fat lady sings. He laughed to himself, or should it be until the rich Scotsman signs. He just needed a plan and the right man. He studied the list and made his decision.
He dialled the number next to the name at number one. It rang twice before it was answered.
“Who is this?” a man answered abruptly.
“We need to talk.”
The line went silent, the man at the other end recognised a voice he had not heard for fourteen years and had never expected to hear again.
“REAPER, did you hear me, I said we need to talk!” repeated the client.
Part Three
Chapter 21
One week later
Reaper had been told to be in New York before 9.00 a.m.. He would receive a phone call and should be available to meet anywhere in the Manhattan area within 30 minutes. The client was taking security extremely seriously.
Reaper was both apprehensive and intrigued about the upcoming meeting. He would finally put a face to the very intimidating voice from his past.
Reaper had arrived the previous evening and as always, had travelled light. He didn’t do luggage. He much preferred to be able to slip away into the crowds the moment he disembarked a flight. If he ever needed luggage, he shipped it ahead, in advance, to the ‘wrong’ hotel and would pick it up on his arrival with apologies for the inconvenience caused.
He didn’t usually meet clients face to face and this added to his concern over the meeting. He normally only made contact by mobile phone or email. His latest mobile phone was impossible to track, trace or listen into but despite this, he still used an elaborate network of forwarding devices and voice scramblers to ensure ultimate security and anonymity. If email were required, he used anonymous mail addresses, usually Hotmail accounts and always used internet cafes. He never worked from home and refused to have a PC in any of his houses.
Reaper would not have lasted in the business for as long as he had, had it not been for his fanatical secrecy. The existence of an international super assassin was suspected. Police forces across the world had failed to find any conclusive proof that any such person really existed. In the twenty years that Reaper had been in operation, he had always ensured that the modus operandi for each job differed, meaning no link could ever be made between any of his jobs. His contracts came from around the world through various networks. However, each network was unaware that its “hitter” worked around the world under different identities. Only in the US, his home country, was he known as Reaper. In Germany, he was Dieter. In Spain, he was Juan. In England, Giles. In Italy, Mario and so on. He had more than twenty five identities and spoke almost as many languages and dialects. He had, on more than one occasion, been contracted to “hit” himself in another country. This was easily resolved. He would simply take the money and hit the client who had issued the hit. He didn’t like people who tried to kill him.
The mysterious client from fourteen years earlier had been his most secretive. He had used even more elaborate security than the mega cautious Reaper himself. All Reaper had managed to glean was that he was male and an immensely powerful individual with connections at the highest levels across the world. This was the only client upon whom Reaper could not take revenge if he were ever double crossed.
Fourteen years earlier, he had thought twice about accepting the contract and in hindsight, had wished he hadn’t. The coldness and emptiness of the client when he had called Reaper after his monumental failure had struck fear into him. The call had been very short and to the point.
“You failed me,” he said, replacing the receiver before Reaper could speak.
The call had not been made to his mobile but to the bedside phone of a motel which, to this day, he believed nobody could possibly have traced.
Reaper had no intention of giving his own appearance away to the client and had taken adequate precautions by “borrowing” some clothes from a tramp in the toilets of Central Station. The clothes were too short but bulky enough to hide Reaper’s toned physique and their aroma certainly added to his cover. Passers-by visibly choked at the alcohol and urine fumes. To complete his new look, he’d grown a beard to give himself a dirty unshaven appearance and wore a hat to cover his hair. He also carried a bottle of cheap wine wrapped in brown paper. Reaper had gone, a tramp replaced him.
The phone call came at 10.30 a.m.
“Waldorf hotel, 11.00 a.m., get in the driver’s seat of a black car which’ll flash its headlights three times.” The caller hung up as soon as he was finished.
Reaper smiled, it was only five blocks away.
He made his way to the Waldorf Hotel, stumbling along the street and mumbling to himself along the way. Unbeknownst to all around him, he was scrutinising and analysing their every move. He scanned the traffic, checking for any vehicles which re-appeared or hung around suspiciously.
The car arrived bang on schedule and as agreed, the headlights flashed three times and the driver exited the vehicle, making his way to a diner across the street as if to pick up coffee and donuts. Reaper kicked himself at how stupid his disguise was. A drunken tramp climbing into the driver’s seat of any car would be suspicious but a drunken tramp climbing into the driver’s seat of a Maybach, the world’s most expensive limousine, was farcical. Why was it these things only happened with this client? Reaper never made mistakes. Even fourteen years later, the client still made him nervous and edgy. He didn’t like it.
The car was completely black, not just the paintwork but also the windows. In fact, it gave the impression that there were no windows just black bodywork. Reaper waited until there was a lull in the foot traffic before he leapt across the pavement, around the bonnet, jumped into the driver’s seat and before the door was even shut, he’d gunned the engine and was half a block away. Nobody had had time to take in what had happened.
“Hello Reaper,” came the sullen voice from the speakers.
Reaper turned around and came nose to nose with a black screen. The front of the car was completely separated from the rear. He couldn’t and wouldn’t see the client.
“Hello.”
“Rather inappropriate dress, don’t you think?” asked the client laughing.
“It does the job,” replied Reaper not in the mood for humour.
Reaper continued north along Park Avenue. Fortunately, even the front windows were blacked out so nobody could see that a tramp was driving the $350,000 car.
“Whatever makes you happy. Now, if you look to your right, you will see a package. Those are your instructions which include all the plans you’ll…”
“Wait a minute, a week ago, you just said you wanted to talk?” interrupted Reaper.
“I don’t like being interrupted,” replied the client ominously, before continuing. “As I was saying, the package contains all the plans you’ll need. I don’t want to go into detail here, suffice to say that everything you need, including target identities and locations are in the package. Are we clear?”
“Look, I’m very selective about the jobs I take, I can’t promise anything other than I’ll have a look at and let you know, OK?” replied Reaper, knowing he would have a quick look see what the guy was up to and say no thanks. He didn’t want anything more to do with this client.
“Let me make this clear,” said the client, adopting his more ominous tone. ”You have been recommended to me AGAIN as the best and quite frankly that is the only reason you have been allowed to live for the last fourteen years.”
“What the hell do you mean ‘allowed to live’?” said Reaper angrily. He had had enough, nobody talked to him like this. The meeting was over, he pulled over to the kerb and said in his own ominous tone.
“Don’t underestimate me.” He stopped the car and began to open the door.
“Oh, I don’t, Matt.”
Reaper froze as the client said his real name. Pictures began to flash on the screen in the central console. The pictures were of Reaper, his homes, his fake id’s, his mother, in fact everything he thought nobody knew.
