Jon Cleary - Dragons at the Party

He had returned that night to Damascus, going up the Aley road and down through the Bekaa valley through the Syrian troops’ roadblocks. He left Damascus the next day as Michele Rinelli, the sales manager of an Italian computer firm, and, going via Dubai, arrived sixteen hours later in Singapore. There he checked into the Raffles; he preferred the older style of hotel, they reminded him of the hotels in Buenos Aires. He wondered what the hotels were like in Bunda.

Then a contact in the Singapore police told him he had been sighted and a watch posted at Changi airport. He had moved out of the Raffles into a small hotel and lain low for a week; then the news had come through that the situation in Palucca had worsened and President Timori was expected to flee to Australia. Seville had shaved off his moustache, dyed his dark hair blond, donned steel-rimmed spectacles and got out the passport that fitted his new identity. He had waited till it was certain that Timori was headed for Australia. Then he had bought a business class ticket for Sydney, gone through passport control as Michel Gideon, a French-speaking Swiss businessman, and boarded the crowded Qantas jet. He had been aware of the two plainclothes officers standing in the background as he passed through passport control, but they had not stopped him. Eight hours later he had come undetected through Immigration in Sydney; visitors were flocking to the city for the bicentennial celebrations and six 747s had landed within a few minutes of each other. He had collected his two bags, one with the dismantled rifle hidden in a false bottom, and, having nothing to declare, had been waved through by the over-worked Customs men.

The Timoris and their entourage arrived twenty-four hours later. The local press, with a fine disregard for security, had already told Seville where they could be found; they were tired of stories about the bicentennial celebrations, this was an entirely new subject to Australians. The country for years had been a haven for refugees, but they had always been of the lower orders; no President had ever asked for asylum. So they welcomed the unwanted bastard with banner headlines.

Seville had scouted the surroundings of Kirribilli House and decided he needed the top floor of the block of flats across the street from it. He had checked the number of the top-floor flat, then checked the name against the number on the mail-boxes: Kiddle. On the afternoon of the Timoris’ arrival he had stood amongst the already present crowd of demonstrators and watched the small convoy of Commonwealth cars, trailed by the newsreel vans and cars, come down the narrow street and swing in through the iron gates. Madame Timori, mistaking the demonstrators for glamour-loving fans, had waved and been roundly booed. The waving hand had stopped in mid-air, looked for a moment as if it might turn into a two-fingered salute, then dropped out of sight. The gates had closed behind the cars.

Seville went back to the suburban hotel where he was staying, looked up Kiddle in the phone book, then dialled the 922 number. ‘Mrs Kiddle?’ he said to the woman who answered.

‘ Miss Kiddle.’ It was an old woman’s voice, he judged. ‘Yes?’

‘This is Security at Kirribilli House. We are just checking that the demonstrators are not worrying you?’

‘The demonstrators? Oh, is that what they are? No, no. They are noisy, but they’re not worrying me. Has President What’s-his-name arrived yet?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ She sounded as if she wanted to give the President her regards. ‘We’ll be in touc,. Miss Kiddle, if the demonstrators get too noisy.’

‘Oh, don’t worry. If I were younger, I’d join them. Tell President Timori to go home.’

Seville smiled and hung up. He could not imagine his mother, God damn her soul, saying that; she would be out there waving a flag for President Timori, for any President. He packed the Springfield in the squash kit-bag he had bought that morning, added the length of stout cord he always carried, put in his black kid gloves and zipped up the bag. He dressed in jeans and a navy-blue tennis blouson, put on dark glasses and went out to kill.

The day was hot and the crowd of demonstrators listless; the police watching them were equally listless. No one stopped Seville as he pushed through the crowd and walked along towards the block of flats. He went into the cool hallway of the old thick-walled building and climbed to the top floor. There was no lift and he wondered how Miss Kiddle, if she was old, managed this climb.

There was a security grille door guarding the front door of the top flat. It took him less than a minute to pick the lock; a man who carried a dismantled Springfield rifle carried other tools as well. Seville was a professional: he knew better than to gamble on doors being left unlocked.

Then he pressed the bell beside the door. There was no answer and for a moment he hoped that Miss Kiddle had gone out: he had an aversion to close-up killing, such as a strangling. Then a voice said, ‘Who is it?’

‘It’s Security from Kirribilli House, Miss Kiddle. We called you an hour or so ago.’

‘Oh yes – just a moment.’

There was the sound of two locks being snapped back, then the door was opened. Miss Kiddle stood there, white-haired and frail; somehow he had expected someone more robust. He smiled at her, then pushed against the door and stepped into the flat, kicking the door closed behind him. She didn’t look frightened or startled by his abrupt entrance; she was smiling at him when he took the cord from his blouson pocket and wrapped it round her neck. She died without protest, but he stood behind her, his head turned away till she went limp.

He laid her out gently on the floor, pulled a shawl off a grand piano and covered her with it. He opened the front door, locked the security door, and closed the front door again, locking it. Then he looked around the room in which he stood.

It was a big room and it reminded him of his mother’s house in Recoletta in Buenos Aires: the antique furniture, the grand piano with the shawl on it, the dark drapes aimed at keeping out the too-bright sun; Miss Kiddle, like his mother, had preferred to live in the past. He crossed to one of the windows and at once looked down on Kirribilli House. Trees obstructed part of the view, but he couldn’t ask for a perfect situation: assassins, by the nature of their trade, rarely do have perfect situations.

He put the rifle together and sat down to wait till the opportunity presented itself to kill Timori. It might be a long wait, but sooner or later Timori would emerge from the house. Twice the phone rang, but he ignored it, though he sweated through the second ringing, which went on for almost two minutes. He felt in need of a leak after that and he got up and went into the bathroom off the main bedroom.

But the room was full of a woman’s private things: he couldn’t face them, suddenly felt an odd respect for Miss Kiddle who possibly had never had a man, other than a plumber, in this most private of rooms. He went out, found a second bathroom, relieved himself, pressed the cistern button and went back into the living-room. He had taken off his right glove to handle his penis and now he put it back on again as he settled back at his post.

It was almost dark when President and Madame Timori stepped out and began their after-dinner stroll. They stood for a moment looking down at the spectacle of the lighted boats on the harbour. Seville raised the rifle, found his target distinct against the cross-hatch of the ’scope. The Timoris were standing close together; there would be the opportunity for two shots in quick succession. He would present Madame Timori to the client as a bonus at no extra charge.

The demonstrators, evidently alerted that the Timoris had come out of the house and were in the grounds,’ were now shouting and chanting at the top of their voices. ‘Death to Dictators!’ was one chant, and Seville took it as encouragement. His finger eased gently on the trigger, then tightened. At that moment he saw the other figure come right into the centre of the ‘scope, but it was too late to hold the shot.