Codename: Aconite Chapter Fifty-Four

Codename: Aconite Chapter Fifty-Four
Exiting my apartment, I’m greeted by a tall chauffeur standing by a luxurious town car. His clothes are immaculate and his demeanour I would describe as friendly, but unassuming. As soon as he sees me, he opens the door to the backseat and holds it open for me.

“Miss Aconite, I have been instructed to be your escort for the evening,” he says with a Peruvian accent, tipping his hat politely.

“The entire evening?” I query as I walk to the car, tucking my clutch under my arm.

“Yes, ma’am. I am to drive you to the airstrip where a jet will fly you to Germany. From there, I will drive you to where you will join Mr Guardian in Berlin for dinner this evening.”

Mr Guardian. My mother will love that she was right in picking up on a third alias, but I’m still not sure if Lamar Guardian is Sathariel’s real name, or just another alias in a long line of aliases. While every assassin in our world is made infamous by their work and known by their codenames, Sathariel is a wholly different entity. He’s a ghost. I’ve stood face to face with him, spoken with him – twice apparently – and yet he feels like a myth. Children have tales of the boogeyman; assassins have whispers of Sathariel. This macabre dark parable, created in our underworld of killers to scare little assassins into toeing the line.

“Well then, we mustn’t keep Mr Guardian waiting,” I say sweetly.

I slide into the backseat of the car being mindful of my dress and sit back as the chauffeur closes the door and makes his way to the driver’s seat. He gets in, and soon we take off. I sit back, relaxing against the leather as I look out the window, watching the city lights of Athens whiz by. Germany is an hour behind us, so it’ll still be evening when we arrive.

Throughout the drive to the airstrip, I can feel eyes on me. I do my best to ignore it, but soon it becomes a nuisance, like a bug buzzing around my ear. I look towards the rearview mirror with a penetrative stare, my eyes locking with those of the chauffeur who is quick to look away.

In what feels like no time at all, we arrive at the airstrip. The chauffeur drives the car to a private landing strip where an open jet waits on the tarmac. The car stops, and I wait as the chauffeur comes and opens my door, extending his hand to me. I take it and exit, looking up at the steps that are either leading me to salvation or a one-way trip to hell.

“After you,” the chauffeur urges.

I make my way to the stairs, once again feeling eyes on me.

“If you want to keep those eyes, get them off my ass,” I say curtly as I step onboard the private aircraft. I’m not afraid to steal a move or two from my grandmother.

“Yes ma’am,” nervously replies the chauffeur, earning an eye roll from me. I think Sathariel needs to take stock of the people under his employ.

I look around at the simple and intimate interior of the plane; not designed to carry too many passengers. I make my way to a single seat, plop myself down and do up my seatbelt. I’m soon joined by the chauffeur who removes his hat and makes his way to the cockpit. Once he returns he closes the jet door and makes himself comfortable in a seat directly opposite me. His eyes lock with mine and he’s once again quick to avert them.

If I weren’t concerned about being murdered in my sleep, I’d take a nap just to have something to do. Why are henchmen so utterly boring?

Much to my relief, the plane ride was a short one. As the jet lands in Germany, the light of the setting sun beams in through the windows, illuminating the interior with its golden gleam and blinding the fuck out of me. When we’ve come to a complete stop, the chauffeur gets up, once again confers with the pilot, or pilots, and opens the door. He looks at me for the first time in over an hour and gestures for me to exit the craft ahead of him.

I get up and make my way to the door, shielding my eyes from the sun as I walk down the stairs. The chauffeur catches up and leads us to an already waiting town car. He opens the backdoor and I’m suddenly having a strong sense of déjà vu. I once again slide into the backseat, get comfortable and wait for my chatty bodyguard to get in and start driving.

Of all the places to want to meet, Sathariel chose Berlin. A city so divided they even built a wall to demonstrate that fact. However, if what they say in the news is true, that wall could be coming down any day now. I wonder, did Sathariel choose Berlin because he enjoys the chaos? Does he feel it’s easier to hide among discourse? Or is he trying to rattle my feathers? He’ll be disappointed to know this bird’s feathers are made of steel.

The drive is long and tediously filled with uncomfortable silence, but I become more alert as we enter Berlin. I appreciate the security the car’s tinted windows provide but the fact we’re able to move through the streets with such ease is a fact I find more alarming than comforting. The view from the backseat is a disturbing one, to say the least. The streets look desolate, and every building is covered in graffiti; the cries of the people etched onto stone begging for their freedom. It looks like the land of a lost civilization barely holding on. This is no way to live.

The car begins to slow down as we approach a tall, dilapidated twenty-story building that looks like it’s on its last leg. As I am escorted out of the car, I look upon the building with trepidation. Clothes and banners reading ‘Nein Europa ohne Berlin’ hang from balconies, the stone holding the building together appearing scorched by flames making it look like I’ve stepped into a post-apocalyptic world.

I glance at my chauffeur as he escorts me into the building, opening a squeaking door as we step into a vile-looking reception area that has never had a visit from the health department. Tattered furniture, ripped-up carpets and water stains on the walls make it appear as unwelcoming on the inside as it is on the outside. I prepare to hold my breath as we walk over to the elevator, but I become keenly aware that there’s no such need. Despite the vandalised state, this place smells surprisingly clean, in fact, I even detect a floral scent in the air masking the remnants of disinfectant.

As we stand by the elevator, waiting for it to come down, I spot two men sitting on each side of the room, engrossed in today’s paper, their clothes bearing a closer resemblance to rags than clothing. I don’t think much of them until we’re stepping into the elevator, and I notice their shoes. I wonder how many homeless men can afford Italian leather shoes.

With my guard now up and my suspicion at an all-time high, I stare at my reflection in the elevator doors, questioning my appearance. I don’t exactly look like I belong on the streets of Berlin. My makeup is soft glamorous but sophisticated and I’m dressed in a tight, deep purple, long-sleeve dress, with an A-line skirt, a deep V neckline and shoulder pads from here to the heavens. My hair has been permed so black curls sit on my shoulders and frame my face, my bangs and makeup once again hiding the fresh wound on my head while gold and diamond Tiffany doorknockers hang from my ears. My legs look long and slender in silver satin 5’ pumps with charcoal grey bowties on the heels. The only thing to make the look even better is my nails. My long acrylics have been decorated with a glossy black with purple marbling that makes my nails look like deadly poison flows through their tips.