Richard Doetsch - Half-Past Dawn

“Where I come from, life and death stand side-by-side; the divide is blurred. Our priests say they can communicate with the dead.”

“Really?” Jack said, his voice filled with cynicism.

“You act as if that sounds so far-fetched. Everyone talks to those who have passed away in one way, shape, or form. How many people do you know who will talk to their deceased mother or father, hearing their voices in their ears during times of stress or anguish? Mothers hearing the cry of a child who has passed away. Or seeing people in our dreams, people who have come back to haunt or guide us. The priests from the village where I grew up have traditions thousands of years old concerning life, death, resurrection, just like any other religion.”

Jack stared at him.

“They believe in magic. In not only communicating with the afterlife but also seeing the future, predicting what’s to come as if they could read your fate. They say they can remember the future in much the way we remember the past.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“Spoken like a man who can only see life in terms of black and white, right and wrong. Spoken like a scientist who can’t wrap his mind around things he can’t understand or… just like an attorney.” Cristos tilted his head, as if assessing. “You look like a Catholic to me.”

Jack didn’t answer.

“The priest during mass, turning water into wine, Christ rising from the dead. Miracles, healings, divine intervention. Every religion has and embraces its own beliefs, the kind that some might call magical. Who are you to question their validity?”

“You’re telling me the priests of your religion can see the future?”

“The head Cotis priest can look into someone’s heart and see his fate and, in some cases, even help to shape it.”

“If they have such a third eye, why didn’t they see the horrors you would commit and try to stop you?”

“Who’s to say they didn’t try?” Cristos paused. “Do you believe your future is preordained? That we were always destined to meet again even though I died?”

“We shape our lives,” Jack said. “Not some divine intervention.”

“Really? If your mother called you in the middle of the night with a premonition of your house burning to the ground from a fault in the toaster, you’d unplug that toaster. Or if someone was to tell you that you were to die in a car accident on I-95 tomorrow and they said it with certainty, would you take a different road or perhaps avoid getting into a car?”

Jack pondered the logic of Cristos’s words. He hated when people lectured him but there was a glimmer of truth to their words. “Are you telling me you weren’t supposed to die that day? That some kind of magic intervened?”

Cristos let out a dry laugh. “No magic involved that time. I only needed to own two people: the technician who administered the drugs and rigged the heart monitor and the coroner.”

Jack was instantly shocked. “How could you get to them from prison?”

“Once I was captured, the people who hired me were the ones who insisted on my speedy trial. They knew that if I was ever captured, I could choose to name names during the trial about who hired me and tell them about the list I had of all of the jobs I’ve done worldwide. And most particularly, who my employer was. They were easily swayed to my cause. We came to the conclusion that if I was convicted and executed, I’d have even more free rein to carry out future assignments.”

“How could your employer manipulate our system so easily?”

“Because my employer is the system. My employer was your government.”

The sounds of the jungle came alive at night: birds in sweet song and raptor screech; monkeys and small mammals on their nocturnal activities in the enormous trees; snakes and reptiles slithering in the underbrush, taking up positions to lie in wait and snatch their unsuspecting prey as it meandered by. The sudden howl of a macaque echoed through the mountains, its deep growl hushing all other sounds of the night, all bowing in fear and respect. And it was that moment of silence that frightened most, for it felt as if the world was waiting for death.

Cristos lay under the thick green canopy of the jungle, just on the outskirts of the Sapre estate. He had embraced his new name, Suresh having died along with his heart four months earlier. The fiery pain in his skin was still there, the grafts taut like an ill-fitting garment. All of it reminded him of why he was finding pleasure in this moment.

He had surveyed the property, performing reconnaissance for the last month under cover of darkness. He knew every inch of the grounds as if it were the land of his birth and the interior of the home as if it were his own skin, able to walk it blindfolded without a sound, without running into a single wall or piece of furniture in the ten-thousand-square-foot mansion.

It was built to resemble a Swiss chalet. The prime minister had modeled it on the lodge he frequented in Gstaad. Made of large pine timbers, it was a multistory log cabin with large picture windows affording views of the lake in front and the Parshia Mountains in back. Cristos found it pleasantly ironic that the upper reaches of the peaceful mountains the prime minister had looked upon for all of these years was not only the birthplace of his assassin but would also be the last place he gazed on in his final day.

Raj and Nadia were scheduled to be married the next day in a lavish ceremony by the lake. Three large white tents were in place, the seating for five hundred already set. The marriage was viewed as the dynastic merger of the century, the politically powerful family of Prime Minister Wahajian Sapre joining with the family of Kartic Desai, one of the wealthiest industrialists in the country. The marriage was arranged more than ten years earlier, before Nadia and Raj had met, before they had even finished grade school. Their fathers had laid out their lives for them, lives that they rebelled against in their own ways but fell in line with as they grew up.

But come tomorrow, there would be no wedding, there would be no grand merger to be covered in the New York Times, the London Times, or the Times of India. The headlines in the coming days would only be of death.

Cristos had formulated his plan. He would be acting on his own. His employers had already transferred five million dollars to an account in Prague, with the balance to be paid out upon completion. He requested a list of supplies and was surprised when it had all arrived ahead of schedule to the small warehouse he had rented in the slums three miles away from the estate.

A small stag party was held earlier in the evening, more akin to a Wall Street board of directors meeting than a stripper-filled, gin-mill extravaganza. Only men were on the estate at this time; the mothers, sisters, bridesmaids, and bride weren’t expected until morning.

While some of the small group headed upstairs to the six guest rooms and others had left the main house to rest in the guest houses on the other side of the lake, PM Sapre, Desai, and Raj had retired to the library for an impromptu ceremony. It was a gentleman’s den filled with books, leather furniture, and a fully stocked mahogany bar. The three men sat in large captain’s chairs, clutching glowing Cuban cigars, as if they were gods discussing the fate of mankind.

Cristos watched it all through the high-powered scope of his sniper rifle, listening to their every word through his earpiece, which picked up the signal from bugs he had placed earlier.

Desai placed a large wooden box on the table before Raj. The two older men smiled as he lifted the lid and drew out a long golden dagger, its hilt sparkling with precious gems.