One week later
Reaper had been told to be in New York before 9.00 a.m.. He would receive a phone call and should be available to meet anywhere in the Manhattan area within 30 minutes. The client was taking security extremely seriously.
Reaper was both apprehensive and intrigued about the upcoming meeting. He would finally put a face to the very intimidating voice from his past.
Reaper had arrived the previous evening and as always, had travelled light. He didn’t do luggage. He much preferred to be able to slip away into the crowds the moment he disembarked a flight. If he ever needed luggage, he shipped it ahead, in advance, to the ‘wrong’ hotel and would pick it up on his arrival with apologies for the inconvenience caused.
He didn’t usually meet clients face to face and this added to his concern over the meeting. He normally only made contact by mobile phone or email. His latest mobile phone was impossible to track, trace or listen into but despite this, he still used an elaborate network of forwarding devices and voice scramblers to ensure ultimate security and anonymity. If email were required, he used anonymous mail addresses, usually Hotmail accounts and always used internet cafes. He never worked from home and refused to have a PC in any of his houses.
Reaper would not have lasted in the business for as long as he had, had it not been for his fanatical secrecy. The existence of an international super assassin was suspected. Police forces across the world had failed to find any conclusive proof that any such person really existed. In the twenty years that Reaper had been in operation, he had always ensured that the modus operandi for each job differed, meaning no link could ever be made between any of his jobs. His contracts came from around the world through various networks. However, each network was unaware that its “hitter” worked around the world under different identities. Only in the US, his home country, was he known as Reaper. In Germany, he was Dieter. In Spain, he was Juan. In England, Giles. In Italy, Mario and so on. He had more than twenty five identities and spoke almost as many languages and dialects. He had, on more than one occasion, been contracted to “hit” himself in another country. This was easily resolved. He would simply take the money and hit the client who had issued the hit. He didn’t like people who tried to kill him.
The mysterious client from fourteen years earlier had been his most secretive. He had used even more elaborate security than the mega cautious Reaper himself. All Reaper had managed to glean was that he was male and an immensely powerful individual with connections at the highest levels across the world. This was the only client upon whom Reaper could not take revenge if he were ever double crossed.
Fourteen years earlier, he had thought twice about accepting the contract and in hindsight, had wished he hadn’t. The coldness and emptiness of the client when he had called Reaper after his monumental failure had struck fear into him. The call had been very short and to the point.
“You failed me,” he said, replacing the receiver before Reaper could speak.
The call had not been made to his mobile but to the bedside phone of a motel which, to this day, he believed nobody could possibly have traced.
Reaper had no intention of giving his own appearance away to the client and had taken adequate precautions by “borrowing” some clothes from a tramp in the toilets of Central Station. The clothes were too short but bulky enough to hide Reaper’s toned physique and their aroma certainly added to his cover. Passers-by visibly choked at the alcohol and urine fumes. To complete his new look, he’d grown a beard to give himself a dirty unshaven appearance and wore a hat to cover his hair. He also carried a bottle of cheap wine wrapped in brown paper. Reaper had gone, a tramp replaced him.
The phone call came at 10.30 a.m.
“Waldorf hotel, 11.00 a.m., get in the driver’s seat of a black car which’ll flash its headlights three times.” The caller hung up as soon as he was finished.
Reaper smiled, it was only five blocks away.
He made his way to the Waldorf Hotel, stumbling along the street and mumbling to himself along the way. Unbeknownst to all around him, he was scrutinising and analysing their every move. He scanned the traffic, checking for any vehicles which re-appeared or hung around suspiciously.
The car arrived bang on schedule and as agreed, the headlights flashed three times and the driver exited the vehicle, making his way to a diner across the street as if to pick up coffee and donuts. Reaper kicked himself at how stupid his disguise was. A drunken tramp climbing into the driver’s seat of any car would be suspicious but a drunken tramp climbing into the driver’s seat of a Maybach, the world’s most expensive limousine, was farcical. Why was it these things only happened with this client? Reaper never made mistakes. Even fourteen years later, the client still made him nervous and edgy. He didn’t like it.
The car was completely black, not just the paintwork but also the windows. In fact, it gave the impression that there were no windows just black bodywork. Reaper waited until there was a lull in the foot traffic before he leapt across the pavement, around the bonnet, jumped into the driver’s seat and before the door was even shut, he’d gunned the engine and was half a block away. Nobody had had time to take in what had happened.
“Hello Reaper,” came the sullen voice from the speakers.
Reaper turned around and came nose to nose with a black screen. The front of the car was completely separated from the rear. He couldn’t and wouldn’t see the client.
“Hello.”
“Rather inappropriate dress, don’t you think?” asked the client laughing.
“It does the job,” replied Reaper not in the mood for humour.
Reaper continued north along Park Avenue. Fortunately, even the front windows were blacked out so nobody could see that a tramp was driving the $350,000 car.
“Whatever makes you happy. Now, if you look to your right, you will see a package. Those are your instructions which include all the plans you’ll…”
“Wait a minute, a week ago, you just said you wanted to talk?” interrupted Reaper.
“I don’t like being interrupted,” replied the client ominously, before continuing. “As I was saying, the package contains all the plans you’ll need. I don’t want to go into detail here, suffice to say that everything you need, including target identities and locations are in the package. Are we clear?”
“Look, I’m very selective about the jobs I take, I can’t promise anything other than I’ll have a look at and let you know, OK?” replied Reaper, knowing he would have a quick look see what the guy was up to and say no thanks. He didn’t want anything more to do with this client.
“Let me make this clear,” said the client, adopting his more ominous tone. ”You have been recommended to me AGAIN as the best and quite frankly that is the only reason you have been allowed to live for the last fourteen years.”
“What the hell do you mean ‘allowed to live’?” said Reaper angrily. He had had enough, nobody talked to him like this. The meeting was over, he pulled over to the kerb and said in his own ominous tone.
“Don’t underestimate me.” He stopped the car and began to open the door.
“Oh, I don’t, Matt.”
Reaper froze as the client said his real name. Pictures began to flash on the screen in the central console. The pictures were of Reaper, his homes, his fake id’s, his mother, in fact everything he thought nobody knew.
“Matt Heinrich, born 3 ^ rd March 1963 to Mary Heinrich, father unknown, in Columbus Ohio,” continued the client.
“How do you know this?” said Reaper almost whispering.
“I know everything. Now close the door and start driving,” the client commanded.
In a daze, Reaper obeyed.
Reaper was in shock. Nobody knew his background. His mother died when he was five years old. He’d spent most of his life in children’s homes, generally escaping and being moved to more secure facilities. At the age of fourteen, he had escaped for good and at the age of sixteen, had managed to fake his way into the army despite being a year too young. It was there that he found his true calling. He was ruthless, showed no mercy and was enveloped in a coldness that was ideal for some very special work. He was soon identified as a candidate for special projects. He continued to impress his trainers and after only a year, was moved into a highly secret division specialising in ‘black operations’.
Within two years, he had proven himself to be one of the best operatives ever recruited. He was an exceptional linguist, with an amazing ear, which allowed him not only to learn languages but to speak them like a native. His talent and lack of conscience chilled even the hardest commanders. His training covered fieldcraft and techniques taught across the world’s Special Forces. Reaper had been described by his commanders as a perfect killing machine. Not only was his training second to none but he had extraordinary physical attributes. He was six foot four, weighed seventeen stone and was built of solid muscle. Despite his physical enormity, he was light on his feet. He was a superb athlete capable of running both the marathon and the hundred metres in times which would qualify for the Olympics.
Reaper was no brainwashed fool, he did not care about flag and country. Nobody had ever cared for him and he knew that his talents and skills were extremely marketable. After six years in the services, he decided it was time to move on, although he knew that officially that was not an option. His talents did not allow exit from Special Services other than feet first. He was too dangerous to be let loose into civilian life. After more than six months of planning, he did leave the service, feet first. Everybody believed he and four of his colleagues had died on a routine mission when their helicopter crashed into the sea. No bodies were ever found in the shark infested waters. He had planned the accident down to the last detail. A small fishing boat was stationed not far from the point at which he had ditched the helicopter. The boat was found drifting close to shore by the coastguard shortly after Reaper’s escape. The ship’s captain had died of an apparent heart attack, thus leaving no link to Reaper and the crash.
He changed his appearance by undergoing lengthy and painful plastic surgery. He then set up his operations making contact with the underworld across the globe. He took on any job and collateral damage was not an issue to him. If the target’s children were caught up in the action, so be it. As long as the target was eliminated, nothing else mattered. This had upset a number of clients over the years whose conscience could not cope with innocent deaths. But as far as Reaper was concerned, they were simply casualties of war and the clients were weak.
The pictures before him were on a loop. There were pictures of him when he was a baby with his mother, mugshots of when he was arrested as a juvenile, army photos, a number of shots of him over the previous two months and most recently photos of him entering the toilets in Grand Central Station as Reaper and exiting as a tramp.
“But how?” was all he could say.
“Let’s just say I have some very talented colleagues. Now let’s continue with your mission,” said the client.
Reaper was silent, wondering how he could have been followed without knowing.
“You leave me no choice. Or do you?” he asked quietly.
“Of course you have a choice” offered the client. “Take the job and you’ll never need to work again. Or, consider yourself finished.”
“Then you leave me no option but to accept,” replied Reaper. “Excellent. I knew you would come around to my way of thinking. Now, as I was saying, the package to your right contains everything you will need. It also contains access to funds deposited in a number of countries under your various aliases. The value of the successful completion of this mission is worth billions to me. Therefore, on successful completion, you will receive $20 million dollars and my sincere gratitude. Failure, however, is unthinkable and will lose me as much as I stand to gain. Let’s be explicitly clear, therefore, failure is not an option. The world is not large enough for you to hide should that be the case.”
“OK, that’s clear,” replied Reaper nonchalantly, he could hardly believe it. $20 million for one job!
“Good. Now back to the funds. Besides your personal fee, you’ll need additional monies to carry out the mission. I’ve deposited another $20 million dollars but should you need any more, just ask. Whatever you need, you will get.”
“$20 million? What the hell will I need that for?” he asked snapping out of his own $20million trance.
“This is no simple mission. Once you read the contents of the package, you’ll understand. This is not a solo mission and you’ll probably need a small army to pull it off. Trust me, you’re going to earn your $20 million fee.”
“I now prefer to work alone and after the events of fourteen years ago, it has proved a wise choice.”
“Tough. This is not a solo mission. Just do what you have to do to get the job done. Now pull over here and get out.”
“What, here? What about your driver?” said Reaper looking around to see where they were exactly.
“He’s behind us.”
As Reaper pulled over to the kerb and got out, a car screeched to a stop behind them. The chauffeur jumped out and got into the Maybach pulling away instantly. Reaper was left standing, holding a package which could result in riches beyond his wildest dreams or, his death.
Reaper was desperate to find out what mission could possibly justify a $20 million price tag. However he’d have to wait, he couldn’t open the package in the middle of the street. He rushed back to his small, anonymous hotel room and ripped the package open.
It contained two envelopes, one labelled ‘Mission’ and one labelled ‘Reaper’. He opened the Reaper one first. It contained a secure mobile phone with the instructions that Speed Dial One was for the client, a number of passports for him with new identities and the bank account details for the $20 million expenses. He then opened the ‘Mission’ package and began to smile. It contained a number of schematics, photographs, a typewritten dossier of objectives and the criteria for the successful completion of the mission.
Reaper put the package down, he could not believe it. $20 million to kill the Kennedys, his wildest dreams had come true.