eruption of bullets shot up from beneath him. A stray bullet found home and buried itself deep in his left foot. A cry of agony escaped his mouth, as droplets of blood began to pour from his mangled foot. He managed to climb through and reach the safety of the tiles before he was hit again. He looked around and collected his bearings. A feeling from deep in his body warned him that one of the men inside might try to cut him off. So without another thought, he moved to the edge of the roof, set his rifle up and took careful aim in his lens. He waited two seconds before the bodyguard entered his vision of sight. He would not kill the man, but only slow him down. He took aim at the lower part of his left hip. As he fired, the man moved slightly, forcing the bullet to dig itself deep into the right hip instead of the left. It did the job anyhow. He moved back into the pleasant cover of the roof. He carefully packed his rifle away, and set to work in rearranging his appearance. After three or so minutes, the man on the roof was a totally different person. He no longer had a beard. He wore light blue jeans, a white top with a leather jacket, a green beanie and white sneakers. But now he had a name. Mike Neating was an English tourist on holiday for two weeks. He carried a genuine English passport with ID and all the extras. He still carried the same bag, with the KNT-308 Rifle in its case, concealed under a change of clothes. Now hidden in his denim jacket was a small knife, he would only use it if things became out of control. He was making his way down the wall when he heard the screeching of tyres. It was obviously the bodyguards fleeing before the police arrived. As he jumped to the ground, a searing pain greeted him from his foot. It was a nuisance that he had been hit, but other than that, everything had gone according to plan. As Mike Neating made his way down the empty, littered street opposite the cathedral, three cars skidded to halt and police men piled out, taking up positions around the old cathedral. Numerous shouts could be heard as they charged through the doors. Nobody queried the man as he limped calmly away on the other side of the road. To anyone who looked his way, he was just another person in the big, wide world.