-------  12.02.06  The Assassin and the Unprodigal Son

I: Friday, December 1, 2006, London, England

"Another cup of coffee luv?"

The woman, perhaps forty-five, plump, with greasy hair, a Cockney English accent, and a kind smile, leaned forward with a large pot of the hot strong black brew.  I'm not used to English style coffee, so I waved off her offer with a hand and a reciprocated smile.

The little diner in the heart of London was buzzing at 7:30AM, but was sure to slow down as time waned onwards.

I only hope so. 

I hate people.

This was a unique task for me at hand.  I caught a flight over from Madrid and shaved my mustache, had my counterfeit passport ready, and styled my hair in a way that I am still not used to doing.  It really is appalling.

Another woman, forty-fiveish, grinned at me, which I spotted out of the corner of my eye.

Perhaps it's not so appalling after all.

This assignment is however, not terribly laced with joy.

But it is what I do.

I flip through my phony credentials and résumé, making sure everything's in place.  I've read them a million times over.  My story is straight.

After twenty-five years in the Centro Nacional de Inteligencia - that is, the Spanish National Intelligence Centre - I never thought I'd enter this field.

My eye catches a reflection of myself on a cheap stainless steel napkin holder.

I'm still bitter.  Bitter at those bastards.  Twenty-five years of impeccable, discreet service to His Majesty Juan Carlos, only to be tossed to the curb because of "budget cuts."  And now.

I let out a noticeable sigh.  The woman who was admiring me looked up with raised eyebrows.  I returned to the silence of my coffee cup, and drained it.  A quick glance at my watch and it was time to go.  I tossed a five pound note on the counter and ignored the waitress' utterance. 

The weather was shit in London, and I already hate it here.  I long for the sun-drenched Riviera.

But money is a stronger draw.

$500 000 beats rain any day of the week.

I hop into my rented shitbox and begin the drive.

I try to flip through radio stations trying to find something that suits me.  Classical music.  Finally.

Some Chopin to sweep over the tumult of my life.

And for twenty minutes I sat in bliss.  Until I reached my destination.  It was a pretty little place, with trees largely bare of their leaves.

One more deep breath and I exit the car, and briefcase in hand, I begin the walk to the front doors.

They scurry about like rats - but they are adorable.  Adorable rats?

Whatever.

I turn to see a mother - a very beautiful one at that - holding her son's hand and rushing towards the entrance.  She leans down and whispers a few things in his ears, straightening his little tie.

They notice me.

I smile.  They smile back.

A quick kiss on the cheek and he's off, scurrying inwards after his little friends.

I follow him indoors and walk a few steps behind him.

Edward James Lancaster.  Four years old.  He who I must


kill.


I find the secretary's office and am promptly, to my delight, greeted by the Head Master.

"Mr. Jimenez, we were expecting you.  Welcome to our school."

---

II: Friday, December 1, 2006, Wessex, England; Ancestral Estate of the Lancastrians of Wessex

"So the guy tries to stick a CD into his bag without paying - but the silly old bird notices, and takes the damn thing OUT, charges the loser, and he doesn't even notice."

The two share a laugh over some scotch.

He could never have done this with Simkins.  Too proper.

But James was different.  Jim was a man of good spirits - pardon the pun - and could unwind.

"So," said Lancaster, winding back in his favourite leatherback chair in the Grand Library, "See me on the box a few days ago?"

"Never miss an episode Rob."

The Duke smiled contentedly at the candor of his Master of the House.

"Do you think," as he sloshed the Balblair 1973 and admired the way it swished and coated the glass, "I was too cruel to Simply Beautiful?"

Jim snorted.

"Anyone named 'Simply Beautiful' needs to get his ass simply kicked."

Lancaster sniffed his scotch and took a generous helping, letting it linger in his cheeks before swallowing.

"I like the way you think. At any rate, I have to worry about this bloody match with Christenson - he'll be out for me," he pointed to Jim.  "But I'm ready for the bastard.  We all know his sister wants to experience the Dreams of Avarice.  And then Curtis.  Good to see him back actually.  Feuding with him was fun."

"He did push you to the limit."  Jim didn't pull any punches, but was usually frank with his master.

"Very true."  Lancaster reached over and filled his glass.  He offered to Jim, who signaled no with an upright hand.  "Then Quinn Tate.  The dark horse."

"He might be the one to watch for."

"I never underestimate anyone now Jim.  I've seen it all.  Learned too many goddamn hard lessons.  While I am the master of my kingdom now I will not and shall never underestimate anyone, including Tate.  He's a talented lad."

At that moment, Paulus Marcus - Marissah's "friend" and financial advisor to the Duke - strolled past the Grand Library, having just arrived to perform his financial...undertakings.

"Paulus, over here."

The German was startled.  A sudden smile crossed his face, as if to say, 'I didn't expect you.'"

"I didn't expect you," he matter-of-factly said as he made his way into the library and shook Lancaster's hand.

"Oh I know, I just rang Jim yesterday to say I had some business to take care of.  Speaking of which, how goes business in Lancaster International."

"Fine sir, very good."

"I must apologize for not keeping in touch hardly in these last few months.  But I know my money is in good hands."

Another forced smile from the German in Dolce and Gabbana sunglasses.  "I do my best sir."

"For yourself you thieving German bastard," thought Jim silently.

"We'll touch base again."

With that Paulus left the library.

"Speaking of business sir - erm, Rob."  A rare slip.

"Go on."

"You mentioned having something to do in the family chapel."

Lancaster pursed his lips.  "Yes."

---

I am become Death The Destroyer of Worlds

Hosted by www.Geocities.ws