She was a harsh critic of herself, her life depended on her doing it smooth and right. If she were getting jumpy and unstable in her work, then she’d have to quit. That thought made her stomach fall. She loved her job, loved the thrill and the travel. She could retire on what she had in the bank, but she didn’t want to.
She was good at what she did, she was. She wondered if other assassins had days like that? She couldn’t ask anyone, she was alone. Even Nobu couldn’t help her. It frightened her, the concept of failing, of losing her edge. She needed to get a handle on this jink.
FOUR
The plane touched down at Athens International Airport. Her parents lived in a little town, Vakiza, where her great-grandfather owned a small cottage and land. It had been in their family for well over one hundred twenty years. When her parents had retired from the military, they moved to Greece, and to her father’s ancestral home. Their home overlooked the beautiful Mediterranean Sea, its cerulean blue waters clear and beautiful.
Though Greece was in economic crisis, her parents managed on their retirement pensions. It was also one of the nicest places she went to spend a vacation. Her mother notwithstanding. She loved her mother, but Cathy Zakarian could wear on a saint’s nerves. Her father, Nicholas, was easy going and let her mother’s A type personality flow over him like water over a stone.
Driving, she’d gotten a convertible and had the top down, Imani watched as the countryside passed her by. The wind blew through her short hair and the Dita sunglasses kept the wind from drying her eyes. The flight had been long, but her body relaxed in the car. The sun was warming her face and she absorbed the rays. The sky was clear and cloudless.
She saw the beauty of ancient Greece juxtaposed against the urban graffiti and trash that was prevalent. Such a shame, but that was how it was sometimes. It took her two hours to wind her way down the highway to her family’s home. She smiled, her mother had planted roses years ago, around the white washed structure. They were prolific and framed the house in colorful beauty.
The two-story cottage was situated on two hectares of rolling land. There was a small olive grove, several kumquat trees, pistachios, orange and lemon trees, in the small grove. She could see a goat grazing by the trees, it was her father’s lawnmower. There were other trees scattered about the property and lovingly cared for by her father. She saw that the garden had begun to show green, her mother having a green thumb. Imani did not. Like her predisposition to murder things, she did the same to plants, house plants stood no chance. She’d even managed to kill a cactus.
She pulled through the gates and into the dooryard of the property and the door to the house opened. A soft smile spread across her face as she watched her tall and still handsome father step out. She was built like her father, tall and slender. Her mother, shorter and now gone plump followed behind. It saddened her to see her parents age, they’d once been vivacious people, and now, seemed to grow old before her. She supposed all children saw their parents as such and then recognized the mortality of them, and then, themselves.
Getting out of the car, and stepping away, she was enveloped by first her father and then her mother. She gave and received hugs and kisses from both parents, their arms wrapping around her tightly and the illusion of weakness evaporated in their robust hugs. That hint of sorrow for her aging parents melted away and the world was right again.
They went out to the back of the house, after dropping her luggage in the entry. Her mother and father had been eating lunch and so she followed them out. There was a carafe of sangria, a plate of cheese, fresh hard crust bread, a dish of olives, freshly sliced peaches, figs and a plate of fried herring, heads and eyes still attached. She was very fond of the fish, since it was caught fresh and her mother went to the market in the morning to buy.
That was one thing that she’d grown up with, fresh food. Living in other countries, most people bought their food for that day’s meal. Always fresh. She’d gone with her nannies to shop as well as her mother. She’d carried the produce proudly back to their home, her short sturdy legs walking along the sidewalks. Those were fond memories for her.
Sitting at the table, her mother walked out with a plate, glass and cutlery. Imani smiled up at her mother and thanked her.
“How was the trip Ima?” Nicholas asked his daughter, his eyes crinkling with a smile.
“Uneventful, which is always good. Athens looks terrible. I hope you guys don’t go into the city.” She said, popping an olive, that had been bathed in fresh olive oil and garlic, into her mouth. She nearly groaned with the succulent taste of it. Hands down, Italy, Spain, Greece and Asia had the best food. The foodie snob raising its head. She chewed around the pit, careful not to break her molars.
“We stay close to home, a lot of protests going on all around. We don’t see much of it here, and that’s good.” He
