As Becker sat in his apartment a thousand miles away reading the account on the computer he knew he could save the poor medical examiner the trouble.
“Compound 1080,” he said aloud. He knew that the man had died of ventricular arrhythmias. Compound 1080, discovered by German chemists during World War II and used in various pesticides, disrupted cellular metabolism and with it the citric acid cycle, also known as the Krebs Cycle, depriving cells of energy. The poison worked rapidly and did incredibly unpleasant things to the person injected with it. The cylinder in Becker’s umbrella point had been filled with enough Compound 1080 to finish off the fellow in a matter of hours. There was no antidote and his last few hours of life, Becker knew, had been filled with unimaginable pain that no human could withstand. He had no doubt screamed to his God for mercy. He was a religious man, Becker knew, having followed him and his beautiful family to Mass the Sunday before plunging his umbrella point into the unfortunate gent’s hamstring. His God had not answered back. Even all-powerful gods bowed before poisons with no known antidotes.
Becker was a student of history, or at least certain esoteric parts of it. He’d gotten the idea of the umbrella delivery system from an attack carried out by the Bulgarian secret police in the 1970s against a person making trouble for the government. Why reinvent the wheel? However, he had put his original spin on the matter because the Bulgarians had used that old standby, ricin, as the killing agent. Compound 1080 was, at least in his mind, far classier.
He used his computer to check his bank account, making sure that the remainder of his kill fee had reached his overseas bank. He would never read or think about the man again. He would not mentally commiserate with the widow or the children who’d lost their father. There was nothing productive about that. If he had those types of feelings, or weaknesses rather, he would not have chosen this line of work. It was a job, just a job. And it was time to move on to another one. Becker was much in demand. That came from never having failed and being unwaveringly discreet.
A week later the letter arrived in the mail. It was time to go to work again.
He stepped aboard another plane, landed, rented a car, and drove to the man’s house out near the water. It was a beautiful estate set amid rows of mature oak and maple trees, fat bushes draped in bloom, flower-lined stone and gravel paths that meandered in and out of sight. The home itself was large and at least two centuries old with the plentiful trappings of that era’s architecture, gables and Doric columns and balustrades, lichen-covered ashlar quoins at the corners and rows of arched windows in front. He was ushered into the library by a dour woman in a black maid’s uniform. The shelves were filled with old books that looked well read, and the vast room had a pleasant aroma of mingled scents, leather, tobacco and candle wax.
The man who joined him moments later was tall and cadaverous, with a horseshoe of white hair remaining on his head. His mustache drooped over his small mouth. His teeth looked false. He wore a set of ancient tweeds, with an overly starched collared shirt and a drab tie that disappeared down into a waistcoat, which looked as though it would be scratchy to the touch. Across its front was a fat watch on a gold chain. He sat down behind an enormous mahogany desk meticulously organized and motioned for Becker to sit across from him. Becker had sat across from many clients at meetings like this. They were all different in terms of sophistication and motivation, yet there was something about the old house, room and man that bothered Becker. Yet details about his client were not his concern. He was here to listen and accept the assignment or not. Becker crossed his legs and waited expectantly. He never spoke until the potential client did. At this point in his career, he wanted to feel challenged. Early on he would accept whatever request came his way. Now he was more selective. Most tasks required weeks of planning and he wanted to spend it only on something he felt was worthy of his talents. Life was too brief, nearly as brief as the people he was paid to kill.
The old man cleared his throat and looked appraisingly over Becker’s bland suit, average features, black gloves and downcast gaze and came away apparently pleased or at least satisfied.
“You come recommended.”
Becker lifted his gaze a millimeter. “I often do. May I ask who the reference was?”
“Schultz.”
“I see. Yes, I can understand that. A tricky one.”
“Indeed.”
“And your request?”
“Trickier still,” said the man. His mustache hairs rippled outward as he spoke. For some reason this irritated Becker when he observed it. He kept his gaze planted downward after that. It was critical to be objective at this point.
“I look forward to being impressed then,” said Becker with a bit more arrogance than he had intended. There was something about this fellow, he suddenly concluded, that bothered him. Something other than the rippling mustache.
The old man leaned forward, resting the well-worn elbow patches of his tweed coat on the polished desktop. He took a few moments to draw a small hooked pipe from his waistcoat pocket and ignite it, nursing the tobacco to life with a few expert intakes of breath. He bent the match in half with long, spidery blue-veined fingers and brushed it into a copper ashtray next to the black rotary dial phone.
“A woman needs to be taken care of.”
“Her name and address?”
“It will be provided through the post.”
Becker glanced up at this. “The post? You mean the mail? That is unusual.”
“You call it one thing and I another,” the man said amiably. “But it means the same thing.”
“I also meant that putting such information down in writing could become awkward if the authorities ever saw it.”
“I’m a very old man, so such things do not bother me. What will be will be.”
“All right. What has she done to you that warrants my intervention?”
The man puffed his pipe thoughtfully before answering. “Does it matter?”
Becker shifted uneasily in his seat. “No, it doesn’t. My terms are relatively simple. Half now, half on completion.”
“So I understand.”
“Please also understand that on only one occasion has someone failed to complete the final payment. His funeral was extremely expensive because of the oversight.”
“I see your point and I would never hazard to repeat his mistake. I have not many years left to live, but I would like to enjoy them in peace and comfort.”
“And the challenging part?”
“You will see that first-hand.”
Becker gave him a curious expression. “Why call this meeting then?”
“So I could see you, and you could see me. I’m sure you would agree that our business is a personal one. If I may say the most personal of all. A face-to-face contact seemed to me manifest.”
Becker shrugged, unimpressed by the man’s words. “Suit yourself. I will await your post. I’ll give you an address that will reach me.”
The other man’s reply surprised Becker.
“I already have it.” He held out his hand. “Shall we shake on it?”
“That’s not necessary.”
“No, it is. I’m an old-fashioned man, as I’m sure you discerned from the moment you stepped in here.” He held out his hand. Becker still hesitated.
“Please,” insisted the old man. “Indulge an old man who’s about to pay you a hundred thousand dollars.”
Finally, Becker held out his gloved hand.
The old man shook his head. “Flesh to flesh. It is a point of honor with me.”
Becker hesitated again and then slowly removed the leather covering. He had four fingers. Where the fifth one, the index finger, should have sprouted, there was only a small nodule of dead bone barely an inch in length. It was a genetic defect inherited from his mother. It was the chief reason he never used a firearm in his work. He couldn’t pull the trigger properly. It was also the reason for the gloves.