Matthew Quirk - Hour of the Assassin

For Eileen and Rick

Assassination is a tense, sweaty business. So Nick Averose found it odd, as he sat inside this bush for the fifty-third minute, how cozy his spot had become. Berry and pine scented the air, and the little enclosure reminded him of childhood games. He could almost forget the Smith & Wesson hanging on his hip and the knife sheath in a horizontal draw on his belt.

The air shook with the sound of a heavy V-8. Nick pressed his back against the brick wall at the base of the fence. The six-bedroom mansion was all stone with slate roofs, fit for an Ivy League campus, though its perimeter was more appropriate for a military installation. It seemed unbreachable without raising the alarm.

But every defense had its weakness. Nothing was perfect. No one was safe. Nick had to believe that, to prove it tonight and every night.

As the black Chevy Suburban pulled up the driveway, Nick stole toward it. The faint blue glow of a cell phone lit the interior and the face of his target, Malcolm Widener, the former director of the CIA. The job was simple enough: kill him with no trace.

Once Widener had commanded an army of spies and paramilitaries, and a round-the-clock detail from the agencys Security Protective Service had lived on this property. Now he worked for a global hedge fund, trading on what and who he knew. His company provided him with the best guards money could buy.

There were a few ways to get through that fence, but the easiest was the most obvious and the most dangerous: the front driveway. All Nick needed was a stalking horse and some way to open the wrought iron gate. Wideners own vehicle would do both.

Nick waited, taking measured breaths as the gate rattled back. When the Suburban rolled forward, he stepped onto the driveway and walked toward the cars rear right tire, moving in a fast crouch in its blind spot.

Getting through that gate was the crux of the entry. He knew the compounds layout by heart. Once inside, he moved in a careful choreography: dart right into the blind spot of the southwest corner camera, sprint to the hanging vines of the pergola, duck behind the stonework of the outdoor kitchen, then wait one hundred and forty seconds. He stared at the faint green glow of his watch, cupped in his hands, while a drop of sweat rolled down his lower back. Footsteps hushed across the lawn. A flashlights beam swung toward him and glinted off the grill.

It lit up the grass behind him and the other side of the stone wall where he had taken cover but left him in a long shadow. The light swung away. The guard moved on, barely a minute off schedule. The security, armed with SIG semiautos, worked methodically through any spots the cameras wouldnt touch.

Nick waited ten seconds, stood, and continued on, his eyes on the guards back, staying fifty feet behind him, relying on the fact that the mans attention would be focused ahead. If he turned around, he could easily put a pair of nine-millimeter holes in Nicks heart.

He stalked in the mans slipstream toward the rear of the house, then cut under the south portico and took up a post next to a door of breakproof glass. He could see inside, down a long corridor lined with landscapes, family portraits, and a few classical pieces in marble.

His fingers closed on an acrylic box the size of a pack of cigarettes in his pocket. He stood close to the white circle next to the door, where access cards were swiped. Widener came around the corner at the far end of the hall and walked straight toward him.

Nick waited, calm. Because it was dark outside and light within, he knew that Widener could see only his own reflection, but that did little to kill the eerie feeling of staring eye to eye at his target.

Widener came closer, until he was six feet away, then turned right down a hall as Nick pressed a button on the side of his device. It was a Proxmark amplifierhed built it himselfthat boosted the signal between the key fob in Wideners pocket and the receiver by the door. The lock slid back with an expensive, beautifully engineered silence.

Nick opened the door an inch, waited a few seconds, then entered, trailing Widener on the long runner across the herringbone floor. He was moving away from the living room toward a set of stairs that led to the upper floors, where Widener would be most vulnerable.

Nick followed him as he went upstairs and disappeared into the bedroom suite. Nick didnt enter, just listened to the sounds of running water as he continued to the top floor and turned left into Wideners office. An antique desk commanded half the room, facing the windows and a sitting area with two club chairs, a sofa, and a wall-mounted television.

Moonlight filtered in. Nick looked over the frames on the wall. There were class portraits from St. Albans and Georgetown, and shots of Widener with the past two US presidents, with prime ministers, with senators. These were real photos of friends, of intimates, not staged handshakes at fund-raisers.

Nick had spent a decade in the Secret Service. He had once protected men like this, which had taught him how to get to them. He crossed the room and tucked into a dark nook where a copier and office supplies were stacked.

Through a window, Nick had a view of the driveway and the staff cars parked beside the garage. The wife was in New York. He could see everyone coming and going, would know when he was alone with Widener, when no one would be around to hear him call for help.

Widener entered, now without his jacket and tie, and switched on a lamp. He poured himself a small glass of scotch and added a few drops of water, as he did every night. A man of routine.

It would be easy enough to do it now. Killing wasnt the difficult thing, though it was harder, louder, and shabbier than most suspected. Killing and getting away was the true test.

Widener sat at his desk, his back to Nick. He flipped on the TV, tuned to a Hoyas basketball game, then pulled his laptop toward him and set to work.

Nick stepped out of the shadows. One turn, one careful look, and Widener would see him. But people so rarely stop to examine the familiar world around them. We walk blindly through this life.

This was the most difficult part: to hold, silent and still, in the same room as the mark, even as the adrenaline raced through his body like flame up a fuse.

Time was his weapon, isolating them. Nick watched through the window as the housekeeper pulled out in her Honda.

Malcolm Widener would have a place in the history books. But at the end of the day, he was just a man, sitting alone and vulnerable. Following someone this closely inevitably created sympathy. Nick used it as a tool to put himself inside a targets head. Now he tuned it out. This was a job, and he was a professional.

The gate opened and closed. One guard remained on the property, finishing his patrol before he went to check the security feeds from a post inside the pool house. There were no cameras here. Nick was inside the sanctum. It was time.

He closed on Widener with silent steps, stood behind him, and touched his fingers to the sheath.

Nick didnt draw a knife or gun. In his other hand he held a small envelope marked Indicator of Compromise. He laid it on the ground a few feet from the chair and stepped back into the shadows.

Tonight everything was real but the killing.

Nick waited for his moment, with Wideners eyes fixed on the game, then slipped through the side door into the back hall.

He took the rear stairs down and crossed to the front door, double-checking for the guard, timing his exit.

Heavy steps sounded from the top of the main staircase. He turned and saw the former CIA director staring down at him, holding his drink in one hand and Nicks letter in the other.