Chapter 77: Codename: Aconite Chapter Twenty-Seven
I’m startled awake by the sound of a ringing phone. As my body jolts to life – much to my surprise – so does the body of Silas, who happens to be tangled beneath me. Our heads collide as he jolts up in response to the phone, and with a cry and a groan, we both clutch our heads. In a hurry to answer his phone, Silas doesn’t realise the position we’re in, and rolls over, knocking me to the ground with a thud.
“Hey!” I shout, as I rub my now aching head.
“Shit, sorry,” he says as he grabs his phone off the coffee table and answers it.
I tune out his conversation as I slowly get up and rub my ass. Just another bruise I can add to the wounded canvas that has become my body. I make my way to the kitchen to make some tea as I try to recall how we ended up in the position we found ourselves in. We’ve spent the last few days going over everything from the very beginning, analysing any detail we might have missed even down to when we both arrived in Moscow and who we spoke to when we arrived. We’re being painfully methodical, even looking for our contacts’ names in every foreign database we could, until I guess we just fell asleep. Between our healing wounds and the mental exhaustion from all this bullshit, it’s no surprise that we were tired. I just don’t know how I ended up using his body as a mattress, though I’m not complaining.
“Do you have a fax machine?!” he calls out.
“In my office! Fax number is on the machine!” I call back and hear his feet patter towards my office.
I make my tea and then make my way to my office, where Silas stands patiently in front of the fax machine as paper after paper begins to print from the machine.
“What’s going on?” I ask with great interest.
“That was my contact from Interpol. He’s faxing over every case file that fits the criteria I gave him. I’m sure a lot of these aren’t what we’re looking for, but I bet at least a few of them are,” he says while he gathers every piece of paper as it’s fed through the machine, and neatly arranges it on my desk.
As the papers continue to print, one flies off the tray and floats to the floor. I pick it up, examine it, and quickly grab the papers that follow. It’s a report on an unsolved double homicide that occurred in Berlin, two years ago. It’s hard to make out much from the crime scene photos in these printouts, but if all the black ink on the image is actually blood, then this was a gruesome crime indeed. According to the report, there were signs of a violent altercation, with victim 1 dying due to blood loss caused by a tear in his carotid artery, which according to the coroner’s report was caused by a bite. A bite mark which was linked back to the second victim. Traces of blood matching the blood type of victim 1 were found in the mouth and stomach of victim 2. The bite mark also matched the dental moulds taken of victim 2. Police suspected that the bite was the resulting act of self-defence.
Self-defence would be the logical conclusion since victim 2 died also due to blood loss caused by emasculation. I cringe at the mental image that puts in my head. The severed appendages were found mere meters away and were excised using a gold curved dagger with a jewelled hilt that was found next to the body of victim 1. I flip to the picture of the weapon, and while it’s a terrible printout, that sure as hell looks like a Khanjar, which is a traditional dagger originating from Oman.
The more I read the case file, the more so much about this crime rings out with disturbing familiarity.
“This one,” I announce.
Silas turns to look at me and then comes to read the papers over my shoulder. As he gets to the part about the emasculation, he cups his balls and cringes in discomfort. “That’s just uncalled for.” I chuckle. “But why do you think this is similar to what happened with us?”
“I can’t make out the faces from these printouts, but I’m fairly certain I met one of these men during different years of The Tournament,” I announce.
Unease settles over the room as Silas takes the papers from me and reads them over in depth as he leans against my desk, while the fax continues to print more case files. The Tournament is a yearly battle royal, where assassins from around the world are recruited against their will to compete in an arena spectacular of murder and mayhem. Last man standing wins. The prize? You get to live. We’ve come to accept this barbaric tradition in our criminal underworld, though I will never understand why. We don’t get a say, we’re just thrust into a deadly sport against our will and forced to kill or be killed. Some fought it in the beginning, but none were ever seen again. While I’ve never competed against Silas, it’s possible he competed in years where I was not invited, or perhaps he’s been lucky enough to never be invited. Either way, he recognised the name.
“I’m not sure about the first victim, but based on these details, I think victim 2 is an assassin who went by the name Dracula. He competed in the Tournament each time I was there. As I recall, he got the name because he had a pension for ripping out his victim’s throat with his teeth, and from what I witnessed, was likely to suffer from Renfield’s Syndrome,” he says darkly.
I gag, suppressing the urge to vomit. “He drank blood?”
“He was biting people’s throats out. I don’t think drinking their blood while he was at it is an unrealistic leap, do you?” he asks pointedly.
“That’s a good point, and now that you mention it, he’s starting to sound familiar, and I don’t mean because he’s named after an iconic fictional vampire. As for the first victim, I’m pretty sure he is an assassin who went by the Codename: Castrati, so named because he was fond of emasculating his male victims and keeping the parts as a souvenir. Or at least I assume so since the appendages were never found.” My words make Silas squirm and cross his legs, and I hide my amusement at his discomfort. “I hadn’t seen him at the last Tournament, and didn’t think much of it,” I comment.
“Same with Dracula. Which sounds stupid to say, but yeah, he seemed to just vanish a couple years ago,” he says suspiciously.
“I think we just found out what happened to them.”
“And what are the chances they were victims of the same person who orchestrated our hits on each other?”
“Two assassins sent to kill each other and both ending up dead. While I believe some things in life are pure coincidence, I don’t believe this could ever be one of them. I think you were right to reach out to your contact in Interpol,” I say as a sense of foreboding creeps into my voice.
“This crime took place two years ago. That means whoever is behind this has been at this for years,” he says gravely.
“And I don’t think they plan on stopping,” I say hauntingly as the severity of the situation finally starts to sink in.
We sink into silence, my tea growing cold as the seconds tick by, suddenly feeling as though the Grim Reaper is swinging his scythe over our heads, getting closer and closer with every swing. Perhaps he’ll spare Silas in gratitude for embodying him so reverently. Or perhaps he’ll take offence and do away with him first. I glance over as the fax machine alerts us to running out of paper. That’s when I realise just how many case files have been sent and are still pending. Just how many of them are of victims who weren’t as lucky as we were? And what will happen when our mystery assailant realises we’re both very much alive and well?
As I get to work replacing the paper in the fax machine, and it resumes its infinite printouts, a desperate and near-suicidal idea comes to mind. Even if we can identify many of these crimes as assassin killings, it changes nothing. It makes the matter more severe, but it doesn’t bring us closer to finding the mastermind behind this. But there is one thing I’m realising. So far the four victims – surviving and dead – were competitors in The Tournament. That’s at least one piece of common ground besides our careers, that links us together.
“I have either the dumbest or the smartest idea…” I say as Silas looks over at me curiously. I really hope I’m not making a huge mistake.