Under the dim glow of the lamplight in the dark, deserted street, John Laurens inspected the postcard he had been sent.
Achilles,
John rolled his eyes. One time. He hurt his ankle one time. No matter, the target paid for it. He hadn't failed a mission yet.
Your father and I are well in Greece,
Venturing out into the world has and will do us good, I believe,
One day I hope to bring you along with us on these trips, you would enjoy it,
No doubt in my mind,
No doubt, whatsoever,
Even your father, the miserable old fool, appears to be enjoying himself!
After a stroll along the beach, we are tired and will shortly retire to bed,
Nightfall is close now and the sky is growing darker,
Dark as the pupils of my favourite son's eyes,
Right on the horizon the sun is beginning to set and it is beautiful,
Everything feels right with the world, we are at peace!
For the first time in years, your father and I have not bickered like children,
Rest has come to him as I write this, his eyes have begun to close as sleep consumes him,
Anniversary well celebrated, I say!
Now, how are you my dear?
Cousin Hercule from France has been sending letters, asking about you,
Evidently you aren't just my favourite!
Please take care, my son,
Assist the workers at the store for me,
Really, they are helpless without you,
It is time for me to bid you Adieu,
Sleep well, my child,
Love, your mother.
Good Lord, John thought. They really were terrible at these fake postcards. He thought that after all this time they - whoever they was - would have found a more efficient way to give him his missions. He didn't even have parents. They were dead! John held the yellowing card in the light and covered up most of the words with his right hand; his right hand was scarred and battleworn, but sharp and precise as a striking snake. Now on the page, a name and destination. Yvonne Andre, France, Paris. Well, that was all great, but who was Yvonne Andre, who was in France, Paris?
Out of the shadows, a familiar man in a suit and hat approached John. In his hand he carried a black briefcase which he gave to John as he guided him off of the street into a dark alleyway.
"You're getting careless, Achilles. Out in the open," the man chided.
John laughed, "and have I been caught? I don't believe I have, unless, of course, you are now an undercover spy… Charles."
In a moment so swift it would have been disastrous if not for John's lightning quick reflexes, the man pulled a small blade from his inside pocket and made to hold it against John's neck. John gripped his wrist and removed the weapon from the man's hand before he had the chance to strike. He twisted the man's arm behind his back and pushed him against the wall, running the blade against the man's cheek and he tutted.
"Oh, well that was hardly a smart thing to do, hmm? Honestly Charles… you're the one getting careless, not me."
Charles, tensed as the cold blade ran across his warm skin and he felt the blood dripping down his face, "how do you know my name?"
John considered Charles, a man he had known for a long time, he had always hated him. He could kill him now, he thought. It was too easy. Where was the excitement? Not tonight, but he would eventually.
He pressed his body against the man in the dark suit so that his mouth was next to his ear, and he whispered, "I know more than you think."
Charles shivered and John felt satisfaction rise in him. He lifted up his tanned wrist to check the time. He wiped a spec of blood from the watch that he must have got from his last mission. People could be so messy.
He sighed and pressed the blade lightly into Charles' back. He leaned in to whisper in his ear again, "now, sweetie, what news have you about Yvonne Andre?"
"Why don't you open the case, dumbass?" he spat.
He tutted again and moved the blade to his throat, breathing on his neck. He watched the hairs prickle and he kissed him under his jaw. Charles squirmed under his touch.
"Have some decency, man!" he yelled.
"Shh, shh, shh. Now, now, we don't want anybody interrupting this mission, do we?"
The man was silent. John applied more pressure to the blade and Charles gasped, "you're right… No, we don't."
John smirked against his neck, "good. Really good. Now, shall we try again? What news have you about Yvonne Andre?"
"She's the wife of one of the bosses' rivals… they want her dead, they want it to look like a suicide," he whimpered.
John groaned, "do the bosses have a name?"
"Does it matter?" he winced when the blade made a small cut on his neck.
"Oh, Charles, Charles, Charles. Always so naive… if I didn't hate you I'd find it cute. You see, there's power in a name."
"Don't be ridiculous, Achilles."
John turned him to look him in the eye and pushed him harder into the rough, brick wall.
"Oh, it's true, Charlie," he said as he wiped the blood from the other man's cheek, "for example, I could have you like putty in my hands after saying nine words. Nine words from me and you are mine, sweetheart. Nine words and the first is a name."
His piercing blue eyes glared at John as he spoke, "and what would that be? No single person has that power."
"Is that so?" he leaned in for the final time that night and kissed his ear, "Lily says she wants her daddy to save her."
John grinned a devilish smile as he watched the colour drain from his enemy's face upon hearing those words. He took off the latter's hat and placed it upon his own head as Charles stood and watched, at a loss for words. John reached into the blazer pocket of the helpless man and pulled out a 2mm Kolibri.
"Good evening, sweetheart. Sleep well."
He walked away from the scene, with the blade in his pocket, the briefcase in his left hand and the pistol in his right. He stopped at the end of the alleyway.
"Oh, one more thing…"
He swivelled around on the spot and aimed at the still frozen man's legs and fired the pistol. He writhed in pain and fell to the floor.
"You bastard!" he screamed.
"Oops… slip of the hand. You'll be fine, walk it off."
And with that, he sauntered away to his desolate abode in the city. That felt good. He sat at his desk and opened the briefcase. Inside was a file filled with information on Yvonne Andre including her address, estimated schedule and possible weak points. Ooh, she was asthmatic. John loved those ones, they were so easy. He smiled to himself and went to his small kitchen. He opened the cabinet full of chemicals and poisons.
"Which today, then?" he mumbled to himself, "ah, perfect."
He struck a match and lit the stove with it, pouring an assortment of chemicals into a pot. He pulled a gas mask over his mouth and set to work. After a few hours, he poured the concoction into an old perfume bottle he had found amongst the piles of crap his landlady had hoarded.
"Mrs. Norbury!" he called for his landlady but to no response, "good God woman! Mrs. Norbury!"
He heard the slow footsteps, three to be exact, on the stairs up to his apartment. Two were Mrs. Norbury's light steps, the other tapping was her walking stick against the wood.
"Yes, dear?"
John's voice turned sweet, "ah, my favourite landlady."
"I am your only landlady, dear. What do you want?"
He shut the door on the kitchen, hiding the instruments left grotesque on the stained worktops. He wrapped an arm around her shoulder and gestured for her to sit in his armchair. Her short, greying hair smelt of roses. Clamped tightly in his hand behind his back was the perfume bottle.
"I got you a present, for being the best landlady ever," he smiled.
She laughed, "oh, you shouldn't have. Thank you!"
"You have to close your eyes, it's a surprise."
She did as instructed, her arms folded on her long navy skirt. She was an old lady. She had no family. John doubted she'd be missed. Besides, she was a terrible landlady.
"Three… two… night night," he counted and sprayed the perfume in her face.
He watched her as she coughed and choked, sending herself into a fit. She fell to the ground and dug her fingernails into the floorboards. John wore a bored expression and as she clawed at the floor he walked to the mantelpiece and lit a cigarette.
"Oh, do shut up, Mrs. Norbury. I've got to start packing. I'm going to Paris."
He pulled out a suitcase from under his bed and pulled a few outfits out of his closet. He took a long drag of the cigarette and exhaled the smoke. A couple of suits. He folded them and put them on the bed next to the open case. He patted himself down and pulled out the pistol, inspecting it. Beautiful, he thought. Could be useful. Next was the blade. Then a selection of his own weapons. And finally, the perfume bottle. He placed all of these items in the case and zipped that compartment, covering it with harmless clothes and essentials. No questions asked at security. John put out the butt of his cigarette in the ashtray on the table.
He turned to leave, then he turned back reluctantly. That damn picture. He took the black and white photograph of a woman with dark, curly hair and freckles as far as the eye could see. She was beautiful, young and seemingly worry free. John stared at the woman and coughed, not allowing himself to get too sentimental. It was a dangerous characteristic to have in his profession. Nevertheless, he packed the image, along with his cigarettes, pre-rolled, and left the apartment. On his way out he shouted, "goodbye, Mrs. Norbury. Oh no, sorry, sorry, my bad. You're dead. Yup, okay. Bye, Mrs. Norbury's lifeless body. Yes, that's better."
His long, greasy hair fell in his face as he nursed the glass of whisky. Just one more letter to pen and then he could go to bed. One more. He downed the rest of the whisky and cracked his knuckles. Alexander's office was small and quiet. He was, after all, merely the apprentice of the Detective Inspector at Scotland Yard. This particular case had caught his attention. The notorious assassin who's identity remained unknown. He had been at large for years, since The Great War, possibly during. It had intrigued Alexander so much that he, workaholic Alexander Hamilton, had neglected his letters to delve deeper into his case. This assassin was like no other Alex had ever heard of before.
There was sharp knocking on the door and Alexander stood as D.I. Washington entered his office, looking distressed.
"I require your assistance once more, Hamilton. Tell me, what do you know of the Greek Assassin?"
Hamilton smiled, "I have the file here, sir."
John slammed the newspaper on the table at the café, "'The Greek Assassin Strikes Again'? I am in no way greek!"
Lafayette covered John's mouth, "shh, shut up," to which John bit him and kicked him in the shin, "ow, you son of a bitch."
"Why do they think I'm greek? I'm not greek."
"We get it, mon ami. You are not greek. But, it would probably help your case if you stopped leaving clues for them. Greek mythology books? Always on the page of Achilles' tale? Imbécile."
Lafayette led John to his apartment in the centre of Paris and John slumped in the chair as soon as they entered, "and they didn't even get the story right, '28 October 1926….the notorious Greek Assassin scared Mrs. Andre so much that she passed out and it was then that he stabbed her nineteen times in the abdomen', um, no. That isn't what happened at all. I induced an asthma attack and then I stabbed her nineteen times. Idiotic cops."
"Achilles, give me the report. Was this a successful mission?"
John rolled his eyes, here came the disappointment speech, "yes. The target was killed successful."
"Let me stop you right there. What was your mission?"
John glared at Laf, "kill the target."
"And?"
"Be done with it?"
"Non, it was supposed to look like a suicide."
"She's dead. What does it matter?" John shrugged drinking his coffee after sniffing it and giving some to the dog first.
"It was the same in London. London was meant to look like suicide."
John smiled innocently, "it didn't?"
Lafayette looked like he was on the verge of screaming, "so she slit her own throat?"
Laurens shrugged and drank again, "it happens."
His face was red now, "and killed four other people?"
John pretended to wince, "slip of the hand?"
The tall frenchman stood over John and glared, a hand on his shoulder, "why are you being naughty?"
"I'm bored. It's always, 'make it look like suicide' 'don't over do it' 'keep it simple'. Look, when 'the bosses' or whoever the fuck they are decided to raise me as a psychopath assassin, they should have thought about the fact that psychopaths get bored!"
Lafayette laughed coldly, "do you jest? You're bored? That's why you're acting up and destroying this entire organisation from the inside out?"
John was stood up now, "has it ever possibly crossed your miniscule mind that perhaps I never wanted to be a part of whatever organisation this is to begin with!"
"We all chose this path."
John lost it there. That wasn't true, not at all. He had been forced into this. He pulled out the knife from his pocket and threw it, narrowly missing Lafayette. A warning shot. If he had meant to hit him, he would have, "ha, do you jest now? You think that as a babe I begged the bosses to train me and raise me to kill and not care? I killed my landlady last week!"
"You… wait, what? You killed Mrs. Norbury?"
"I was testing the perfume that I put a lot of effort into and it was completely disregarded. I mean, talk about rude."
"I want you to be reassessed, perhaps they'll knock some sanity into you."
He scoffed, "sanity. Do not be so ignorant. You believe one could have my profession and maintain one's sanity?"
John fell back onto the loveseat in Lafayette's huge apartment. He scanned the room and noticed the toys and teddies. Children? Could he use that as leverage?
He stood up again and began to pace, taking in his surroundings. The window had a balcony, he walked over to it.
"Please could you make me another coffee? And if you're going to poison me, put more in it, that dose wasn't enough for a human. A dog, however…"
The bulldog lay on the rug in front of the hearth, a pool of sick in front of it. Lafayette shrugged, "it was worth a try."
Pathetic attempt, if you're going to do it, do it properly. John open the window and climbed onto the balcony. Third floor. Balcony directly below. Possible to scale. Or escape? Or both… there's an idea.
Admittedly, Lafayette did have a beautiful view of the city from his apartment. You could see both La Seine and the Eiffel Tower. John loved Paris, always had. French had been his favourite language they had taught him at the institute. The institute. He quickly shook those thoughts from his mind.
"Achilles, this is your last chance. Fuck this up and you won't be working alone in a long time."
"What is it? Where are they shipping me off to now?"
"To fix a little problem you caused in Paris. A witness who has sought sanctuary in Italy, Florence."
He grinned, "molto bene."
Washington sat in the chair opposite Hamilton's as they went over Yvonne Andre's case again and again, trying to find any common links between that and other assassinations.
"Perhaps they are not assassinations at all, Hamilton, merely a serial killer who is incredibly skilled."
Alexander shook his head, "all due respect, sir, I don't think so. Look at this one, for example, hair pin in the eye and injected with poison. And where? Italy, Florence. The one before? France, Paris. And before that? England, London. It is evident to me, sir, that the culprit is travelling Europe killing very specific people. London, a key witness for an important case. Paris, the wife of a very powerful businessman. Italy, the only known witness to the murder of Mrs. Andre. These are all clearly linked with bigger conspiracies Scotland Yard has been sitting on for decades. And of course, there is the linking feature, the greek mythology books."
Washington nodded, listening intently as Alexander theorised, "yes, that is how he acquired the name 'Greek Assassin'."
Alexander rubbed his face, "something about that seems odd. Hmm…"
He inspected the black and white images of the crime scenes, studying each of the books left neatly under the victims hand. All the same page. Achilles… Achilles... Achilles…
The latest assassination, Italy, Florence, the page was covered in markings, all pointing to the word Achilles, the word Greek had been crossed out numerous times.
"Achilles…"
Washington stared blankly, "the one with the weak heel?"
Alexander came to, "what? I- uh, yes- YES! Sorry, I think our assassin is trying to tell us something."
Washington smiled, "you are wasted behind a desk."
Alexander basked in the subtle praise, appreciating it more than the Detective Inspector could ever imagine.
"Do we know of any assassins who have injured their heal?" he asked.
Washington hesitated, "it's both incredibly likely and incredibly unlikely."
"I'll check."
John woke up because of a bright light shining in his eyes. The curtains had been opened very suddenly. He rolled over to find two people in bed with him. A man and a woman. The man had blond, straight hair whereas the girl's was long and auburn. They woke up, too. They were all naked. Whoops.
"Won't you introduce me to your friends?" Lafayette said, anger seeping through his calm demeanor.
John kissed the man deeply and then the woman, considerably less passionately. He told them both to leave. They stood up together and walked away. He pulled out the pistol he had taken from Charles and shot them both in the back of the heads. It was of use after all.
"Was there any need for that?" Lafayette sighed, folding his arms where he sat on the arm of a beige armchair, "all over my new carpet."
John pondered the question for a moment and then smiled, "nuh-uh. They weren't very good. Well, he was, but it wouldn't be very fair to let him go and kill the girl, would it?"
"Three days ago, one of Moscow's most controversial politician was found professionally murdered in a pretty street in Vienna… very good," John smiled as Lafayette told him this. He was buttoning up his shirt as he continued, "the murder took place in a blind spot… also good," John was really smiling now, but, "the politician's girlfriend was reportedly with him while he died… fine," uh-oh, John was in trouble now, how had he fucked up? "And was not harmed… not so good. She is currently in London, where she will be interviewed as a principal witness to the murder… bad," John looked away now as Laf's eyes bore into him, "which will take place in two days… very bad."
John stared at him now, not making any facial expression or indication as to how he had registered the information given to him.
"Well, what do you have to say for yourself?"
John hesitated, "have you had a haircut?"
With a sigh, Laf confirmed, "yes."
John nodded and frowned, "meh. I would have done better. Off to London, then, yes?"
"Oh no, you'll not be working on your own this time."
John chuckled, "sorry, I must have misheard. I thought you just said I wouldn't be working on my own?"
Lafayette didn't smile, he frowned, angry. Hot and livid, "I warned you."
John shot the wall a couple of times and stormed out. He was not going to work with people.
