"Kill a man, and you are an assassin.
Kill millions of men, and you are a conqueror.
Kill everyone, and you are a god."

Robert Aitken glanced at his 1940’s LeCoultre watch with its small, square, golden face and aged, tanned leather strap and sighed audibly. Ten p.m. already and still no sign of finishing his speech. A quick survey of his office brought no inspiration and in fact made matters worse. Instead of illumination from the Matisse above the cold fireplace opposite his walnut desk, his attention was drawn to the window. He stood up and tensed his shoulders. He gazed down at the wide street five floors below, noticing the elongated violet shadows that were merging across it.

Why have an office with windows, he wondered. The view of Washington, D.C. was a view of history and power but it only served to remind him he was almost a prisoner behind the glass. He knew whenever there was a blazing sun outside – a thought that always depressed him whilst stuck in some interminable meeting, and rain was always a downer even though the bullet-resistant glass shielded the noise.

The worst part of all was on evenings like this, stuck in the airless office, all too aware that the volume of traffic taking people home, to dates, to secret liaisons, to bars and restaurants in Georgetown had already died down.

He had felt honored when the new President had asked him to take up the post, something he always known informally would happen, and the day of swearing in had been a relief after almost twenty years of sweated dedication. However the last three and a half years since had taken their toll – the inordinate amount of gray now in his hair along with the bags, no, suitcases, under his eyes being the most obvious to the cameras. He did not mind the gray so much. Statesmanlike. It comes with heavy responsibility.

If only this Administration would let me get on with the job and stop being result-merchants. It’s always the case when a President was seeking a second term. Still, he thought, win or lose only three more months to go, probably less after this speech. A flicker of a smile crossed his lips.

Montebello is generally recognized as the best of the luxury condominiums freckling across the Greater Washington landscape. The easy access by both car and public transport to the District of Columbia has helped it become home base during the week to a large number of the movers and shakers on Capitol Hill. With its tennis courts, gyms, swimming pools and even card-playing rooms in the middle of thirty-five acres of thick woodlands it is fast replacing the traditional country club as the location for the behind-the-scenes politicking and deal making. The only thing it lacks is a golf course, but Belle Haven is less than a mile away.

"Upwardly mobile" has taken on a new meaning at Montebello. The new recruits into government are generally resident on the lower, more affordable floors, hoping to rub shoulders and develop their networks. As they rise in both affluence and influence, this is reflected in their floor number. On the upper floors the view of the Potomac and Washington itself are unrestricted by the oaks and maples.

As the assassin drove down Route One, the lights of its four fifteen-story towers slowly came into view.

Aitken had given up. The speech needed to be more structured, more deductive in case CNN decided to run it in full. Axiom leads to lemma leads to corollary leads to sound bite. This speech would change many things but its heavy responsibility had tired him. He speed-dialed his security detail. Home-time.

The killer approached the main gate at the perimeter of Montebello and licked his dry lips. With CCTV at most strategic access points and random, roving security patrols surrounding and pervading the buildings, he had long since decided on his strategy. Perversely, the front-door approach minimized the risk. The guards’ booth was one of the few places that did not have electronic surveillance, trusting instead the six eyeballs that resided inside.

He had already killed that night. The first time had served a dual purpose, a dry run to see if he could kill in the manner used, and it had been necessary to get him past the security gate he was nearing.

Every sense was on full alert as the guards’ booth came into view. Dry run. He tried desperately to smile inwardly at the phrase. He needed to calm down, to regulate his breathing, to ignore the two-ton weight that seemed to be attached by thread to his bowels. Any killer in the moments before the kill has a tight fist for a stomach, either from recognition of their own fragility or from psychotic anticipation. Fear is the greatest protector of life and pain the best educator.

He leveled the new Beamer next to the redbrick booth and wound down his window, his other hand ready to throw the car in reverse at the first sign of trouble. Did he not have ‘Murderer’ tattooed on his forehead? The thick-bodied guard wearing the semblance of a policeman’s uniform stepped out of the booth to greet him. He had a bored look about him.

‘James Wilson for Peter Macintosh, Building Four, Room 1408. He’s expecting me.’ He had been practicing it over and over again during the forty-five minute car trip to keep the tremor from his voice. The guard eyed him for what seemed a fraction of a second too long, but then stepped back into the booth, picking up the phone to validate the guest. After noting the license plate and issuing the twenty-four hour color-coded parking permit, dark orange for that day, he was allowed through.

Curt bastard, thought the guard as he watched the taillights of the Beamer disappear around the corner of the winding path, didn’t even say thank you.

As Aitken exited the building into the warm August evening the two agents, who had already been outside for five minutes scanning the streets and neighboring buildings, assumed their stations on either side of him as he made his way to the dark blue Crown Victoria. It had recently taken up position outside the entrance. Once Aitken was safely ensconced in the back seat, the two agents made their way to the Busteed immediately behind.

The scent of freshly polished leather filled Aitken’s nostrils. He ritually closed his eyes and let himself succumb to the experience. He had earned the right.

‘How are you today, sir?’ asked Aitken’s capped driver as he eased the car into the thin traffic. The second car followed as if there were an invisible towrope between them.

Aitken opened his eyes and looked at his chauffeur’s professional mien in mirror. ‘Fine, Danny. How was Marie in the school play?’

‘Great, just great. Sung her heart out,’ he answered proudly. ‘You know Grease actually started off as a stage-play several years before it hit the big screen?’

‘So did Rocky Horror,’ nodded Aitken, ‘but she’ll probably have to wait for college for that one. At least I hope so for both your sakes.’

‘Damn right. Babies may be angels, but as their legs grow longer, their wings grow shorter,’ Daniel pronounced.

Aitken beamed his first genuine smile of the day. ‘Any gossip from the drivers’ pool?’ Daniel had advised him on the first day of their pairing that it was the quickest and most reliable way to keep informed on latest developments.

‘Bradshaw’s going to announce a twenty-five point drop in the Fed Fund Rate tomorrow,’ Daniel replied with confidence.

‘Pressure from on high?’

‘Probably,’ he shrugged, ‘but not explicitly.’

The President could not order a cut, but he and Bradshaw went back almost thirty years. With three months still to go before the election, such a cut would not seem overtly political, even if the President were trailing by fourteen points.

Daniel was wasted as a driver.

The miniature convoy was about to enter the dimly lit Ninth Street Tunnel when Aitken had a change of heart. ‘Danny, can we stop outside the White House for a few minutes?’

‘Sure. A meet, sir?’

‘No, I just need to collect my thoughts.’

Daniel picked up the comm-link to the second car. ‘We’re diverting to the White House perimeter. No exit, I repeat, no exit.’

‘Copy that,’ came the reply. Incredible, Daniel noted, not for the first time, we can put a man on the moon, use a cell phone in the middle of the Sahara, and yet even when a car ten yards behind talks to me they sound as if they’re mumbling into an empty tin can.

After driving up the serpentine tarmac incline he reverse-parked the car as close to Building Four’s entrance as possible. He stepped out into the fresh air and leant gently against the Beamer, mindful not to set off its alarm. He slowly scanned the area. You don’t have to do this, part of him said, you can still turn back. No, he decided, the benefits of tonight will outweigh the nightmares afterwards.

He glanced up at the now-indigo sky. The brighter stars were already twinkling in the warm air. The Greeks believed stars were pinholes in a black drape through which the gods would observe us. Please let them be wrong. A lonely owl far in the distance began to call out for company and refocused the assassin’s mind on his task.

He entered the lobby entrance, a spartan area out of keeping with the rest of the building and picked up the old-fashioned black telephone. It took only a few seconds to locate the internal number for Room 1408 on the large board to its left. ‘Hi, come on up,’ came the voice on the other end, followed by the click-buzz of an electronic lock. Thank God, he thought, still not trusting his voice to any conversation.

He walked briskly to the brass-effect elevator and pressed the call button. The doors to the elevator on his left slid effortlessly open immediately. As he rose smoothly he checked his progress, counting down the floor numbers. It was only when the number display jumped from twelve to fourteen that the assassin was reminded that there was no thirteenth floor. Guess that makes fourteen unlucky, he grinned to himself. He could find humor in anything at the moment.

Daniel parked the car outside the White House knowing full well it would attract the attention of a number of surveillance cameras who would even now be running the plates though the computers. Aitken’s eyes viewed the floodlight building with a measure of contrition.

Forgive me Mr. President, my President, my friend. I do this not as a personal attack but as an indictment of the entire system. You have to play by the rules - anything else would be political suicide. Only a lesser political animal, an insider like myself, could do what I am about to. Please understand.

He checked himself. Am I seeking a benediction? He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. ‘Thanks, Danny. Montebello, please.’

I’ve got to shake myself out of this, he counseled himself. He pulled out the cell phone from his jacket and dialed a number he knew by heart. ‘Hello, this is Drinker.’ Cell phones were never secure. ‘Is it possible to have my usual cocktail ready in about an hour? Yes? Excellent, thank you. I’ll have someone pick them up.’ Daniel’s impassive face stared straight ahead.

What hell did Jim want at this time of night? Wilson would not say over the phone, only that it was urgent. Maybe he needed a shoulder to cry on for some reason - he certainly seemed upset. Macintosh really was not very good at this, but he was Jim’s friend. As far as he was concerned, a problem shared meant two people were depressed.

As he knew it was Wilson, he hadn’t bothered to turn to Channel Three on his television, which was tuned to the CCTV in the lobby. It would not have done him any good anyway – the assassin had studiously kept his back to it. With a welcoming bourbon already in his hand he opened the door, only to see a lead pipe descend upon his skull.

Twenty minutes later the small limousine pulled up outside Building Four, the agents having already checked with the booth that all was well. The party made their way up to their floor whilst Daniel ran his errand. After a brief scan of the hallway, the agents allowed Aitken to exit the lift and proceed to his room at the far right end of the corridor. He declined their offer to sweep his apartment. Time was short - he needed a shower before his cocktail arrived. Only after Aitken had firmly closed the door to Room 1208 did they retire to theirs.

As Daniel was approaching Montebello’s main gate for a second time, on this occasion with two passengers in the back seat, the killer was parking the Beamer outside the Huntington Metro Station. He was a very different person this time, both without and within, as he left the vehicle. Gone were the phony goatee beard, wig and steel-rimmed glasses. Gone were the black overcoat and dark trousers smeared in blood, and gone were the doubts. Like a snake shedding its skin, he thought. It was almost as if he were an actor playing a murderer and then going home to the wife and kids. It’s not real, he tried unsuccessfully to delude himself. It had been someone else.

He gave up and a thin smile of accomplishment crossed his face. Once I was a caterpillar. Now I will have beautiful wings. With a mixture of denial and heady euphoria, he was swallowed up by the Metrorail.

The ringing of his telephone, strangely dull, brought Aitken back to consciousness for a few fleeting moments. He knew he was dying. Yes, he observed with curious detachment, I’ve read about this many times - the cold, the numbness, the strange peace that envelops you. But there’s one thing the writers have always got wrong. It’s not your life that flashes before you, but all the things you should have done, all the things you could have done.

As he slipped back into the void, despite everything he believed, he started to pray.

Daniel’s comm-link was not working. He almost collided into one of the Montebello guards as he ran into their booth and lunged for the telephone. Pick up, pick up. ‘This is Murphy. Aitken’s not answering,’ he breathed quickly into the mouthpiece.

‘You sure?’ asked the agent on the other end of the line.

‘Of course I’m fucking sure, you asshole,’ he screamed. ‘It rang ten times and there’s even a phone in the goddamn toilet!’

‘Stay there. No ins and outs until we give the all clear.’ Daniel heard the muted thud of the phone being dropped.

With the agents on either side of Aitken’s door, their Glocks already in hand, one pulled out a key from his pocket and inserted it gently, holding up three fingers to his partner. Seconds later, the door was thrown open and they took turns covering each other as they scoured the luxury apartment. It was only when they reached the ornate bathroom that they stopped cold. Whoever had done this was long gone. No training in the world could have prepared them for what they witnessed. One of the agents wretched there and then.

Aitken’s cold, pale, naked body was suspended like an old, raggedy marionette from the shower rail by his wrists, the lower half of his body leaning against the inside wall of the ceramic bath. His toes had been hacked off and stuffed unceremoniously into his ears, eyes and mouth. Blood continued to drip steadily through the stumps left on his feet into the crimson river that flowed towards the plughole.

The second agent pulled out his radio with a trembling hand. ‘Special Agent Fredrickson. Lawyer is down. I repeat, Lawyer is down.’ And out, he added mentally. ‘Send the crash team, full works, Montebello Building Four, Room 1208, and patch me through to FBI Director Douglas.’

The post of Attorney General of the United States of America was now vacant.

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