Maccabee sat in his chair.
The mauve, tufted, executive chair in her father’s study where he’d worked, read, told stories, laughed, and wept the night her mother had died of cancer. Maccabee rubbed her hand over the supple leather… leather that still held the pleasant scent of his Dunhill pipe tobacco, his scent.
She looked down at the frayed pages of his ancient Sumerian book. It had helped her translate the brief message Director Madigan had just faxed over. She dialed Madigan’s office and got his secretary, who put her through to the Director.
“You’re fast, Miss Singh.”
“The message was only a few words, Director.”
“Really? What are they?”
“TO NORTH COUNTRY I TRAVEL.
ALL 8 HEADS WILL I DELIVER. 25
MILLION RECEIVED. 25 MORE UPON
COMPLETION.
KATILL”
She heard Madigan sigh with obvious concern.
“The ‘north country’ is Europe,” he said. “You’ve confirmed Katill is heading to Brussels, or is there and plans to assassinate the G8 leaders. Fifty million probably refers to dollars or euros. That much money proves this is a very serious threat. So Katill is backed by a very well financed group, perhaps even a rogue government. This is most helpful, Ms. Singh. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Director. And if you get another message, I’d like to help.”
“That’s very kind. I’ll let you know. But please tell absolutely no one you’re helping us.”
“I won’t.”
They hung up.
* * *
And so did Milan Slavitch, a barrel-chested man in the basement of a building four blocks from Maccabee’s apartment. He stood up and stretched his linebacker shoulders, and rolled his neck, straining his twenty-one-inch collar. Hours earlier, posing as a Verizon repairman, he’d installed a button-sized listening bug in her apartment phone. And now it had paid off. The woman was making the same mistake as her father. Translating the ancient language. Bad decision.
Behind him, Milan heard his sidekick, Nikko chuckling and slapping his knee.
“Hey Milan, look at this!” Nikko said, pointing to the television.
Slavitch turned to Nikko who was riveted to the Jerry Springer Show.
“Look at what?”
“This guy’s pecker stayed hard for six weeks!”
“Who cares! Singh’s daughter can translate that Sumeria shit!”
Nikko Nikolin spun around fast, his eyes bulging like frog eyes, which always made Milan suspect that Nikko’s mother had fallen into a pond and somehow swooped toad semen into her crotch… and Nikko was the result.
“What’d you say?”
“Maccabee, the daughter, can translate that Sumerian stuff. She just figured out another message. Then she told some guy in Washington! Guy named Matten… Maddingly, no Madigan.”
“Did you say Madigan?” Nikko said, jumping to his feet.
“Yeah, Madigan.”
“Shit! We gotta tell Bennett.”
“But he’s in Curacao.”
“So’s his cell phone, moron!” Nikko paced back and forth.
Milan Slavitch didn’t like being called moron. He’d warned Nikko about many times. One day, Nikko, you’re gonna go too far and I’ll snap your fucking neck like a toothpick.
Nikko dialed Bennett and hit the speakerphone.
Simon Bennett picked up. Nikko explained and Bennett ranted and cursed for a full minute. “There are other messages out there. She could expose everything!”
“Whaddya want we – ”
“Have Slavitch handle her and grab that goddammed Sumerian book!”
“Right!”
Nikko hung up and looked at Slavitch who nodded back.
Slavitch liked assignments from Simon Bennett. The guy paid top dollar. Slavitch spun a suppressor onto his 9mm Beretta and left.
Outside the building, he put on his wraparound sunglasses and walked toward Maccabee’s apartment just blocks away. A few steps later, the two crows, right on cue, swooped down toward his head and flew away. He hated the black bastards. They reminded him of the crows at the orphanage in Sarajevo.
Even though he was only ten when he was left there, he knew he’d been dumped in a pile of govno yedno! Horseshit, as the Americans call it! On the other hand, the orphanage taught him life’s big lesson early - from the day you’re born, scud missiles are honing in on you. You may not see them, but they’re coming, and you had to watch for them and then destroy them before they destroyed you.
His parents failed to see their scud – the Serbian sniper who assumed they were Muslims and shot them in the back. Sixteen years later, Milan found the bastard, a fat drunk named Branko, who also didn’t see his scud – Slavitch’s machete - that sent Branko’s head rolling down an alley like a bowling ball.
And today Maccabee Singh won’t see her scud.
Me.
He reached inside his coat and fingered the Beretta. He loved the power it gave him, how it leveled out life’s unfair stuff.
At her apartment building, he ducked into the alley and walked up to the rear service door. He looked at the new tumbler lock and chuckled. The same brand and type he and Nikko popped open when they greased her father. Some people never learn.
He put on his gloves, reached into his small satchel and pulled out his selection of skeleton keys. The sixth key popped the lock like a Dollar Store trinket.
He stepped inside the swanky apartment building and smiled.
The elevator was just ahead, its door open, waiting just for him.