The secret was to remain unnoticed.
He knew how these things worked: how a meaningless glance into the car from a passer-by, seemingly forgotten in an instant, could be resurrected by an investigator in a week’s or a month’s time and pieced together with a dozen other tiny inconsequences that would lead the police straight to him. He had to diminish his presence at the scene of his crime, in the immediate location, in the area.
So he sat, unmoving, in the dark and the silence. Waiting for the moment of convergence.
Hamburg’s Schanzenviertel is an area known for its energy and even this late on a Thursday evening there was a fair amount of activity. But this narrow side street was quiet and lined with cars. It was a risk to use his own car, but a calculated risk: it was a dark VW Polo and anonymous enough to sit inconspicuously among all the other parked cars. No one would notice the car; but the danger was that they might notice him sitting in it. Waiting.
Earlier, he had switched the car radio on low and had let the chatter wash over him. He had been too preoccupied to listen; his mind too full with the raw energy of anticipation for the reports of the campaigns of the various contenders for the Chancellorship to stimulate the contempt that they normally provoked in him. Then, as the time approached and his mouth grew dry and his pulse grew faster, he had switched the radio off.
Now he sat in the dark and silence and fought back the emotions that surged up in great waves from deep within. He had to be in the moment itself. He had to shut everything else out and focus. Be disciplined. The Japanese had a word for it: zanshin. He had to achieve zanshin: that state of peace and relaxation, of total fearlessness while facing danger or challenge, that allowed the mind and body to perform with deadly accuracy and efficiency. Yet there was no denying the feeling of a monumental destiny about to be fulfilled. Not only had his entire life been a preparation for this moment, more than one lifetime had been dedicated to bringing him to this place and to this time. The point of convergence was close. Seconds away.
He carefully laid the velvet roll-pouch on the passenger seat. He cast a glance up and down the street before untying the ribbon fastener and unrolling the pouch flat. The blade gleamed bright and hard, sharp and beautiful in the street light. He imagined its keen edge parting flesh. Paring it from the bone. With this instrument he would still their treacherous voices; he would use its blade to shape a shining silence.
There was a movement.
He flipped the dark blue velvet over to conceal the beautiful blade. He placed his hands on the steering wheel and stared straight ahead as the bicycle passed the car. He watched the rider swing one leg over, the bicycle still in motion, before dismounting. The cyclist removed his chain and padlock from the bike’s pannier and wheeled the bike into the passage at the side of the building.
He laughed quietly as he watched the cyclist’s small ritual of security. There’s no need, he thought. Leave it for someone to steal. You won’t need it again in this lifetime.
The cyclist reappeared from the passage, slipped his keys from his pocket and let himself into the apartment.
In the dark of the car, he sheathed his hands in the latex of a pair of surgical gloves. He reached into the back, picked up the toiletry bag from the back seat and placed it next to the velvet roll-pouch.
Convergence.
He felt a great calm descend on him. Zanshin. Now justice would be fulfilled. Now the killing would begin.