Melt into the crowd. Carry out your task without anyone realizing what’s happening or even noticing you at all.
You’re wearing sweats so you’ll go unnoticed. At 7 A.M. in Hudson River Park, everybody’s out for a run. In a city where schedules are tight and nerves are constantly tested, people go running—to keep in shape, to clear a hangover, and to cope with the stress of the day ahead.
Find a bench. Put your foot on the seat and retie your shoelaces as you wait for the target to come closer. The hood pulled down over your forehead narrows your field of vision, but it helps hide your face. Give yourself a chance to catch your breath, and make sure your hands aren’t shaking. You’re sweating, but that’s okay, it won’t attract attention or give you away. Everyone else is sweating too.
When you spot him, let him go past. Wait for a few seconds before you start jogging along again. Keep a good distance behind him until the moment is right.
You’ve rehearsed this scene every morning at the same time for a week. The temptation to act has grown stronger each time. But your success depends on careful preparation. There’s no room for error.
The target comes down Charles Street, following his usual route. He waits for the lights to turn red so he can cross the first four lanes of the West Side Highway. The cars are speeding north, people heading to work.
He reaches the median. The little illuminated figure on the traffic light is already flashing. Toward Tribeca and the Financial District the cars are bumper to bumper, but he moves forward anyway. He responds to the blaring horns the way he always does: by lifting his fist, his middle finger pointing to the sky. He veers left and onto the pedestrian walkway along the Hudson River.
He’s running his twenty blocks amid all the other joggers, pleased when he overtakes the ones who aren’t as fit as him, cursing those who leave him behind. They have youth on their side. Back when he was eighteen, this used to be an unsavory part of town. He’d been one of the first to come out here and run till he was short of breath. Hardly anything remains of the docks that once jutted out over the water on stilts, stinking of fish and rust mingled with the smell of sewage. How much his city has changed in twenty years; it’s grown fresher and more attractive. And in the meantime the years have begun to show on his face.
Across the river, the lights of Hoboken go out as dawn breaks, followed soon afterwards by Jersey City’s.
Don’t lose sight of him. When he gets to the intersection with Greenwich Street, he’ll leave the pedestrian walkway. You’ll have to act before then. On this particular morning, he won’t make it to Starbucks to order his daily mochaccino.
When he passes Pier 4, he won’t notice, but the shadow following him will have caught up to him.
One more block to go. Step up your pace. Blend into the gaggle that always forms in this spot because the footpath narrows and the slower runners hold up the faster ones. The long needle shifts under your sleeve. You hold it in place with a firm hand.
Aim between the top of the sacrum and the lowest rib. A quick strike, in and out quickly and deeply in order to perforate the kidney and reach the abdominal artery. As it’s pulled out, the needle will leave behind internal tears. They’ll be beyond repair by the time anyone realizes what has happened, the ambulance will arrive and he’ll be rushed to the hospital. It won’t be easy getting to the hospital at this hour — even with the sirens wailing, in such dense traffic, the best the driver can do is curse his powerlessness.
Two years earlier he might have had a chance. But they closed St. Vincent’s Hospital, and the nearest emergency unit is now on the east side, across the island from Hudson River Park. He’ll hemorrhage too heavily; all the blood will drain from his body by the time he gets there.
He won’t suffer, at least not too much. He’ll just feel cold, then colder still. He’ll shiver and gradually lose all feeling in his limbs, and his teeth will chatter so much he won’t be able to talk. What would he say anyway? That he’d felt a sharp pinch in his back? So what? The police won’t be able to deduce anything from that.
There is such a thing as a perfect crime. Don’t all the finest police officers confess at the end of their careers that they have their fair share of unresolved cases hanging over them, burdening their consciences?
You’ve drawn level with him now. You’ve simulated the gesture many times on a bag of sand, but the feeling will be different when the needle pierces human flesh. The most important thing is to not hit a bone. Hitting a lumbar vertebra would mean failure. The needle must be plunged in and immediately drawn back inside the sleeve.
After it’s done, continue running at the same speed. Resist the temptation to turn around. Remain anonymous, invisible, in the crowd of joggers.
Hours and hours of preparation for an act that will take you only a few seconds.
It will take him some time to die, probably a quarter of an hour. But by 7:30 this morning, he’ll be dead.