Chapter 59: Codename: Aconite Chapter Nine
It’s 5 minutes to 1 and the crisp night air brings with it a cold breeze as I stand here under the Eiffel Tower, waiting for my mystery pen pal to arrive. I’m not a big fan of cold weather. I much prefer the warmth we were starting to experience again back home in Greece. I will always jump at the chance to take a job in a warm and sunny climate. It doesn’t even feel like work if you get to enjoy the sun after a long day of murder and mayhem, but my mystery person chose this location, so here I am.
At least I am dressed enough to keep myself somewhat warm. My hair is down to keep my ears covered, while my black long-sleeved turtleneck shields my neck from the elements. My cropped, wide-sleeved mustard yellow cashmere jacket with a wide collar that hangs over my shoulders, provides an extra layer of warmth to my torso, while my legs fend for themselves with only black high-waisted leggings and black suede pointed-toe scrunch 3-inch ankle boots to act as barriers between me and this unpleasant wind chill.
There isn’t too much activity at this hour. Only a handful of tourists remain wandering about in hopes of capturing the beauty of the city’s brightest attraction as its glow illuminates the city. Amongst the tourists is the odd couple, meeting for a late-night rendezvous. They call it the city of love for a reason I suppose.
I glance down, sliding back my sleeve to look at my watch just as the hands declare it 1 a.m.
“You’re even more beautiful in person,” announces an enthusiastic Spanish accent in perfect English.
I glance up to see an unfamiliar face watching me patiently, and I immediately glance around cautiously. I never even heard him approach, which is not like me. I’m far more perceptive than this.
The man before me stands at an impressive 6’4”, with thick wavey brown hair framing his face having a salt-and-pepper appearance around the edges. It matches his salt-and-pepper beard and moustache, and yet both compliment him very nicely. A slight sagging of the cheeks and lines across his forehead would lead me to guess his age to be late 50s/early 60s, and from his mild tanned complexion and distinctive accent, I’m going to assume he’s either born in Spain or has at least spent enough years there to adopt the accent.
His posture is held with military precision and his clothes are so immaculate I’m sure they’d pass an inspection with glowing reviews. He’s wearing a knee-length black coat with a thick fawn-coloured fur collar, with black slacks and the shiniest black leather loafers I’ve ever seen. So shiny I can see the lights of the Eiffel Tower reflecting in his shoes like specks of glitter embedded in the leather. Beneath his coat is a jacket with a distinct collar covering his neck, revealing only a brown neckerchief.
His patient expression continues to stare at me while I take in his appearance, committing every minute detail to memory, but it’s his eyes that leave me with a sense of unease. His eyes are a deep, dark brown, so dark that under this monolithic structure, they almost appear obsidian. The colour does not disturb me; but instead, their lack of emotion. They’re so cold – inhuman even. Two dark, treacherous pools threatening to drown me at any moment.
“You have me at a disadvantage. You seem to know who I am, yet I haven’t the faintest idea who you are. Care to help make us even?” I casually ask.
An amused smirk creeps up his face as he takes a step forward, his hand outstretched and seeking my own. “Armand Aguilar. It is a pleasure and an honour to meet the renowned Aconite.”
With a quirk of my eyebrow, I shake his hand. His hand is warm and soft as satin, yet I’m sure if he put in the effort his grip would be as firm as a snake capturing its prey.
“How did you know I was Aconite from everyone here?”
“You’re the only one alone. Plus, I knew I was looking for a woman,” he says confidently.
“And how is that?”
“Poison is a woman’s weapon. Men are bloody creatures, always making a mess. Poison is discreet and unassuming. More suited for women. It’s a far more sophisticated weapon that the average man cannot comprehend,” he says in a very highbrow manner.
“You appear to be a very intelligent man Mr. Aguilar, so intelligent that I wonder why seek out my services when it seems you have the smarts to take care of whatever you need taking care of, on your own,” I muse.
He gives me a soft chuckle, “A woman such as yourself should know that a smart person would never allow such a service to be traced back to them. Outsourcing is the intelligent approach,” he says with amusement.
I stifle a smile, “A fair point. Now, just what is it you would like me to do?”
“Cutting to the chase. I can appreciate that,” he says while pulling out a large manilla envelope from inside his coat and handing it to me.
I take the envelope, untie the string seal at the back, and pull out a large photograph of an incredibly handsome man. Another peek into the envelope reveals a large number of papers.
“I really hope this isn’t a to-do list.”
He lets out a hearty laugh, “Beauty and humour, how delightful. No, Miss Aconite. Inside you will find every shred of information you could possibly need on your target. His name is Silas Istrati, and I would like you to kill him for me.”
I take another glance at the large selection of paperwork in surprise. I usually do my own reconnaissance and have never relied on a client to provide background on a target for me. This is definitely a first.
“I can’t tell if you want him dead this badly, or if you just don’t want me to go digging for myself,” I say suspiciously.
“I assure you, Miss Aconite, as thorough as I’m sure your abilities are, you won’t find even half of what I have gathered for you, though I welcome you to try. By all means, do your own background to ensure I’m not misleading you, but I promise, what you have is all you will need,” he says with a smile. A smile that has me suppressing a shiver.
The alarm bells are ringing unusually loud in my head. He’s given me no outward signs of deception, and there’s nothing overtly suspicious about him, yet that little primal voice in the back of my mind is telling me something isn’t right about this man. I take mental stock of the dagger strapped to my forearm, ready to use at a moment’s notice.
The dagger is a three-sided blade modelled after the phurba used by Indo-Tibetan Buddhists for ceremonial purposes. The blade itself is 5 inches in length and made from carbon steel, while the handle is 4 inches in length with a hollow interior. The circumference is made of carbon steel with a silicone inlay and a rubber grip. This dagger was custom designed for me to allow the handle to store any poison of my choice. All I have to do is push a button along the edge, and small holes slide open at the base of the handle, allowing poison to release from the handle and coat the blade.
Now, yes, in a fight, ideally you would use the blade to land a fatal blow and call it a day. But sometimes, you’re not the strongest in the fight and it’s better to run, but I’m not leaving my opponent alive. All I have to do is release the poison, deliver a swipe to their flesh, and make a run for it. Leaving me both alive to kill another day, and them completely unaware that they are a dead man walking. Here’s hoping I won’t be required to use it this evening.
I pull the papers slightly out of the envelope and give a few of them a brief skim and find myself impressed by the level of detail he has managed to gather. He’s included everything from how and where to find this Silas Istrati, leaving me with little to do, but I certainly intend to take him up on his offer to do my own research. I’m hardly going to trust the words of a man who is willing to hire a killer.
“So, what is it this man has done to warrant you becoming so dedicated to not only finding him but ending his life?” I ask as I seal the envelope back up.
“I don’t see what business that is of yours.”
“You’re asking me to commit a felony for you, that makes it entirely my business,” I say pleasantly.
“Touche,” he says with a conceding smile, “If you must know, my wife was brutally killed in a hit and run. The driver just left her to die in the street and the police didn’t put that much effort into finding him, so I did it myself. I chose you for the job because I believe you can provide him with the slow and painful death he so rightfully deserves after doing the same to my wife,” he says reticently.
Well, that certainly explains the levels he’s gone to, to find everything in and on this man. He’s a man seeking revenge and justice for his wife. I can understand that. Revenge is the number one motivator in this business, so this is hardly a revelation, but it does answer some of my questions.
“My condolences on your loss,” I say politely.
“Thank you. But if you succeed in this job, then that’s all I need. I shall pay you 250,000 now, and 250,000 when the job is completed,” he says while retrieving another envelope from his breast pocket. What, is his coat Mary Poppins handbag?
He hands me the envelope, which I gladly take and open to find – much to my surprise – Pts250,000 all in 10,000 authentic note denominations. Based on the current conversation rate, 500,000 pesetas would come out to 1,000,000 drachma. This is one hell of a payday just to off one shitty driver.
I close the envelope and stuff it into my jacket, “I gladly accept your very generous payment. That will only leave us with two matters of business. One: method of communication. Two: our contract.”
With not a moment of contemplation, Mr Aguilar retrieves a switchblade from his right pocket, flips it open and slices the blade against the pad of his thumb. I do my best to conceal the shock I feel from witnessing this. In all my years in this business, this is the first time I’ve come across a client who understands the contract proceedings, and it unsettles me just how much this man knows. Either he’s done this before, in which case I would feel a hint of relief, or his research is so in-depth that he knows things about our world that are supposed to be business secrets. I am truly hoping it’s the former and not the latter.
“I assume you have something for me to place my mark upon?” he asks patiently.
I bury my shock and endless list of questions, as I retrieve a metal compact from inside my jacket. I unclasp it and open it to reveal two empty insides. No mirrors, no powder puff. Just two sides ready to hold our contract. I hold it out for him and watch as he presses his bloody thumb down onto one side of the compact, leaving the perfect print of his thumb. Once down, he retrieves his thumb, pulls a handkerchief from his pocket, and wraps it around his thumb. I close the compact and place it safely in my jacket, ready for me to place my mark inside it when the job is done.
“Would I be right in assuming you’ve done this before?” I ask assiduously.
“I don’t get into business with anyone unless I understand all facets of that business. I’m a diligent and cautious man, Miss Aconite. I’m sure you can appreciate that.”
“I do. You’re just not what I’m used to.”
He gives me an amused smile. “Inside the first envelope you will find my contact information. I will await your call with the good news.”
“Given everything you’ve provided me, it should take no time at all,” I say confidently.
“I was hoping you would say that,” he says brightly, “It has been a pleasure to meet you. Best of luck to you,” he says with a nod, before turning and walking away.
I continue to watch him leave until he is out of sight. Once I am certain he is gone, I turn and begin walking in the opposite direction to my rental car. I get in, and once again open the large manilla envelope and take a look at the very expertly done surveillance photos taken of Silas Istrati. I think I’m going to enjoy luring this man into my trap.