Sometimes a story has to be told - by an ordinary person.
The Director
It doesn’t take much to kill a man. A single knife thrust in the right place, a bullet in the head or heart, a sharp snap of the neck, a few drops of curare or the violent cutting of a sharp sword. Not much at all really. One sharp, unexpected blow and, snuff, like a candle, out. Shakespeare had it right. A brief candle, snuffed out in an instant; no need for torture, or some dread illness, a simple act, deliberate and calculated.
The mathematics of death is merely a matter of finding the right balance between force and effect.
The Romans used short swords that thrust forward, and spears that penetrated like needles. The Japanese liked the sharp blade, swift and deadly. The English used the long bow, the broad sword and eventually the rifle. The good old Lee Enfield 303.
I use a Remington sniper rifle. A specialist weapon from world war two, a light, adaptable, and easily broken down rifle used by the Green Beret’s. Adaptable because it will take modern and quite lethal ancillaries, used in, say Vietnam, or Afghanistan, and still remain accurate and easy to use. I have a box that looks like a large briefcase with my initials on it. I wear a suit and tie, an Oxford tie, and I look like you, or your colleagues.
A businessman. Prissy, bright, worried, active and ordinary.
But there is nothing ordinary about the way I conduct my business. I have the lease on a flat for three months. A well stocked larder. A clear view of the square below, and a task to do.
I have a good view from the apartment window and I have my gun set up ready to use. The sight below is familiar and to view it I have a telescopic sight, a laser guidance system and I use soft nosed bullets. I am efficient. I am also paid very well. I do a good job, understand? When I kill somebody, a target, they stay dead. Not like that stupid bastard who killed Kennedy – head shots – no good – too exacting – with a soft-nosed bullet Kennedy would have been wasted with one shot. Blood, brains and bone splinters splattered across the Dallas streets so fine they could not be found by the best forensic team.
I don’t mess around.
Right now the target is unaware that he is a target.
Giggle, giggle.
If I do it right the target’s cerebral matter and a good part of his chest will splatter in wide cone directly opposite where my bullet enters his body. He has no idea that I am sitting here high above the street in a comfortable chair. I like a canvas chair with arms like a director of a movie. You see, I direct what happens, don’t I?
I’m not particularly interested in why the target has to be wasted, taken out, I am only concerned that I do it right, get away and collect my pay. Half the fee for the engagement. The other half on completion.
My contact knows that if I don’t get paid I will waste him.
It’s called insurance.
I like to refer to it as life insurance.
A very useful part of my contract. So far I have always been paid. The wonderful thing is that the fee is always large. You, the ordinary punter would love to earn what I earn. Maybe you would do one job and retire. But I like what I do. The money is a bonus, a wage for a highly skilled operator. I am the tops. That is why I get all the best jobs.
Today, at approximately 11:05 your Prime Minister is going to die. Pity. I liked him. But somebody, somewhere, doesn’t.
So, I sit here, comfy in my director’s chair and wait. My rifle is clean, dull with oil so that it doesn’t reflect any sunlight. The lens is shrouded for the same reason and the chamber is loaded with a soft-nosed. There are five more in the magazine. I expect to use only one.
I sit for a long time, but I am used to that, waiting is no problem. You use a Zen mantra and empty your mind so you can hear everything. Things like spoons on cups, farts, flushing toilets, the sounds in the street, and to be aware of when the small cavalcade is due to arrive.
Schedule. Eleven nought three into the square. Eleven nought four, car stops outside building. Eleven nought five, target walks across the sidewalk to the door. Eleven nought five plus one I fire the shot that changes your world.
Giggle, giggle.
It is now eleven nought three.
Car enters square.
I adjust my aim.
Eleven nought four.
Car stops.
I am ready.
Eleven nought four and thirty seconds.
I squeeze the trigger.
Eleven nought five.
Target strides toward door.
I press until the trigger settles neatly into its small slot. It and I have completed our evolution. I look through the lens and watch as the target flops forward and down onto the paving.
Eleven nought five and ten seconds.
Target beyond repair.
Dead.
Eleven nought five and twenty seconds.
I begin packing my equipment away. Clean everything; spray all surfaces with acid, clear the cupboards but leave the chair facing the street from where I fired the shot.
You know, it really doesn’t take much to kill a man.