Sometimes You Just Kill The Wrong People and Other Stories

Christopher DeVilliers (which might or might not be his real name) walked purposefully across the ground floor lobby and took one of the high-speed elevators serving the upper floors. He carried with him a large brown leather holdall bag and a thin leather attaché case. Alighting at a floor below his final destination, he walked over to the toilets on the lobby floor and waited until they were empty. He then took a thin, hooked lock pick from his pocket and expertly picked the lock of the janitor store and placed the holdall inside. He had previously monitored the schedule of the cleaners and knew that it would be an hour or more before anyone came to clean. Closing and locking the door he slipped the lock pick down into his sock where it would not be found in a body search pat down. He then took the elevator up to the floor above and his appointment with the Vice President of the United Bank of Osaka. ‘Good morning,’ he said to the Japanese receptionist, ‘Christopher DeVilliers, I have an appointment with Mr. Nakazawa,’ handing her his business card as he did so. The card was simple, stating only his name and occupation: ‘Dealer in Fine Art’. The girl spoke into her headphone and a minute or so, a massive man, built like a Sumo wrestler, walked powerfully into the reception area. This, DeVilliers knew, was Atsushi Kawaguchi, the Vice President’s personal assistant or bodyguard. Kawaguchi signalled for DeVilliers to raise his arms for a pat down body search, not a normal procedure for an interview with a bank manager, but DeVilliers seemed unfazed. The search was professional and thorough and then Kawaguchi took the attaché case and methodically examined that, checking for a hidden weapon or blade. Finally satisfied, he gave a grunt and gestured for DeVilliers to follow him. Yoshikatsu Kawazawa stood up from his desk and walked around to greet his visitor, bowing as he did so. DeVilliers gave a slight nod back and the two men shook hands. ‘Thank you for seeing me, Nakazawa-san, especially at such short notice.’ ‘If what you are selling is as you say, I would have cancelled all my appointments regardless how important.’ ‘You are most gracious, however, before we start, might I just use a washroom?’ ‘Hei. Of course, please make use of my private facility, here.’ And he pointed to a door to the left of him. Inside the washroom DeVilliers stripped out his belt from the trouser loops, twisted the buckle sharply, and using the buckle as a handle drew out a thin six-inch flexible blade from within the belt. The blade was crafted from a high tensile ceramic material developed for the space industry, undetectable by metal detectors and stronger than steel and honed to an edge as keen as the sharpest Samurai sword. DeVilliers slipped the blade into a soft chamois sheath tailored into the inside of his jacket and re-joined the Japanese. Opening the attaché case, DeVilliers slipped out an A4 coloured photocopy of a Pablo Picasso painting. ‘As discussed, I think this will be of interest, Nakazawa-san,’ sliding the picture across the desk to Nakazawa who eagerly took the copy, his eyes darting with delight. ‘Picasso’s ‘Portrait of Dora Maar’. How can this be, this painting is in the National Gallery of Victoria in Melbourne?’ ‘It was,’ DeVilliers answered dryly, ‘It has been… how shall we say… liberated? The provenance is genuine and guaranteed.’ He passed across a photocopy of an article from the ’Melbourne Herald,’ describing the theft of the Picasso, Whilst Nakazawa and Kawaguchi were distracted with the angular faced portrait of one of Picasso’s lovers, DeVilliers slid his knife from its sheath, stepped over behind the giant Kawaguchi, and swiftly slit the bodyguard’s throat, jumping back sharply to avoid the sudden spurt of blood. Nakazawa jerked back, reaching for an alarm button, opened his mouth to shout, but was too late, way too late. DeVilliers had seized his hair, jerked back his head, and also slit his throat, the ceramic blade slicing through flesh and bone with ease. Nakazawa fell forward, his head making a loud thump onto the highly polished maple top of his desk, a puddle of blood slickly oozing across a leather-bound blotter. DeVilliers carefully wiped the blood from his blade, using Nakazawa’s Hermes tie to do so before retrieving his belt and slipping the blade back inside. The United Bank of Osaka was in fact a money-laundering front for the Osaka yakuza, the Japanese mafia, and Nakazawa a high-ranking yakuza officer sent from Japan to control the operation. But then the Osaka yakuza had ordered the assassination of Nakazawa, suspected of laundering money to his own account. Substantial sums could not be accounted for and he now had paid the price. Christopher DeVilliers (which might or might not be his real name) was one of the world’s foremost killers for hire and had been contracted by the Osaka yakuza because a Westerner would be less likely to arouse Nakazawa’s suspicions than a Japanese assassin. Nakazawa’s indiscreet taste for expensive stolen works of art had been DeVilliers entree to the reclusive and paranoid yakuza banker; the stolen Picasso had been tempting bait. The actual killing had been easy. Closing and locking Nakazawa’s office door behind him, DeVilliers walked away without haste and bade goodbye to the Japanese receptionist, even glancing up to look at the CCTV security camera as he did so. The Christopher DeVilliers who entered the building would look nothing like the one who left. He smiled to himself as he thought about the business card he had left with the girl, ‘Dealer in Fine Art,’ absolutely true, a dealer in the fine art of murder. Retrieving his holdall from the janitor store, he locked himself in a toilet cubicle. When he emerged, he was wearing a bright blue overall with the name’ Project Maintenance’ emblazoned across the back, he sported a thick walrus moustache which covered much of his face, had plumped out his cheeks with soft rubber pads and had a ‘Project Maintenance’ baseball cap pulled down low over his forehead. He carried a yellow, plastic, workman’s bag which contained his holdall, briefcase, and jacket. Whistling tunelessly, he punched the call button on the elevator. Another job well done, another million dollars in the bank. It was the twenty-seventh professional killing of his career, although, of course, there had been many more of a personal nature. The lift was slow in coming, but he was in no hurry. Just then the building seemed to shake violently as if struck, and a deep crashing noise echoed up the stairwell, a sound the world had never heard before. Dust trickled down from the ceiling. ‘Earthquake’ was his immediate thought and he jabbed at the call button violently with his thumb, over and over again but the lift floor indicators were not moving. Realising that the lift was not arriving he crossed over to the emergency staircase. Opening the door, he was met with a blast of heat and smoke. Vicious yellow flame could be seen flickering across the staircase walls, the smoke billowing thick and black. He felt a spurt of fear clutch at his heart, and he quickly shut the door and ran across to the other stairwell. Workers from the offices were also running to the exit, also to be beaten back here by the smoke and flames. Screams and shouts. A terrified babble of noise echoing around the marble clad walls of the elevator lobby. More and more people crowded, panic rippling through the crushing masses. Forcing his way through the crowd with kicks and curses, DeVilliers forced his way into the stairwell, covered his face to shield from the heat and worked his way upwards. Get to the roof, he told himself, I can be rescued from the roof. Get to the roof, I can be rescued from the roof.But a tide of terrified people, fleeing down the stairs, pushed him back unseeing. He lost his grip on the bag, a woman tripped over it and brought several people down with her, screaming as the panicked mob trampled over her. The fear that clutched his heart and bowels gripped DeVilliers like a clamp, a ruthless killer who had never before in his life ever felt fear. He forced his way out from the terror-driven stairs and fled into an open office. The heat and choking smoke had now reached these upper levels and he realised that he and hundreds more were trapped by the rising inferno. He had to get out, he had a flight, First Class of course, to Geneva where he would arrange the transfer of his contract fee to the Cayman Islands and then an onward flight to Rio de Janeiro where his taste for pre-pubescent boys could be readily satisfied. The flames and smoke surged through the stairwell doors like a charging bull, rolling through the open plan office in a fiery tidal wave. A woman screamed with terror and threw herself out from an open window, preferring to fall to her death than be burnt alive. DeVilliers, whimpering in fear, flung himself beneath a desk, coughing as the smoke tendrils curled around to greet him. Not too long afterwards, the North Tower of the World Trade Centre in New York City, collapsed in upon itself, the tallest building in America being unable to withstand the impact of an airliner deliberately flown into it. Many remains would later be removed from the rubble, but of Mr. Christopher DeVilliers (which might or might not have been his real name) no trace was ever found.