Hitman Damnation

TWENTY-NINE



Charlie Wilkins’s entourage flew home the next day, despite the investigation going on in Nicosia regarding the murder of five security men and assaulting a female hotel employee outside the reverend’s meeting. Police had interrogated Wilkins and the other participants for hours. No one had seen anything. Nobody heard a sound. There were no surveillance cameras in that hallway, so law-enforcement officials were mystified. But given Wilkins’s high-profile status, they were convinced he was somehow involved, if only in an indirect way.

Several of Wilkins’s VIP associates left the hotel as soon as the bloodbath was discovered. Many of them had questionable legal standings, so the last thing they wanted was to be caught up in a multiple-murder investigation. Boris Komarovsky, however, was detained by authorities regarding Bruce Ashton’s disappearance; Katharina the masseuse had broken her vow of silence after the Americans had left and admitted to authorities that she was called away from Ashton’s appointment by a mysterious concierge. When Komarovsky’s criminal background came to light, he was arrested on charges of international racketeering. Again, this didn’t reflect well on Wilkins.

Before leaving Cyprus, the reverend held a press conference at the Larnaca Airport, denying any responsibility for the killings. He was quick to blame his “political enemies” in Washington, saying that they feared his rise in popularity. “They’re running scared and are resorting to drastic measures,” he declared. “First they kill Dana Linder, and now they try to besmirch my good name by involving me in these heinous crimes.” The tactic worked. The reverend was so well loved in America that his supporters had no doubt that he was innocent of any wrongdoing. As for Boris Komarovsky, Wilkins denied knowledge of the man’s ties with the Russian Mafia. It was Komarovsky’s bank that Wilkins was dealing with, not the man personally.

It was only after the Americans had arrived back in Virginia that the Colonel’s body was finally uncovered in the spa closet, where curiously no one had looked. Interpol went ballistic. The media was ecstatic and the incidents made international news. Cypriot politicians decried the fact that Wilkins and his people had been allowed to leave the republic before questions had been answered. Still, the entire affair was a mess. Wilkins’s political opponents milked the incident for everything it was worth. The reverend was accused of improper fund-raising and associating with criminals.

At first Helen was disillusioned. She hadn’t understood why they went to Cyprus in the first place, and the Colonel’s disappearance and the subsequent murders had disturbed her deeply. She thanked God that she had followed Charlie’s orders and gone to the hotel’s pool that morning. She hadn’t seen the abattoir outside the boardroom, but the description in the newspapers horrified her.

Wilkins made a speech to his staff aboard the Learjet. He assured them that they were moving forward and the events in Cyprus would not halt his march to the White House. He said he had confidence in the Cypriot police and Interpol. In fact, he had hired his own private investigator in Cyprus, a man named Karopoulos. He would find Ashton, get to the bottom of the murders, and exonerate Wilkins of any involvement.

Helen had no choice but to believe it. Charlie Wilkins was still her mentor and reverend. He was the Church of Will, and it was the Church that had helped her in her time of need. By the time they landed at Greenhill, Helen had regained her complete faith in the man.

What was more disturbing was that Stan Johnson was nowhere to be found and hadn’t been seen in days.


When Helen arrived at work on the morning after the return home, the reverend appeared haggard and stressed. Apparently he hadn’t slept. The loss of his friend the Colonel—not to mention the murders in the hallway—had upset him greatly. The entire staff had been put on damage control since the homecoming the day before. Helen herself had only three hours of sleep. The jet lag adversely affected her, she was worried about Charlie, and she was concerned about Stan.

Where was he? Why hadn’t he left word for her?

She had called his cellphone the night before and got his voice mail.

“This is Stan. Leave a message.”

Helen told him she was back and wanted to see him. She asked that he please call her as soon as he could. She almost ended with, “I love you,” but caught herself in time. No need to press her luck.

She had little energy to go through the pile of paperwork Charlie had left on her desk, but she perked up when her phone rang mid-morning. Helen’s heart leapt with joy when she recognized the caller ID. She answered it with a breathless “Stan?”

“Hi, Helen. Are you all right?”

“Stan, where are you?”

“I had to go back to Iowa to take care of some legal matters regarding the farm. I figured I’d do it while you were gone. It took a day longer than I expected. I wanted to be back before you but was delayed. I’m sorry.”

She breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh, okay, I … I just … It’s good to hear your voice. When will you be back?”

“I should be there this afternoon. No worries.”

“That’s good. I can’t wait to see you. I guess you heard about what happened in Cyprus?”

“It’s all over the news. I repeat, are you all right?”

“I’m fine, but really tired. It’s been very stressful. Poor Charlie is a train wreck.”

“I can imagine.”

“I’ll tell you all about it tonight. Dinner at my place?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

After Stan hung up, Helen thought he had sounded a little different. Perhaps it was only her imagination, but he seemed distant. Maybe she was being paranoid and reading nonsense into the conversation.

George stuck his head into her office and said, “Something’s happening.”

“What?”

“We have visitors. Some school buses with a bunch of men just came through the gate and are parking in the barn.”

“Huh? Who are they?”

“I don’t know.”

She got up and followed him outside the mansion. Sure enough, Mitch Carson was directing traffic, pointing the way for the drivers of three yellow buses. The barn was some distance away, but it was within the restricted area, near the guardhouse. When the men climbed out of the buses, Helen noted they were of various ages, between early twenties and late forties, and were dressed in T-shirts and blue jeans or camouflage army pants. Helen thought they looked like soldiers out of uniform. In fact, they moved and acted like military men.

She watched as Carson greeted another man decked out entirely in army fatigues. He wore sunglasses and a broad cowboy hat that prevented her from seeing his face. But he walked with a limp and appeared to have mechanical pincers in place of a right hand. A prosthesis.

Carson led the man into a side entrance to the mansion. They were probably on their way to see Charlie.

Greenhill continued to grow more mysterious by the day.


Agent 47, wearing the Stan Johnson trademark overalls and flannel shirt, knocked at precisely seven o’clock. He heard her running footsteps, then the door swung open. Helen immediately threw herself at him and wrapped her arms around his tight, muscular frame.

“Stan, I’m so glad to see you!”

The hitman didn’t expect the enthusiastic welcome and wasn’t sure how to react. He lightly placed his arms around her. She looked up at him and then planted a kiss on his mouth. Again, he was taken aback but managed to retain character.

“I’m glad to see you too.”

She released him and pulled him into the apartment by the hands. “Come in. Dinner’s almost ready. I made a chicken casserole; I hope you like it. I can’t believe Charlie let us go so early. I thought we’d have to continue working through the night. But I guess even he decided he needed to get some sleep!”

The assassin had encountered no problems reentering Greenhill. After landing at Baltimore/Washington Airport earlier that morning—there was a layover in London—the assassin picked up one of the Silverballers and the C4 from his briefcase but kept the rest of his stuff in the locker. Then he rented a car. He parked it in the compound’s community lot and walked to Main Street as if he’d never been gone. His apartment was still a wreck, so he spent an hour straightening it up. He was relatively confident that Ashton and his two goons were the only security men who knew his identity. Whether or not Charlie Wilkins was also aware, time would tell. He was willing to risk the exposure. He had invested too much in the assignment to walk away now.

Helen served the meal and spent the next half hour recounting her experience in Cyprus. Even though she complained of being exhausted, she was lively and animated. Helen had not been outside the United States in years, so in many ways it had been a grand adventure. The killings obviously frightened her, and the subsequent news about the Colonel was shocking, but she seemed none the worse for wear.

47 had forgotten how much he liked listening to her voice.

“You know, I thought I saw you in the hotel,” she said, laughing and shaking her head. “There was a bellhop I swear could’ve been your twin. I must’ve really missed you, Stan. I was seeing your face everywhere, I think.”

47 chuckled with her and replied, “Well, it couldn’t have been me. I was having knock-down drag-outs with men I didn’t care for. It was murder.”

“Where, in Iowa?”

He took a sip of wine and then nodded. “Davenport. Lawyers. IRS officers. You know, bad guys.”

“Stan.” She picked up her glass of wine and clinked his. “I missed your company.”

After an awkward pause, 47 announced, “I have news.”

“Do tell.”

“I quit the pills. I’m going cold turkey.”

“Really? Oh, Stan! That’s wonderful!” Then she realized he looked as well as ever. “How … how do you feel?”

“Not bad. The first couple of days were pretty awful.” He shrugged. “Now I’m fine.”

“But how can that be? My God, Stan, it took me weeks to get through withdrawal. You can’t kick the pills in three days. It’s impossible.” She shook her head. “I’m afraid you still have more to go through. It’s not that easy.”

“I guess my metabolism is different. I don’t know.”

“Stan, I had to go to a rehab clinic for two months. I thought I was well, and as soon as I was out, I started using again. That’s when I tried to—you know.” He didn’t say anything, so she continued. “I went to a different clinic and they made me go cold turkey. It was a nightmare, Stan. If there’s a hell, then that was it. I’ve been to hell and back. I still have trouble. There are moments when I crave it. I’ll never be completely cured. I don’t see how you can possibly be all right.”

He didn’t answer.

“You’re not lying to me about quitting, are you? Just telling me what I want to hear?”

“No, I’m not lying about that.”

At least that was true.


She fell asleep on the couch as they watched a movie on television. The wine and fatigue did her in. Prior to that, though, Helen had once again dropped hints that she would’ve liked to be intimate, but 47 couldn’t bring himself to do it. He cared about her too much to hurt her like that. Because that’s what would happen—she’d eventually be terribly hurt; in fact, it was inevitable. So he held her at arm’s length for her own good. It was still a new and unfamiliar sensation for him to care about anyone.

He thought about the painkillers and how easy it had been to quit them after all. It was the genetic engineering that had done the work. What most addicts endured for weeks and months took only two or three days. No more shakes, headaches, or bad dreams. Actually, that wasn’t quite the truth. 47 still had vivid dreams in which Death appeared. The hitman was no closer to discovering who the Faceless One was, but he would find out soon. He knew it.

Oddly, he wasn’t tired. Jet lag never bothered him, and the assassin could always go for long periods without sleep. Nevertheless, it had been an intense few days. He should get some rest while he could. But having Helen by his side was an alien experience. Feeling her warmth, watching her breathe, smelling her perfume—that was about as normal as it got.

And Agent 47 came to the conclusion that he couldn’t let go and enjoy it. Never in a million years.


It was a little after ten when he noticed the indicator light on his cellphone.

A message from the Agency.

Helen was still asleep. Now her head was in his lap and she had curled into a fetal position. She looked so peaceful. No troubles. Almost childlike. Without disturbing her, he picked up the mobile, signed in to his voice mail, and listened to the coded communication.

When it was over, he punched in the numbers to indicate that the message was received and acknowledged.

There were two parts. The first one directed 47 to a secure FTP site, where he could view some photos. Jade had found three pictures of Charlie Wilkins shot during or prior to 1976. The first two were from small-town newspapers in Arkansas and Maryland, dating from 1973 and 1974, respectively. The oldest picture was a shot of an early Church of Will tent, where Wilkins would have exercised his mission in a fiery, theatrical way, one that attracted local citizens who were susceptible to a fire-and-brimstone-style presentation. A young Wilkins stood with an equally youthful Mitch Carson and two others—a man and a woman. They were not identified.

The picture from 1974 displayed a newer, bigger Church of Will tent. A larger staff posed in front. Wilkins in the middle. Carson to his right. The woman and man from the first photo stood on his left. This time they were identified as Wendy and Eric Shipley. She was next to Wilkins.

The third snap, from a ’76 Towson, Maryland, newspaper, revealed Wilkins emerging from the courthouse after Eric Shipley’s inquest. Wendy Shipley was at his side. He had his arm around her as they avoided reporters.

Agent 47 studied the Shipley woman’s body language in all three photos and came to a conclusion.

The second part of Jade’s message was more significant.

The client had given the green light to assassinate Charlie Wilkins.

And it had to be done that night.