Angel of Death. Christian Russell
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don’t know. I can’t put a finger on it. But I can feel danger floating in the air. Something indefinite, shapeless. It gives me the creeps.”
“Don’t be a child, Arty. And stop fidgeting on that chair. You’ll end up scaring everyone.”
“All the same, Mark, I suggest we mind our eyes.”
“We will,” Mark whispered reassuringly.
Actually, panic had started grabbing his heart as well. It wasn’t the first time Arty was worried about something. And most of the times his foresight was justified. He decided to be extremely cautious, congratulating himself for positioning that man outside the door. Thus their backs were covered. They now had to watch only for the front.
No danger could come from the stalls unless someone thought of throwing a grenade over at them. He gave the flicker of a smile realizing such a thing was preposterous. There remained the boxes opposite their own. If there was any danger, that was where it would come from. He looked at the boxes carefully from one end of the stage to the other. Nothing threatening there: only classy people in fancy clothes enjoying a good play. On the stage the ‘shrew’ had just started cursing to the audience’s guffaws.
Suddenly Mark felt a shudder. His subconscious had caught a glimpse of something but couldn’t say what it was, not yet. Another line coming from the ‘shrew’ elicited the audience’s guffaws. Mark had the impression that the people in the opposite box weren’t exactly enjoying themselves. He decided to wait and see if he was right. Staring at the eight people in the box he was waiting for the next funny line. It was soon uttered by Ralf Wheller, but the people in the box remained still, like some wax statues, gazing mechanically at the stage while the rest of the audience were roaring with laughter. Mark put his hand under his coat and slowly took out the Browning. He placed it next to him making sure the politicians and the woman didn’t notice it. With the gun in his hand he kept looking at the box. There was definitely something wrong there. He drew closer to Paulardis.
“Watch out, Sean,” he whispered. “There’s something fishy going on here.”
Almost immediately he noticed the metal shining of a gun in the hands of one of the eight. He realized that the box was occupied by seven spectators threatened by the eighth one who was pointing a gun at them.
Suddenly the man raised his sniper shotgun and pointed it at the opposite box. At a speed only intensive training could give him, Mark raised his Browning and without aiming, pulled the trigger. A little bit of luck and a lot of skill took his bullet to the man’s forehead. The man fell to the floor before being able to use his gun.
A fraction of a second earlier Mark had heard a dull noise right next to their box. He immediately identified it as coming from a small caliber silenced gun. The moment he pulled the trigger, the back door flung open. He realized that the bodyguard at the entrance was probably dead, which meant that his back wasn’t covered any longer. The attackers must have agreed to start simultaneously from two directions. Indeed, he had his Browning ready but he didn’t have enough time to turn to the other attacker.
As he was turning, he heard the second shot coming from the silenced gun. Now he could finally assess the situation. Outside the door the attacker, gun in hand, was trying to get rid of Paulardis who had grabbed him. The Greek’s shoulder was bleeding, showing that the second bullet had not been shot at random. Sean hadn’t had enough time to take out his gun so he had blocked the assassin with his own body. The moment he had provided them with proved to be very precious. Du Nancy and Steimberg, who had managed to take out his Colt, shot almost simultaneously at the aggressor’s hand, blowing away his gun and a couple of fingers with it.
The whole incident had hardly lasted three seconds. Only when it was all over did the audience start panicking and screaming. On the stage the actors abandoned the play and withdrew backstage. Mark leaned over the box and shouted at the audience.
“I’m with the FBI! Don’t panic! Stay where you are! The attackers have been annihilated! Don’t rush out! If there are any accomplices left, they’ll try to take advantage of it!”
Only then did he dare look into his own box. The two politicians had taken the shock pretty well. Even if they were somewhat scared, they didn’t show it. Only the young secretary looked more scared than anyone. As for the actress, she had crouched in a corner like a frightened deer expecting the pack of wolves to attack.
“Relax!” Mark tried to act as a tonic to the guests. “Everything’s under control.” He drew close to Paulardis. “How is it, Sean? Is it serious?”
“Bullshit,” the man answered playing the hero. “The bullet just grazed my shoulder. It’s only a scratch.”
They opened the little door and slipped outside. Right there, lying on the floor, was the actress’s young bodyguard with a bullet in his heart. Mark tried to feel his pulse: nothing. He had probably died at once. Two police officers came running from the mayor’s box.
“Is everything OK with you?” they asked.
“Yes,” Mark answered. “Take care of the wounded guy inside. And watch out, he might be dangerous! But I want him alive. Maybe he’ll tell us a story about what’s happened here.”
“Done,” the two police officers said entering the box.
“Come, Sean. Let’s see what we’ve got.”
By the time they reached the box all of its occupants, frightened, had already left. The sniper’s body alone was lying in a pool of blood on the floor.
“You’re good, Mark,” Sean whispered admiringly looking at the red spot in the middle of the attacker’s forehead.
Mark dismissed it with a wave. “Does his face ring a bell to you?” he asked.
“Not a thing. He’s not a famous hitman. Probably a second hand one.”
Meanwhile a couple of policemen had come for the body. The man’s bloody face didn’t ring any bell to them either. “He might be a foreigner,” one of them suggested.
The two agents returned to the senator’s box. While they were gone the police had taken the wounded killer away.
“Where did they take him?” Mark inquired.
“The Bellevue,” Arty answered.
Down below the stalls had almost emptied. Obviously the show was ruined and it was unlikely they would resume it. The senator moved toward the agent with open arms.
“Mark, my son, it’s the second time you’ve saved my life,” he said.
The other two men thanked him too.
“Actually, you should be thanking Paulardis,” Mark tried to direct their gratitude to his injured partner and looked at Dorothy Wheller. She still seemed to be in a state of shock. However, she managed to give the three men a faint grateful smile. “Right. Let’s see what we’ve got to do now,” Mark finally decided. “Sean, you go to the hospital right away. Me and Arty are taking the senator to his South Orange villa.”
‘Oh, no, Mark. I’m on a tight schedule here and I’m not changing it for something like this. I’ve got to be at the University at 7:00 p.m. Quite a number of students are waiting for me there and I intend to keep my promise. I’ll tell you what we’ll do. I’ll keep Steimberg and the other police officers for my own protection. I hope you’ll do me a favor and take Dorothy home. Look how frightened she is! I want her safe, so, please, go with her.”
Mark sighed in apparent resignation. “OK. So be it. But apart from Steimberg, I want four more police officers for Henry Wheller,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” said the sergeant who was waiting outside the box.
CHAPTER THREE
Tuesday, October 13
They were walking shoulder to shoulder. Dorothy couldn’t help squinting at her companion. This guy who was walking quietly