Face of the Assassin Read online

  Wayne nodded. “I know they have enough money and power to do better than sweat proof make-up. Your skin is real, your injury is too, but somehow you switched from chink to spic. Tell me about the science.”

  “I thought you didn’t like ‘school stuff.”

  “I am not asking for all the bio physiology details, but you know how this change took place and I want you to tell me.”

  “I’m not inclined to tell you.”

  “Oh, I see. You are okay about asking me about crying, but you fear the intimacy of telling me something I want to know.”

  “I’m not sure what you’ll do with the information.”

  “Yet you will hold in another secret. Another level of truth you will not share in order to adhere to rules placed upon you by people I’m not convinced you really respect.”

  Diegert turned Javier’s eyes to the floor as he considered his loyalty to Avery, Panzer and Creation Labs. He wasn’t specifically instructed not to discuss the nanocytes, nor was he giving away the secrets by which these things actually worked. Besides this stuff couldn’t be kept secret forever. Diegert felt Wayne’s gaze pushing down on him as he heard him say, “Unloading secrets is necessary for an assassin’s survival. You must have people you can trust to confide in about what you’ve done. You and I are brothers in the secret guild of assassins.”

  “I never heard of the guild of assassins.”

  “Well that’s because I just made it up, but the guild exists whenever assassins agree to support one another. I’m here to help you. Does it hurt?”

  “What?”

  “Does it hurt to change your face?”

  “No, not really.”

  “It seems to take like, ten –fifteen minutes. I’m thinking about how long you were in the back room.”

  “Yeah, that’s about right.”

  “What’s the secret ingredient? What makes it all work?”

  Diegert felt the need to answer the question. He did not think about the consequences, just the need to get rid of guilt, regret and recrimination. Telling Wayne about the nanocyte’s abilities to alter the genetic code of cells, transforming their proteins to change his appearance would probably confuse him, but it would also weaken Crepusculous’s exclusive hold on this unique technology.

  Looking at Wayne he said, “Nanocytes.”

  “Nanissists?”

  “Nanocytes are tiny computer chips in my body that change the DNA of my cells, altering their appearance. They can change my face to look like any picture I put in the program.”

  “Really, a computer program changes your face through the actions of tiny chips in your bloodstream?”

  Diegert put a sly smile on Javier’s face as he nodded.

  “So am I seeing your real face right now?” asked Wayne.

  Feeling like he had already done just a little too much truth telling, Diegert replied, “Yeah, this is me. I’m Javier Perez.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Although she could have easily hacked it, Fatima convinced Javier to give her his password. She scrolled through his files until she found the one labeled ‘Real Estate.’ Inside she perused the list of his holdings. Javier was a wealthy man with many properties. In addition to the London townhouse and a condominium in Miami, he also owned estates in Columbia, Chile, the Isle of Crete and Brazil. After reviewing details of each of the properties, Fatima clicked on the link to the one in Brazil. She was smitten by the beautiful photos of a beach house in Trancoso, north of Rio de Janeiro.

  The compound included three living quarters. The main house, which had twelve bedrooms and a state of the art chef’s kitchen. A guesthouse with six bedrooms and an elevated screened in sleeping porch. There was also the beach cottage, a four-bedroom structure with a huge veranda opening directly on to a private beach. This region of the Atlantic was warm, crystal clear and home to many species of exotic fish. The beach sand was so fine and soft, it felt like walking on baby powder.

  The town was fifteen minutes away and catered to tourists, but it had a school, a farmer’s market and a low rate of crime. Two caretakers were in constant residence with kitchen and cleaning staff brought in when Javier came to stay.

  Fatima imagined Hamni being there surrounded by nature with birds, animals, gigantic plants and daily sunshine. No more dreary London, indoors all day avoiding the rain.

  “Javier,” she shouted. “Come here please.”

  Leaning back in her chair, she craned her neck as she peered down the hall. “Javier,” she shouted a second time. “I’ve got something to show you.”

  Fatima saw the scowl on his face as he looked up from his phone. Walking into the room, Javier stood by her side looking at the screen.

  “When was the last time you were at this place?” asked Fatima.

  Scrunching his nose and scratching his head he said, “Which one is that?”

  “It’s in Brazil.”

  “I don’t know, maybe a couple of years ago.”

  “You do still own it?”

  “If it’s in the file, I guess I still do.”

  Turning to face him Fatima said, “This is where Hamni and I will live.”

  Pausing Javier asked, “What about Columbia?”

  “Too close to Bogota and there is no beach.”

  “Crete then?”

  “I don’t want to live on a tiny Island.”

  “The one in Chile is by the ocean.”

  “Yes, but the beach near the house is all rocks and the sand beaches are way too crowded.”

  “You spoiled bitch,” shot Javier.

  Fatima held his gaze as she reached into the desk drawer, withdrew a pointed mahogany letter opener and said, “You’d better walk that back.”

  Javier, aware of the fury that raged in Fatima said, “Okay, okay, you’re not a bitch, but you are acting rather entitled. You think you can simply select what you want and it is yours.”

  Fatima’s eyelids narrowed and her grip on the wooden blade did not slacken. “I am doing so from a list of properties you have not visited in years, while you simply select whatever you want from all the available female bodies you see.”

  Fatima rose from her seat, raising the letter opener between them so the tip of the blade was in clear view. Looking directly into Javier’s eyes she continued, “I am the only one who has made you answer for your sexual sins. You are Hamni’s father and therefore you have an obligation to provide for him. Living in a house in Brazil, that you forgot you owned, seems to me like a painless way for you to fulfill your parental responsibilities.”

  She lowered the blade, tilted her head, smiling. “Besides, it’s a private beach. When you visit, we can swim naked in the ocean.”

  Placing the letter opener on the desk, Fatima spun and sat on the desk’s surface. “I see the contact information in the file. I will send them an e-mail, from your account, informing them that Hamni and I will be taking up residence in the villa for an indefinite period of time.”

  Javier sighed and shook his head once.

  “I will make travel arrangements and we will leave within the next few days,” said Fatima. “Remember that I now have access to all your accounts and financial information. As we discussed, I will be the force behind your success.” She rose from the desk and stepped close enough to Javier to press her breasts against his chest. “I will be your best kept secret. You will appear smart, decisive and shrewd, while I will be out of sight as I guide you to profits and power.”

  Javier looked like a kid whose sister did his homework.

  “You provide for Hamni and me, and I will make certain your power and prestige will exceed your father’s,” said Fatima with an eyelid flutter as she stepped back from the handsome Spaniard as he sought to calm his elevated ventilation.

  Pointing a finger at the man Fatima said, “You really ought to go have a shower because you kind of stink.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Achmad Amali, a Palestinian refugee struggling to find work in London, read an ad tha
t appeared in his e-mail;

  Young Men of Middle Eastern Decent needed for film work. No previous experience necessary.

  Probably looking for terrorists for a movie. The place was called Backlot Studios. It occupied the ground floor of a refurbished industrial site. An up and coming vibe permeated the bare brick walls and thick plank floors. Achmad looked around at the cameras stacked on crates and some pieces of scenery under a set of theatrical lights. He felt like the business was legit. The interview was short and straightforward. He was given the job immediately, provided he could work that day. He was told he fit the type they needed precisely, 6 foot 2 and 200 pounds. He would be paid 3000 Digival for the day. Achmad agreed and was taken deeper into the building for prep work.

  First stop was a medical clinic set up in what looked like an old kitchen. The medical people were fast, efficient and painless. To prevent infection, he was given an injection, and to prevent hearing damage from explosives he received a special treatment for his ears.

  Moving on to what was called a rehearsal room, Achmad had a scene described to him in which he would help a woman and then be confronted by the police. He was to follow the instructions of the police as they commanded him. The scene would depict violence but it was a fictional portrayal. He did not rehearse the scene but he indicated he understood the role. Achmad was given strong tea and allowed to sit in a recliner. He wouldn’t be needed for two hours.

  Ten minutes after Achmad finished his tea, a technician entered and found him unconscious in the recliner. Getting right to work, the technician initialized the program which would activate the nanocytes in Achmad’s bloodstream that were introduced through his “protection” injection. With a 3D rendered image of David Diegert’s face, the program began the process of transamination, restructuring the proteins of Achmad’s facial muscles, skin and underlying bone to precisely resemble those of David Diegert. The painless process altered the appearance without scarring or any disfigurement. Upon waking Achmad had no idea that the face he had looked at in the mirror every day of his life was now transformed into one of the most wanted men in the world.

  Allowed to use the bathroom before being driven to the place where the scene would be shot, Achmad was surprised there was no mirror above the sink or on the back of the door. He shrugged his shoulders, dried his hands and got in the car. It was late afternoon so traffic was building. Regardless, they made good time. In the car he was told that the action would be captured by concealed cameras and that he should act natural on the street. He was further informed that the scene required him to exit the car, step to the sidewalk and wait for a young woman who would ask him for help. When he begins to help her, actors portraying police would arrive and he would take direction from them.

  Pretty simple, he thought. Acting was supposed to take special talent, but maybe he would like the movie business.

  Standing on the street in front of the 27 story Altitude building in the White Chapel district, he was nonchalant and patiently waited for the arrival of the young woman. As the minutes began to add up, a double decker bus stopped in front of him. He noticed in the window of the bus a reflection of a man who was wearing the same blue jeans, dark blue oxford shirt and tweed jacket as he was. He furrowed his brow and cocked his head, but the bus pulled away. What a strange sensation.

  While on the street, he was not the only one to be surprised by his appearance. The CCTV system of London was the best in the world. Extracted images were instantly analyzed, producing flagged faces, which were identified for immediate review. Subsequent action could be taken to investigate persons of interest or apprehend wanted criminals. David Diegert’s face, when matched with photos in the system, drew instant recognition. The duty commander confirmed what the surveillance system had identified. David Diegert, a high value target, was a confirmed identity on Trafalgar Street in front of address 1442. The sighting triggered an aggressive response from London’s SWAT Team, Special Crimes & Operations -19. The force was dispatched for an immediate apprehension.

  Achmad felt strange. It was weird to see a man on the bus dressed just as he was. Maybe not so strange, his clothes were actually quite typical. Yet the man was not on the bus, he was reflected in the window glass. Achmad turned to look into a shop window. The sun’s glare made his reflection weak, but again there was that same man. Lifting his hand to touch his face, he saw the strange man do the same thing. A shiver percolated up his spine, which turned into a spastic jolt when he heard a young woman’s voice saying, “Hey Achmad can you help me carry this bag?”

  She was rather thin and almost gaunt, though her baggy clothes concealed a lot about her shape. The dark circles surrounding her pale eyes and her frizzled mop of blonde hair made her look pretty strung out. She was quick to hand him the big bag she had strung over her shoulder while retaining a two-handled tote. “Come on,” she said. Achmad threw the strap over his shoulder. The bag was heavy, zippered shut and kind of bulky. It surprised him that such a skinny lady could manage it. As they walked she reached into her bag, Achmad noticed her forearm rotating. She quickly retracted her hand and with startling quickness, used both hands on the tote handles to fling the bag up into the air and into the street traffic.

  Upon landing in the middle of the street, the bag exploded. A staggering concussive wave, giant plume of smoke and a deafening roar erupted in the traffic. Cars directly in front of the bomb were instantly disabled, others crashed onto the sidewalks. People in the vehicles were dazed, injured and several looked dead.

  But to Achmad it seemed like an effective movie stunt. This was after all, kind of what he was expecting. He heard a reassuring voice telling him, “Be calm. The police are coming. Follow their direction.”

  Back at the studio, when Achmad was being prepped, a nanocytic tympanic transponder had been implanted on his eardrum. The device was now being activated by a Crepusculous team. He looked around but saw no one who seemed to be speaking to him. He also no longer saw the scraggly girl who gave him the bag.

  Maintaining the bag on his shoulder Achmad stood transfixed by the carnage around him. The SCO-19 team arrived in two black SUVs. Officers in battle ready uniforms deployed into forward positions of cover with their Sig Sauer MCX Virtus weapons pointed at David Diegert.

  Over a megaphone the officer in charge commanded, “Drop the bag and surrender, now.”

  The Crepusculous team, watching a pirated CCTV feed, replaced the police commands with alternative phrases timed perfectly to maintain the illusion that Achmad was hearing the police.

  So while the police officer said, “Drop the bag and surrender, now.”

  Achmad heard, “Retain the bag and take a defensive stance.”

  The SCO-19 officer shouted, “David Diegert, submit to authority or face fatal consequences.”

  Achmad heard, “The bag is of critical value, defend it for the sake of public safety.”

  Achmad wrapped his arm around the bag clutching it closer.

  The frustrated officer barked one more command, “Drop to your knees and surrender.”

  Achmad heard, “Unzip the bag and reach inside.”

  As Achmad’s fingers grasped the zipper pull the officer shouted, “Fire.”

  The bullets pulverized his body, ripping through the cavities of his chest and abdomen, exiting the rib cage while dismantling the spinal column. David Diegert’s face was punctured by bullets that pierced Achmad’s cranium. The body collapsed with the bag still strapped over the shoulder. Time stood still as gun smoke rose, sending the scent of cordite into the public’s nostrils, instilling a sense of foreboding.

  The explosion was massive. Much bigger than the first one. The fireball extended the full width of the street and rose up ten floors. Every window within a quarter mile was shattered. Cars were tossed like toys down a staircase. They tumbled end over end and rolled over each other as the blast wave cleared a crater the size of a large amphitheater. People within the blast radius were vaporized by the heat and disper
sed as droplets by the propulsive force of the expanding gases. The temperature was so intense that the oxygen in the air ignited, creating a second explosion enlarging the original fireball. The consumption of the oxygen produced a sphere of suffocation in which people were asphyxiated by the lack of life’s most precious element.

  The twenty seven-story apartment building, in front of which the bomb went off, buckled and shook as the structural supports quivered under the shock of the explosion and the destabilization caused by the mammoth crater in the street. As frantic people struggled to evacuate the doomed dwelling, the entire front of the building sheared off, collapsing into the street. Apartments were ripped open like the foil off a yogurt cup. Falling with the debris were the unfortunate residents who had no time to escape.

  When the toll was taken, 511 lives were lost and David Diegert was to blame.

  CHAPTER 10

  By the time he touched down in London, Diegert had spent over eleven hours with Wayne. In spite of his inebriated state, Wayne walked off the plane under his own power. In the terminal the pair was greeted by Avery, whose surprise could not be hidden as he looked at the face of Javier Perez.

  “Hey don’t be so surprised,” said Wayne. “You knew I was coming.”

  “Of course,” said Avery. “How was the flight?”

  “Javier here is quite the disguise artist. At first he looked so Chinese, I thought he was going to fix my computer or deliver egg foo yung. Then he stripped off the high tech make-up and now he’s a happy Mexican.”

  Avery looked at Wayne askance. The salty ethnic insults went down a little easier with Wayne’s charming Australian accent, but the rude remarks were not at all appreciated by the man of African descent. Handing him a small electronic card Avery said, “You’re in London now. Your contract with me is complete.”

  An inspection of the card revealed a tiny screen with the number of Digival the Aussie was expecting, Wayne replied, “Yes sir, the fruits of another job are delivered. Do call again. You know I can always provide whatever you need.”