Burabai,
Kazakhstan
It
was dark when the man in the black leather jacket slipped
up the stairwell and into the abandoned building across
from the bar. He'd been following the old man for three
hours now, and had almost been ready to finish the job
when the old man slipped into the bar. The man cursed
as he watched his target enter the doors into safety.
That was when his gaze had fallen on the building across
the street.
"You
can go in, old man, but you have to come out sometime."
The man muttered with a thick accent as he opened the
silver case he'd been carrying and started assembling
the sniper's rifle. It was only a matter of waiting now.
Part
III Scene II
Benoit
DuPre shut the heavy wood door behind him and surveyed
the room. The smoke hung heavy, and tired, battered men
leaned over the bar, their faces lined with the harshness
of their lives.
He
took a deep breath of smoke and alcohol, then coughed
a little, his chest tight with pain. It had been six months
now. Six months since the package from Franklin arrived.
When he saw the package in his morning mail his heart
sunk. Something was terribly wrong. When he opened it,
he felt sick. He needed to find Ethan and tell him that
something terrible was going on, but first he took the
package and sent it to the states for safekeeping.
Lisette,
my darling, be careful. These people will kill you as
well as me.
It
had also been six months since his door was kicked down
in the middle of the night, confirming his suspicions
that someone wanted what was in that package. Luckily
he had been across the street, peering from behind the
park wall as the men, dressed in black, went into his
house. The glint of moonlight shone off their guns, and
Benoit knew he had to run.
And
run he did. City to city, staying out of sight, travelling
only at night, eating what he could find. He was too afraid
to even take advantage of a soup kitchen or public shelter.
He lived in parks, on benches, under bridges, always moving,
always watching for the men with the guns. They would
always be there, always one step behind him. He had not
left them when he left Paris. He had no doubt they would
find him, and he had to make it as difficult as possible.
Luckily,
he had the necessary training, but after six months, and
with the tightness in his chest getting worse by the day,
Benoit knew his time was running out. He had to find Ethan
Fairchild; he had to tell him.
To
tell him...
Benoit's
thoughts stopped as he stared at the bar. At a man sitting
at the bar, a glass raised to his mouth, his eyes closed
as he drained the last bit of bitter liquid. There was
something about him, something familiar....
I
thought you were dead.
Part
III Scene III
"Another."
Declan grunted towards the bartender, knowing he couldn't
understand a word he said. Declan pounded on the bar and
motioned towards the empty glass. In seconds he had another
glass of the dark bitter beer that was common all through
Kazakhstan. He tilted it back, feeling the drink slip
down his throat, waiting for the numbness to start.
When
would he get out of this hellhole? The only thing he could
do here was remember, and that meant the only thing he
really could do was drink since he didn't want to remember.
During the day he would watch, and wait for movement among
the supposed rebels. At night he would drink until he
forgot, stumbling home to wake up bleary eyed and parched
so he could get up and watch another day.
"Fuck
Philip Lancaster." Declan muttered under his breath as
he took another drink. He was starting to feel like Philip
was purposely sending him to the ends of the earth. After
he was pulled off the Berlin job, after he left Kat, curled
up and sleeping in his bed, smelling like flowers and
sunshine and freedom: after he felt his heart being ripped
out as he was told that it was either his soul or her
life, he ended up in Angola, then Nicaragua, then Afghanistan,
now here. Wherever the ends of the earth were, it seemed
Philip was intent on sending him there.
At
least there was a half-decent, smoky dark greasy and grimy
bar in Burabai.
Declan
tilted the glass back and felt the rest of the beer slip
down his throat. He slammed the glass on the bar, and
motioned to the bartender for another, all but oblivious
to the disheveled old man who had stumbled into the bar
just moments ago and was now staring at him like a ghost.
Part
III Scene IV
Paris,
1969
"Can't
you stop them?"
Benoit
leaned over to the man on the other side of the table,
his voice low as he glanced nervously around him.
"They
are going to kill him. I don't think you understand that,
and I think they will also kill me. They know...."
The
man on the other side of the bistro table stared at Benoit,
his face showing no emotion.
"You
cannot blow your cover, Benoit. One agent is nothing compared
to the mission. He is dispensable."
Benoit
thought as he watched the man lift his cigarette and inhale
deeply, his eyes captivated by the deep ruby signet ring
on the man's hand. He blew the smoke out his mouth softly,
and Benoit stared as it drifted towards the ground. His
stomach ached as he thought of what lay ahead.
"They
will test my loyalty. They might ask me to do it."
"Then
do it. Do whatever it takes to keep your position in the
family, Benoit. You knew this might happen."
He
did. When he took the job, he knew that there would come
a time when he might have to stand by as atrocities happened,
but to have it be a colleague...
"You
could stop this. You know where he is, but you stand bye."
Benoit hissed. "I will not stand by. I will not be party
to murder."
"Then
we will have to take the proper precautions, my friend."
The
man did not say it, but Benoit knew what he meant. Amalie's
face flashed before him, with her dark eyes and olive
skin. She had no idea what he was doing. She thought he
was an importer, and then there was his daughter, only
five. He did not want to lose her. He did not want her
to lose him.
"Stay
strong Benoit. You will be rewarded for this."
Part
III Scene V
He
was never rewarded with anything but a guilty conscience
and a hell of his own making.
It
had been one of the Legacy agents. Benoit had known who
he was since he infiltrated the family, but no contact
was made. He was under the strictest orders to reveal
nothing, tell no one. He was the greatest secret. He remained
that way, even that day as he watched the big Hungarian
strike the Legacy agent over and over and over again until
his eyes were swollen shut and he could barely mumble.
Hitting until blood ran down his face, and from where
the rope rubbed on his wrists that were tied behind him.
Show
nothing, show nothing, show nothing.
That
was his mantra as Benoit sacrificed the man's life for
his own.
Show
nothing, show nothing, show nothing.
And
then came that moment when they had left the man, and
Benoit stood in the room, the bare bulb swinging and the
dampness crawling down the walls in long black streaks.
"Please."
The
man's voice was weak, an accent coming through as he lost
the ability to control his speech. It was familiar. Irish,
he thought. Benoit stared at him, afraid to move. Afraid
to end up in the same chair the agent was in right now.
"Please.
Just some water. Please."
Finally
Benoit had willed himself to move. Glancing around him,
he decided it was safe. He went to the grimy sink in the
corner of the little room and ran some water into his
handkerchief. Then he slowly approached the man, bile
rising as he saw close up the damage from the beating.
His hand shaking, Benoit dripped water onto the cracked
lips.
"Thank
you." The man closed his eyes and heaved a sigh. Benoit
stood over him, staring. It wouldn't be long now.
"One
more thing," the man in the chair said weakly. "I know
I am not going to be allowed to live. I have a wife. Find
her. Tell her that I will be okay where I am going."
Benoit
nodded.
That
was the first and last time he met Liam O'Conner, until
now, as thirty years later Benoit stared at the man at
the bar. The man was younger than Liam had been, but there
was no mistaking that profile. It could be no one other
than the small boy who had clung to his mother as Benoit
stood on her doorstep, trying to find the words to tell
her how her husband died, unable to find the words to
tell her his own part in it.
Slowly
Benoit walked up behind the man at the bar, and reached
out a trembling hand, almost afraid to touch him, afraid
it was not Liam's son, but the specter of his conscience
returning to haunt him.
Part
III Scene VI
Declan
jerked at the slight touch on his shoulder and his hand
automatically went to his waistband where he had tucked
his gun before waking into the bar.
Careful
O'Conner. It's crowded bar. That doesn't mix well with
a gun, and a jumpy agent.
Slowly
he turned around, every muscle in his body tense, he jaw
clenched. Then he relaxed. An old man stood behind him,
dirty, a musty stench rising form him.
"I
don't have any money." Declan said shortly, and started
to turn back to the bar.
"Wait."
Declan
froze. The accent was French. French accent in Kazakhstan?
He turned towards the old man.
"I
knew your father."
Declan
felt all the blood drain from his face.
"My...my
father?"
"Yes.
I knew him."
The
man looked around nervously, his eyes wild, then leaned
towards Declan.
"We
cannot talk here...it's only a matter of time before they
find me, and they will kill whomever is with me. I will
leave, follow me to the alley. We can talk there. It is
not safe. No where is safe."
"Wait..."
The
old man turned around, ignoring Declan. He hurried towards
the heavy wood doors and in a flash was gone. Declan drained
the rest of his beer, slammed some money down on the bar,
then went to follow the old man.
Part
III Scene VII
The
third floor provided the most unobstructed view of the
doors that the old man had slipped through. The broken
window provided a nice perch for the sniper's rifle that
the man now rested gently on the sill. He took a deep
drag on the cigarette he had lit then let the smoke drift
slowly out of his mouth.
"It's
been a long time Benoit." He said softly, staring intently
at the doors, waiting for the old man to appear. He should
have finished this a long time ago, in Paris. Benoit DuPre
was proving to be too expensive for the organization,
especially with all the time they had spent trying to
take him out.
The
clouds moved away from the room, and the building was
flooded with blue moonlight. The man shrunk back into
the shadows by the window, into the darkness, only the
red ember of his cigarette showing. Then he heard the
noise down on the street. He moved to the window and crouched
down, his finger softly stroking the trigger of the gun,
a ruby pinky ring flashing in the light. The man lowered
his head and peered through the scope.
The
doors to the bar opened, and the old man scuttled out,
looking left and right, and started towards the alley.
The man leaned towards the window, his eyes intent on
his victim.
"Steady...steady..."
One
more step and he would be in the sight. The shot had to
be accurate, and it had to be deadly.
"A
little closer Benoit, a little closer." The man said softly,
his voice mingling into the breeze that blew through the
abandoned building.
The
door to the bar opened again, and another man came out.
This one was taller, younger. He looked around also, and
then slipped into the alley and started talking to the
old man.
"Steady."
The
two men were talking. He could not hear what they were
saying, but it didn't concern him. All he needed was a
clear shot.
The
old man gestured animatedly, then moved towards the middle
of the alley, his hand going up to run through his hair.
The gunman centered him in the crosshairs, and paused
for a second, the sound of his breathing loud in his ears.
Than
he squeezed. One squeeze, one shot. The soft thwack of
the silencer drifted out of the building and down towards
the street. The young man's head flew up and he stared
at the building, but the old man jerked back, his hand
clutching his chest as he fell to the ground, the snow
around him starting to turn crimson.
The
gunman quickly unscrewed the silencer and started to disassemble
the gun. He raced down the stairs of the abandoned building,
and out onto the street. His black jacket blended into
the shadows, and in a minute, he was gone.
Part
III Scene VII
The
third floor provided the most unobstructed view of the
doors that the old man had slipped through. The broken
window provided a nice perch for the sniper's rifle that
the man now rested gently on the sill. He took a deep
drag on the cigarette he had lit then let the smoke drift
slowly out of his mouth.
"It's
been a long time Benoit." He said softly, staring intently
at the doors, waiting for the old man to appear. He should
have finished this a long time ago, in Paris. Benoit DuPre
was proving to be too expensive for the organization,
especially with all the time they had spent trying to
take him out.
The
clouds moved away from the room, and the building was
flooded with blue moonlight. The man shrunk back into
the shadows by the window, into the darkness, only the
red ember of his cigarette showing. Then he heard the
noise down on the street. He moved to the window and crouched
down, his finger softly stroking the trigger of the gun,
a ruby pinky ring flashing in the light. The man lowered
his head and peered through the scope.
The
doors to the bar opened, and the old man scuttled out,
looking left and right, and started towards the alley.
The man leaned towards the window, his eyes intent on
his victim.
"Steady...steady..."
One
more step and he would be in the sight. The shot had to
be accurate, and it had to be deadly.
"A
little closer Benoit, a little closer." The man said softly,
his voice mingling into the breeze that blew through the
abandoned building.
The
door to the bar opened again, and another man came out.
This one was taller, younger. He looked around also, and
then slipped into the alley and started talking to the
old man.
"Steady."
The
two men were talking. He could not hear what they were
saying, but it didn't concern him. All he needed was a
clear shot.
The
old man gestured animatedly, then moved towards the middle
of the alley, his hand going up to run through his hair.
The gunman centered him in the crosshairs, and paused
for a second, the sound of his breathing loud in his ears.
Than
he squeezed. One squeeze, one shot. The soft thwack of
the silencer drifted out of the building and down towards
the street. The young man's head flew up and he stared
at the building, but the old man jerked back, his hand
clutching his chest as he fell to the ground, the snow
around him starting to turn crimson.
The
gunman quickly unscrewed the silencer and started to disassemble
the gun. He raced down the stairs of the abandoned building,
and out onto the street. His black jacket blended into
the shadows, and in a minute, he was gone.
Part
III Scene VIII
Snow
swirled through the broken window, scattering across the
rotting floors, starting to fill in the footprints. The
air was bitter cold and still as death. Then, a rustling
came from one of the corners, under a pile of rotted timber
that had fallen sometime in the summer and was now covered
with dirt and snow. Slowly, a woman pushed her way from
under, then, shaking the dirt off her expensive wool coat
ran to the window and stared out.
"No!"
she said softly, her breath hanging in the air like smoke.
"No!"
She
was small, her body wiry and strong, her hair was pulled
back and neatly tucked under a black cap, a stray curl
sneaking out. She pulled back from the window and stood
in the middle of the room, her lip caught between her
teeth. Then she jumped like she'd been shocked by something
and sprang forward, heading towards the stairs that the
man with the gun had slipped down just minutes before.