Raymond Benson - 2012 - Hitman: Damnation (19 page)

 
          
“Stan!”

 
          
He
turned to see Helen moving toward him.

 
          
“Well,
what did you think? Charlie’s great, isn’t he?”

 
          
47
nodded. “Even more charismatic than he is on TV.”

 
          
“Sorry
he put you on the spot. He tends to do that with new people.” She laughed a
little. “You looked kind of uncomfortable.”

 
          
“I’m
a bit timid. You’ve probably noticed.”

 
          
“That’s
all right. I’m pretty quiet too. In high school I was always the girl that no
one would ask to dance.” She forced another laugh. There was a moment of
awkward silence. “Are you going to put your name in the hat to go on the buses
to Washington?”

 
          
The
hitman
shuffled his feet. “Oh, I don’t know.”

 
          
She
squeezed his arm and leaned in conspiratorially. “Well, I have to go. I get a
seat no matter what.”

 
          
“I
won’t tell anyone.”

 
          
“It’s
all right. Everybody’ll know anyway.”

 
          
“Well,
then maybe I will put my name in the hat.” He had no intention of doing so.

 
          
“Great!”
She looked at her watch. “Hey, you know, I just realized how hungry I am. How
about you? Want to come with me?” When he hesitated, she added, “I mean, if you
want to. I didn’t mean—”

 
          
Smiling,
he raised his hand to stop her excuses. “I could eat.”

 
          
“Oh!
Okay, then, uh … let’s go to the cafeteria! It’s dinnertime.”

 
          
He
sensed that she was taken aback that he’d accepted.

 
          
The
food was surprisingly good. Agent 47 had expected it to be the kind of fare
served in high school cafeterias, but it was several steps above that.

 
          
“We
have a couple of gourmet chefs on the premises,” Helen explained as they sat at
a table by themselves at one end of the gymnasium-sized dining hall. “They make
it a point to bring in fresh ingredients and prepare healthy choices for the
members. Some of us are vegetarians. The carnivores get the best beef and chicken,
all grass-fed, no chemicals or preservatives added.”

 
          
“I’m
impressed,” the assassin said. He had chosen spaghetti, meat sauce, and
meatballs, with a Caesar salad and a Coke. Helen had baked salmon topped with
horseradish and bread crumbs, and steamed vegetables.

 
          
“So
tell me why you’re here, Stan.
Why the Church of Will?”

 
          
Agent
47 had prepared his cover story well and effortlessly launched into it, with
the appropriate character traits he had rehearsed. “Well, it’s not much of a
story, really. My dad had a farm in Iowa. I grew up on it, so I knew how to be
a farmer from an early age. No brothers or sisters. I think my parents wanted
more children after me, but for some reason my mom couldn’t conceive. Anyway, I
went to an agricultural college after high school. Both of my parents died in a
fire while I was there. I went back to manage the family farm. It did okay for
a while, but it went belly-up two years ago.”

 
          
“You poor thing.
I’m sorry about your parents.”

 
          
“Yeah.”

 
          
“What
happened with the farm?”

 
          
“You
know,
the bad economy and everything. And the winters
were awful. A lot of crops were destroyed. The government didn’t help the
farmers. Like most people in the country, I started to get fed up. I went to a
few protests in Des Moines and one in Chicago. And then I started watching Will
You?
on
television, and that did the trick. I realized
I was feeling sort of lost in the world. I knew I needed a jump start in the
spirituality department.”

 
          
“I
know what you mean. Will You?
is
a great show, isn’t
it?”

 
          
“I
enjoy it a lot.”

 
          
They
continued to eat in silence for a few moments, and then she asked, “Stan, what
about a family of your own? No wife or children?”

 
          
He
shook his head. “No.”

 
          
“Girlfriend?”

 
          
47
took another sip of Coke and looked directly at her. “I’m afraid not. I’ve
never been very good at that sort of thing.”

 
          
Helen
smiled. “You know what?”

 
          
“What?”

 
          
“Neither
have I.” She chuckled nervously and continued to eat.

 
          
After
another pause, Agent 47 found that she was studying his face. “What?” he asked.

 
          
“Nothing.”
She took a breath. “Well, there’s something about
your eyes that seems so familiar to me. They’re very intense.”

 
          
He
shrugged and laughed self-consciously. “They’re just the eyes that came with
me.” The killer then looked at his plate to avoid more unnecessary eye contact.
He had noticed that Helen had the same well of loneliness in her own eyes that
he did, and 47 did not care for the conversation to linger on the subject. A
shyness act would cover his discomfort.

 
          
At
that point, Colonel Ashton marched through the cafeteria, tray in hand,
followed by two or three other men and Mitch Carson.

 
          
The
assassin whispered, “Who’s he?”

 
          
“Oh,
that’s the Colonel. We call him the Colonel. His real name is Bruce Ashton.
He’s not a real colonel. In fact, he’s not in the military, but he acts like he
is. I think he was a colonel in the army but he’s retired. I don’t know his
whole story.”

 
          
“Is
he a member of the Church?”

 
          
“He
is. But he’s also just been appointed Charlie’s director of security for his
campaign travels. That’s what the Colonel does for a living.
Some
kind of security business overseas in the Middle East.”

 
          
“I
see.”

 
          
“I
don’t have many dealings with him.”

 
          
47
nodded. “So tell me more about you, Helen. Why are you here?”

 
          
It
was her turn to be diffident. “I don’t know. Like you, I was feeling lost, I
guess. My parents are gone, no brothers or sisters. So I suppose I’m all alone
in the world too. I also had—”

 
          
She
hesitated and looked away.

 
          
“What?”

 
          
“Never mind.”
She unconsciously pulled at the sleeves of her
blouse, hiding the angry red marks.

 
          
47
did his best to appear sympathetic. “It’s all right, Helen. You can tell me.”

 
          
“Oh,
I just had some, um, medical problems, that’s all.”

 
          
He
waited for her to elaborate. When she didn’t, the
hitman
said, “Well, I hope you’re better now.”

 
          
“I
am.” She smiled at him, but 47 didn’t believe it. Helen McAdams was definitely
a vulnerable soul.

 
          
After
yet another beat of awkward stillness, she asked, “Would you excuse me? I’m going
to run to the ladies’ room.”

 
          
“Sure.”

 
          
She
got up and walked away. Agent 47 finished his meal and studied the cafeteria
crowd. How many of them were lost souls too? Did they all have unhappy pasts?
Were they all looking for that “eureka” moment when their lives suddenly became
meaningful? Did they really think they’d find it here?

 
          
Colonel
Ashton and his entourage had finished their meals and stood. Agent 47 watched
them as they left the dining hall. The assassin grabbed his tray and took it
over to the conveyor belt below the sign that read: Place trays and dishes
here. He then followed Ashton and stood outside the door, watching the
mercenary get into a Jeep with the other men. They drove away toward the
restricted area.

 
          
Secrets,
47 thought.

 
          
Greenhill
had a lot of secrets.

 
          
SEVENTEEN

 
          
It
was my first night in the studio apartment at Greenhill.
The
middle of the night, actually.
Usually I had no problem sleeping, but
tonight I couldn’t. Not sure why.

 
          
Everything
had gone according to plan. I’d established a believable cover. I’d made
friends with someone on the inside. Now I had to wait until the Agency told me
I could go ahead and kill Charlie Wilkins.

 
          
How
long would I have to wait? The election was in less than a month.

 
          
A
window in my apartment faced the Main Street area of the compound. I parted the
drapes and looked outside. All was dark. Streetlamps cast a dull glow on the
“street.” Not a soul was about. Did everyone go to sleep at night? Was the
place that disciplined? I’d never known of any area occupied by people who
followed routine hours. It’s a fact that some humans are night people, others
are morning people. Surely somewhere in the compound there was someone who was
awake like me. I wondered if that person might be Helen.
My
friend.

 
          
It
was ironic that I’d had a “dinner date” with her. Me.
A
dinner date.

 
          
It
was strange, this feeling of having a friend. Even though it was all deceit,
there was something genuine in the attraction between us. Of course, the person
I presented to her was not really me.

 
          
I
wasn’t sure who the real me was. I was never sure.

 
          
I
suppose I’d always thought of myself as a kind of machine. A “thing” that does
what I do without any feeling. But I did have flesh and blood. I did have nerve
endings on my skin. I did have internal organs and a brain and a heart. I may
have been created in a laboratory, but I was a human—I supposed.

 
          
So
why didn’t I have the feelings that other humans had? I didn’t know.

 
          
Sometimes,
though, I did feel as if feelings were straining to get out. As if some kind of
barrier prevented them from bubbling to the surface.

 
          
Take
the hit on Dana Linder. She was not a bad person, from what I could tell.
Shouldn’t I have felt some kind of remorse or guilt for that hit? “Normal”
people would. Sometimes I wondered if there was a way I could allow myself to
feel those things. Was there a button I could push?
A
trigger?

 
          
Today
I felt something when I talked to Helen. I’d never really spoken to a woman as
a friend before. Diana was the closest I’d ever come to having a female friend.
That didn’t turn out so well.

 
          
How
long could I keep up the subterfuge with Helen? Where was this all going?

 
          
I
didn’t know, but I would do whatever I had to do.