Andrew Britton - The Assassin

As Vanderveen made his way through the park, the lights of the belfry drawing ever closer, he was pulled from his thoughts by the sound of a woman’s scream. The indignant cry was cut off in the middle, as though a hand had suddenly clamped over an open mouth. In the intense silence that followed, a burst of drunken laughter cut through the trees, followed immediately by a sound he could not quite place, a shuffling, grunting noise, which carried clearly in the brisk night air.

He did not hesitate; his stride was unbroken. In fact, he quickened his pace, hoping to get clear of the park before the police were alerted. The station was nearby, he knew, on the eastern side of the Town Hall. Whatever was happening — a rape, a robbery — was not his concern. His continued freedom precluded his intervention in such matters, but it was his utter indifference that sealed the decision to walk away, which was made unconsciously. The next sound he heard, however, caused him to freeze in his tracks and breathe a soft curse.

The woman had cried out again, apparently breaking free of the hand that silenced her. This time, the scream was accompanied by a flurry of pointed obscenities, which were not uttered in French, but in Arabic.

The park beyond the footpath was reasonably open, which worked both for and against him. The grass beneath his feet was close clipped, damp from the earlier rain, and the trees and hedges were neatly pruned, giving him a clear view of what lay ahead, or at least as much as the diffused light would reveal. Fortunately, the vegetation surrounding the war museum was less well kept, as though the men and women who maintained the exhibits had no time or concern for the aesthetics of the building itself.

It was from that copse of tangled trees that the woman’s scream had originated, and now, drawing closer, he heard yet another muffled cry. There was no doubt in his mind that the woman was Yasmin Raseen; what he didn’t understand was why she had followed him. He was struck by a sudden flash of anger; he had watched his trail carefully, and yet she’d somehow managed to track him for nearly an hour without giving herself away. She had operated in this capacity for much longer than he had, he knew, but knowing her capabilities didn’t slow the rising anger, which threatened to overwhelm him.

Taking a deep, calming breath, he forced himself to clear his mind and focus on the approach. He moved in a crouch, his weight perfectly balanced on the balls of his feet. Judging by the drunken sound of the laughter he’d heard a moment ago, Raseen’s assailants were in no state to offer a serious challenge. For this reason, Vanderveen left the knife in his pocket. Whatever happened next, he was determined to keep things simple, and that meant leaving them alive if at all possible.

There. The trees gave way, and he took in the scene with a practiced eye: two bodies were intertwined, grappling on the ground, the larger figure on top. There was a second shape several feet to the right, a still form on a bed of crushed leaves. The figure was lying on its back, not moving, arms outstretched.

For a split second, he considered leaving her. It would be better if he did not have to explain her death, but some things couldn’t be helped. On the other hand, Vanderveen realized that she could be carrying some kind of identification. If so, she would quickly be traced back to the hotel on the rue de Madrid. Once the police learned that Raseen had not checked in alone, they would seek out her traveling companion for questioning. Once the companion failed to materialize, he would become the prime suspect. To complicate matters, the woman at the desk still had his passport, which he’d been asked to leave when they checked in. The passport contained a false name, and his appearance was subtly altered in the photograph, but it was still evidence. He had no desire to leave it behind.

Turning his attention back to the struggle, he focused on the man astride the smaller figure. Having made his decision, he moved forward and snaked his right arm around the thick neck in front of him, then pulled back sharply, placing his left hand on the side of the head for leverage. Hands instantly sprung up to wrap round his arms, trying to loosen the grip. The man was strong; for a moment, Vanderveen’s right arm began to give way, and then he felt something hot and wet spraying against the thin fabric of his long-sleeve shirt. The man seemed to jerk spasmodically, then fell forward, crashing onto the smaller figure. Surprised, Vanderveen stepped back. Raseen’s assailant began to choke as she pushed him off with a huge effort. She rolled away and tried to sit up, gasping for breath. Beneath her open coat, her blouse was visibly torn in several places. There were leaves in her hair and a wet streak over her left eye — blood, Vanderveen realized — but there was nothing in her expression to indicate fear, panic, or even relief that he had come to her aid.

The larger man was bleeding out; that much was obvious. She must have nicked the artery before he arrived in the clearing. Ignoring the dying man, Vanderveen went to the other body and checked for a pulse. Not finding one, he looked at the face. It was obscenely white in the dark, eyes wide in surprise. The throat was intact, but there was a dark spot on the shirt, indicating a puncture wound placed neatly between the fourth and fifth ribs.

He turned back to Raseen, who was still breathing heavily. Her eyes flicked down to the bodies, and something changed in her face; she seemed not pleased, but oddly satisfied with what she had done, as though she had confirmed some long-held belief in her own capabilities. He wondered if she had ever killed before, despite what he’d been told in Tartus. The knife was still in her hand, a slim shard of steel, the blade glistening wet in the moonlight.

Vanderveen met her gaze, his face tightening. She seemed to sense his thoughts, as she clambered to her feet and took a fast step back, her eyes fixed on his. Strangely enough, she seemed wary, but not afraid. He could tell the difference; he was all too familiar with the nuances of joyless expressions.

Kill her, said the voice inside.

He took a slow step forward; for the moment, his body was as irrational as his mind, his limbs trembling with rage. She moved the knife in front of her body, as if to remind him that she still had it. Still, her expression did not change. Her face was cool but not distant; she was entirely engaged in the moment.

She’s too much of a risk… Just look at the mess she’s left you. Kill her now.

He took another step forward, which she countered with another step back. She opened her mouth to say something, then changed her mind and clamped it shut. They were separated by 2 feet at most; if he moved quickly and got hold of the knife hand, he could crush her trachea in a matter of seconds. He just needed the slightest distraction…

Feet in the underbrush, branches whipping around an advancing form. Vanderveen stepped into the shadows instinctively, and the woman froze in place.

“Hello?” a gruff, cautious voice, asked with authority. “Police. Is anyone there?”

Raseen’s gaze skipped to the shadows, questioning. Vanderveen moved carefully forward, nodded once, then stepped back. He was now completely reliant on her, and it occurred to him how quickly the tables had turned; in other circumstances, it would have been almost amusing.

Raseen dropped down to the wet grass, simultaneously wiping her hand over the cut near her left eye. Smearing the blood over her face, she positioned herself next to one of the bodies and cried out in faltering French. “I’m over here! Please, help me! Please…”

The noise through the brush grew louder, leaves sliding under fast, heavy feet, branches snapping. A portly figure burst into view. Even in the dark, Vanderveen could make out the patrol uniform and the radio hooked to the right side of the man’s belt. The officer took in the scene, murmuring an obscenity. Then he dropped to his knees next to Raseen. “Mademoiselle? Mademoiselle, etes-vous blesse?” Are you hurt?