(6) A Death in Hysterium

Sanguineus, all in black, stood on a battlement of the fortress ruins, his high-powered night goggles focused on the hearse and the activity that came from it. He had expected only to case out the house from different angles and video the possible entrances. He had the layout of the structure and details of its security wirings. What he had not expected was the arrival of the hearse and its sequel: Tanya, a Red Rum assassin, dressed as a nurse. He was as stunned as his stoic nature permitted.

He walked over to the ruins of the battlement steps and sat down. From his backpack he removed a small ham radio and connected it to a brick-size power base. He put on a pair of Bose headphones. Tuning the radio to the proper frequency, so that the ether made that hollow sound indicative of reception, required several minutes of patience. At last the watchman in the Intell room answered (actually a watchwoman): "Four dash seven seven, over."

"One dash zero one. Inform, repeat, inform Thirteen dash eight eighty-eight that employee One dash eleven, repeat, One dash eleven, is at home with Subject A zero zero A sixty-three. Repeat all, over."

When confident the message had been received correctly, Sanguineus indulged in a thin black cheroot and a flask of brandy. For a quarter hour he sat there ruminating on the possible explanations for why his former assistant operative was engaged in his assignment. Or did Tanya Wilde have an assignment of her own making?

At 2am Sanguineus returned to the beach below the jagged silhouette of the fortress. The Wave Rider 950 'tuna boat' lay like a beached baby whale on the broken lime rock and shale, the Baltic waters eddying about its aft section. He pushed it out over the sandstone shallows and mounted it.

At 3:30am, weary from the crossing and lack of sleep, Sanguineus dismounted on the strand of the estuary southeast of Copengagen proper, where a youth with a whiskery rat-face approached from the night shadows carrying a long canvas case. "O'Shannon singing at the Jane tonight," he said happily. "I caught the tail of her act. Did she run well? I see I gave you enough fuel. Did you use up all the reserve?"

Sanguineus said nothing. He took possession of the case and handed the youth a packet of money sealed in plastic.

The rising sun was blood red on Hyacinth's eyelids.

Her first thought upon opening her eyes was to turn to the pillow beside her, with its tell-tale indentation and the musky man smell of the still-damp sheets. She was not surprised that he was gone. She knew about his planned excursion to Gutland. After the news regarding her sister, which even now had her gasping in amazement, he had ordered another bottle of Chianti at their corner table in Scarpetta's and spoke of the need to check out the DeGroot house; to determine the means of entry, the disfunctioning of the security system, and the egress to the hit site, which he had already decided would be the rear parlor on the second floor. This decision was based on the information that Volanda had supplied. Where the woman was now was of no great concern. She would behave herself, he felt sure, at least until the hit on Miklos DeGroot was an accomplished fact.

In a moment of time Hyacinth experienced again the ride back to the Hilton in the silver grey Jaguar; the cacophony of brake and clutch, the racing change around corners and roundabouts, the squeal of rubber and the growl of the cams, the smooth G force of the stop in the parking stall. This, on top of the Italian dinner, and the vodka tonic nightcap, put her in gear. It was more than a mood. It was like her mental health depended on it. 

She came out of the bathroom in a short black negligee so sheer that it seemed a vagrant little cloud of dark smoke had been caught by the curves of her body. Her eyes said it all. And the assassin, who routinely told himself to save his energy for the mission, dismissed the objection.

Hyacinth had never liked the idea of being submissive to a lover. When Sanguineus had stripped in the dark and put a knee on the bed, against her hip, and a commanding hand on her shoulder, bending over her like the first rebellion of a fallen angel, she dug an elbow in his ribs and gripped his throat, attempting to push him onto his side. It was like trying to move a mountain without a god to help her. He bared his teeth in a wicked smile of appreciation. She was crushed down on her back as his other knee pried her thighs apart in a bruising action. Her nails laid red tracks down his back, her mouth clamped over the rush of breath from his snarling lips; and though far from surrendering, she gave in to the rod that drove into her, swift and deep, retreating and returning in a rhythm that mined one orgasm after another from her twisting loins.

She sighed at the memory of it. She ached in almost every part of her body, a curious karma that said 'paid' to the ecstasy she had claimed.

The bedroom door opened. Sanguineus set his backpack on the dresser, the long canvas case in hand. He paused just a moment to acknowledge Hyacinth's lazy sultry smile. "Put something on," he said, "and meet me in the sitting room."

"I smell like the Great Whore of Babylon."

"Understandably," he remarked, turning to the doorway. "It's time you practiced your archery."

She sat bolt upright, her pink-tipped breasts heaving. "I'm going to be in on the hit!"

"That remains to be seen. You have to consistently make a shot at a very small target with a weight on the arrowhead, from a prone position, holding the bow horizontally. You have today and tonight to hone your skill. If you are not satisfactorily proficient by tomorrow morning, I'm leaving you behind."

"Like hell!"

"Then get your tight white ass out of bed."

Professor Rolgo paid a visit at mid-afternoon, and nearly took an arrow in the ankle. He did not appear to wonder about Hyacinth lying on her stomach at the end of the long hallway, holding her recurve bow crosswise and smiling a facetious apology. He merely nodded as if impressed by her diligence. In the bedroom he found Sanguineus just up from a nap, seated by the window, in boxer shorts and a black t-shirt, stripping the cellophane wrapper off a cheroot.

"What about Tanya?" asked Sanguineus, flicking his lighter.

"Her presence at the DeGroot house is legit," said Rolgo, seating himself at the round walnut table, patting the armrests. "It concerns the Internal Security Rotation, an obligation for the one-dashers, as you know. This past Friday it was One dash eleven's turn to spy on an employee. She was given a four-dash, a failed apprentice who was assigned a courier position until, or if, he is reinstated in the trainee program. So Tanya let herself into Justin Conner's dorm and hacked into his computer. She looked for decoy apps and encrypted files, the usual routine. It turns out that young Conner was in despair of ever being reinstated. He was doing some odd jobs for Susan Turphy at her gallery in Manhatten. He knew she was a recruiter and negotiator, so he decided to search her background, her contacts, her occasional affiliations with the underworld crowd. He discovered Heathcliffe Samson, a lone operator. Or so we believe. Well, Conner contacted him and cut a deal. For the opportunity to be Samson's understudy, he agreed to provide him with the names of targets. To his credit he did not reveal the existence of Red Rum."

"Not surprisingly," said Sanguineus. "That unforgivable sin brings death by slow torture. I suppose he used our cover firm?" 

"Yes, the Cement Mixers Guild. Funny how well the cover works when one must utilize it. Anyway, Samson took him to heart and asked Conner if he knew of any contracts out on DeGroot. Samson, you see, was hired by DeGroot. A bodyguard, we suppose. To make a mess a little cleaner, I'll just say that Conner fingered out Turphy and Souder. Samson arranged for Volanda Jorgunssen and her unknown partner to rub them out, if you don't mind my Mob lingo."

Sanguineus smiled. "Tanya earned some Brownie points, but what is she doing at the DeGroot house?"

Rolgo poured himself a cup of lukewarm coffee. "We have her explanation, and though it does appear to be legitimate, Bear Claus has some suspicions about it. I'm not sure if I agree with them. Tanya took it upon herself to work in partnership with Heathcliffe Samson. She drugged Conner and whisked him away on a private jet supplied by Samson and his associates, ending up, as you know, at the DeGroot house. Well, Tanya is on a two month leave and can go where she likes. Now here's where it gets sticky. Nine months ago she became a member of Hysterium. No reason other than she just wanted to. She had heard about it from the man she assassinated on assignment, back in February, in Amsterdam. But it's not Hysterium that she, nor we, are interested in, as concerns the Conner problem. Tanya has some evidence, she says, that Heathcliffe Samson is in with a killer-for-hire organization every bit as sophisticated as our own enterprise. Samson is a member of Hysterium and that's why Tanya is there, to try finding out more about Samson."

"Does she know about my assignment?"

"We are quite sure she does not. Assignments are known only to the operatives involved, you know that, and to the Prime Director and his staff."

"Hyacinth Furies knew," Sanguineus remarked. "From the grapevine."

Rolgo shrugged. "She's been assigned clerical duties in the Staff room, or 'grapevine,' if you prefer. But there's no reason to think that a courier would get wind of assignment particulars, not as regards operatives."

"Hyacinth is friends with Justin."

Rolgo thumped an armrest with the hand that did not hold the coffee cup. "Are you trying to build a case against her?" he asked in an amused voice.

A slow stream of smoke issued from the nostrils of Sanguineus. "Just thinking," he said.

[Continued in the following post.]