A mentor and his best student have a final dinner.
Damn Marston!
That bastard put me in this position. I’ve carried out his sanctions for 25 years without fail or protest. It should engender some sense of obligation on his part.
But, no. Not for my years of service. Not for the targets dispatched by either of us. Swine.
Look at Dawson–red-haired, freckle-faced, comfortably suited. When I pulled him out of the gutter all those years ago, he didn’t know the difference between a malt beer and a whiskey shot. Now he knows how to pick out the perfect dessert wine.
Such a waste.
Out of the corner of my eye I see him inspect the bottle for any sign of tampering. No, my friend, I’m not that simple. Besides, I couldn’t be certain which bottle you would select.
You knew that, but still, you looked. Good man! You learned well. Leave nothing to chance.
A pity there was one more trick I never taught you, one more clever way to eliminate an enemy, or even a friend.
Did I hold that trick in reserve for a day like this? Who knows? I learned long ago not to dwell too much on people’s motivations, not even my own–especially not my own. That only leads to regrets and I have never had time for those.
Dawson poured our digestif and his doom. Then, he stretched his long arm across the table. He presented my glass like a religious offering. Shame choked my throat.
“Congratulations, old man! Not many retire from this profession while still standing upright.”
I took the glass, keeping my emotions tamped down. I’m good at that. I had to be.
“The night is young,” I pointed out and sipped down a quarter of the glass. Dawson followed suit quickly. He almost didn’t wait for me to imbibe first.
Such a work of art you are! Such a tragic waste!
I try to savor the wine, but it has a bitterness I cannot ignore.
Just look at the old man! Elegant in his silk smoking jacket, drinking his wine, so at ease, so natural. This must be killing him, yet he looks so relaxed. It took me years to get even half that good. I’m still a work in progress compared to Jeremy. Perhaps I always will be.
Damn Marston!
The asshole could have accepted my refusal. There were plenty of operatives he could have hired. All thugs, of course, but that’s what the job called for.
I am neither a thug, a terrorist, or a simple hit man. I am a professional. I have a reputation to maintain. Jeremy taught me that.
But Marston is not to be refused. I knew this and have been waiting for Marston to make his move. I expected someone to show up eventually.
But for Marston to involve Jeremy, my friend, my mentor—that violates what few boundaries we have in this business. It cannot go unanswered.
It will not go unanswered.
I waited until Jeremy finished his last sip.
Finally, I said, “Marston sent Hargrove after me.”
I could see the gears churning, the cunning in his eyes as he gauged his response. Finally, he gave up devising some subterfuge and, with some relief, replied bitterly:
“Damn Marston.”
“Damn Marston,” I concurred.
“The weasel assured me he wouldn’t send anyone else first. I told him it would only alert you. And he did it anyway.”
I shrugged. “To be fair, I anticipated he would send someone. Hargrave just confirmed it.”
“And he gave up Marston before you disposed of him?”
“Yes, and that you were next on the recruitment list.”
“Hmmm. Very good. You figured out my method?”
“Oh, yes. Poison the glasses, not the wine. You know, that’s not a new trick.”
“Of course. The real trick was letting you pick out our glasses. There was no way for me to know which ones you would select.”
“Which meant you had to poison all of them.”
Jeremy nodded. “And drink my own poison. I think that was a nice touch.”
“Oh, definitely.”
“You also took the antidote?”
“Of course.”
“How did you know which antidote to take?”
“I installed a virus on your computer years ago to monitor your emails and Internet messages. I knew about Marston’s order to sanction me before you did. I also saw the order you placed for the poison and its antidote.”
“Nicely done. I sweep my computer for that type of thing every day and I still missed it.”
“And who set up your sweeping program?”
“Ha! Point taken. And what exactly did you put in my wine?”
I hesitated for a moment. I thought, perhaps, he might have missed that. But, no, the old man doesn’t miss anything. I sighed.
“A nerve toxin I bought from the Russians. You’ll be happy to know that it set me back much more than that fine bottle of wine we just opened.”
“I’m honored! And the outcome?”
“You have about 48 hours. The end will be quiet and painless. I owe you that.”
“I appreciate it. So, what do we do about Marston?”
I pulled out a small vial from my jacket and held it up between my index finger and thumb.
“This. Another very expensive medical miracle from our Russian friends.”
“That will do him in? Painfully, I hope.”
“Oh, no. It won’t kill him or even cause a splinter’s worth of pain.”
Jeremy raised an eyebrow. “Hmmm. And, instead it…?”
“Decimates the voluntary nervous system. His autonomic functions like breathing and heartbeat are unaffected. But, his ability to move will be eliminated.”
“For how long?”
I smiled.
“Ah,” Jeremy replied as he took the vial. “I see. When he hears you are still alive, he will summon me to explain why. That’s when I will apply it.”
“Precisely.”
“I will be searched before they let me near him.”
“Understood. Just before you meet him, pour the solution on your palm. It will form a dry coating within a minute. At some point within the next hour, your hand needs to make skin-to-skin contact with Marston. Even a second will do. A few moments after that, he will be incapacitated.”
Jeremy frowned. “Isn’t there a flaw in your plan? If I use it first…”
“That’s the beauty of it. Only one chemical could protect you from the effects of this substance.”
“The poison I just drank?”
“Exactly.”
“Remarkable. There’s a perfect symmetry there. Yes, yes, I like it.
“As for infecting Marston, I’m certain I can manage to wring a handshake out of him. Or, better yet, give him a slap in the face. Don’t worry, my boy, I may be past my prime, but I can handle that imbecile.”
I smiled. “I know, sir. And I just want to say—”
“No, no, no!” he implored, holding out his palm. “Please, no maudlin sentimentality! That is beneath men like us. Just get another bottle. The ’73, please. I’ve always wanted to see what the fuss was all about.”
“Of course, sir. My pleasure.”
Jeremy told me where I could get fresh glasses. I wasn’t worried about these being poisoned. What would be the point?
I took the 1873 out of the rack, popped it open, then poured our portions. As we clicked glasses, Jeremy laughed.
“I hear it’s a killer vintage!” he said.
“For a vintage killer,” I replied.