Death of a Pawn: A WMD Companion Short Story

Chapter Six

Alberto Nisman was a boring man.

That was Jamil’s conclusion after tailing him for two weeks. He had hoped for a challenge to snap him out of his funk since Farid’s death, but killing Nisman would be almost too easy. The man kept a rigid routine and had no sense of personal security, which meant that Jamil would be able to choose his time and place at will.

The routine. He could follow it in his head like a script.

Lights on in the apartment at 5AM. A shower and some breakfast while he read the morning paper. He could be there when Nisman opened the door to retrieve his paper.

9AM: Depart the building via the front door, briefcase in hand. Depending on the weather, take a cab or walk to his office. Too open and too many potential witnesses at that time of day.

He spent his entire day in his office. He even ordered lunch in. Delivery man? Too many people, even later into the evening.

Nisman left the office every day at 8:45PM and walked home, carrying his briefcase, regardless of the weather. He kept to the same path — the shortest route home. Jamil could scarcely believe a man of his profile would walk home alone at night, but he’d witnessed it every evening for the past two weeks.

A mugging gone bad. That was the play.

Tonight, Jamil would finalize the details. In two days, he’d be back home, back to his wife and child and away from this massive city with its noise and buildings and constant motion. After only two short weeks, he longed for the tranquility of the estancia and the new life he’d built there.

Enough. You have a job to do.

He knew this task was a test from Rafiq. With Farid gone, Rafiq needed him to do the work of two men. Rafiq needed him to be sharp for their real mission, not this Buenos Aires sideshow.

Jamil would not let down his boss — his friend.

While Nisman worked his days away in his office, Jamil watched the apartment building to see if he could spot any weakness. Nisman’s security detail had increased to ten men, with at least four men on duty at any given time. They did twelve-hour shifts, Jamil noted with satisfaction. Men would get fatigued beyond eight hours.

Nisman’s maid — he’d heard the security detail call her Paula — came to the flat each weekday to clean, usually from two to six in the afternoon. Making Nisman dinner, perhaps? He almost never stops on his way home from the office. It must be that she makes dinner for him. Was there more between Nisman and Paula? She was attractive and Nisman was alone. Always alone. During Jamil’s reconnaissance, Nisman’s daughters only visited once, for two hours on a Sunday afternoon.

Today was Friday. If he did it tonight, he could be out of Buenos Aires before Nisman’s body was even discovered. Yes, tonight. Complete the mission and get back to Rafiq. And to his family. Am I growing soft? The thought entered his mind just as he spotted Nisman leave his office building and start his long walk home, briefcase in hand.

Jamil lagged behind Nisman on the opposite side of the street. In two blocks, he would cross and cut through the alley. When Nisman passed beneath the burned out streetlight two blocks ahead, Jamil would be waiting. Using the suppressed 9mm he carried at the small of his back, he would drop Nisman with a single shot to the base of the neck. He would drag the body into the alleyway, ransack his clothes for money and jewelry, then leave the body behind a dumpster. A fatal mugging. Simple, an open-and-shut case for the police.

A gentle rain began to fall. Even better. The assassin’s ally, rain would mask any noise from his approach.

Jamil felt his heart pumping in his chest, his every sense alive and alert. He reveled in the exhilaration of the moment. It had been years since he’d killed a man, but he was sharp, ready. He would not let Rafiq down.

The alleyway appeared. He slid into the darkened space, breaking into a run. He’d timed Nisman’s pace and knew the man covered a block every eighty-five seconds. Jamil smiled to himself in the dark. His timing would be perfect. In less than two minutes, his mission would be complete.

He was so focused on the end of the alley, Jamil missed the blur of motion in his peripheral vision. They had pipes in hand, and they were on Jamil before he realized he was the prey. Two more came running at him from ahead.

Jamil was surrounded.

A stunning blow across the back of his neck forced Jamil to his knees. The second man loosed a kick to his ribs and Jamil felt the breath leave his body in a whoosh.

Jamil launched himself into the first assailant. It’s just a kid, he realized as he slipped his left arm around the boy’s throat. With a sharp jerk upwards, he separated the boy’s C4/C5 vertebrae, killing him instantly. The pipe fell from his hand with a clang as Jamil dropped the thug on the wet blacktop of the alley.

The remaining attackers didn’t hesitate. They cornered Jamil between a dumpster and the wall, raining down blows with their pipe weapons. Jamil simultaneously heard and felt the two ribs break on his left side. Then his left arm went numb and flopped loose against his hip.

But in their rage, none of the three remaining muggers thought to tackle their prey. Jamil gave up the protection of his remaining good arm to reach for his gun.

The first victim never saw the pistol before a bullet passed between his eyes and his life abruptly ended.

The next boy sensed something had changed, and he paused for a split second, his weapon over his head. Jamil’s two shots pierced his heart and his spine, and the boy collapsed. He would bleed out in less than a minute, paralyzed, unable to call for help.

The last boy dropped his pipe and held up his hands.

Jamil did not hesitate. The pain in his ribs and his broken left arm, plus the throbbing in his head, left him with no mercy. He leveled the gun at the last boy’s face and squeezed the trigger. The pffut of the suppressor sounded loud in the now-silent alley. The boy’s body hit the blacktop with a wet slap.

The rain’s intensity increased to a downpour.

Jamil looked around to see if anyone had witnessed his actions. He forced himself to stay completely still for a full fifteen seconds, listening. Nothing. He holstered the weapon in the small of his back, then used his good arm to drag the bodies behind a dumpster.

The rain was already washing away the blood from the ground in the alley.

The adrenaline in his system held off the pain long enough for him to steal into a public restroom two blocks away where he finished washing the blood off his hands and his battered face.

His mission was over. At least two ribs were broken, and he was pretty sure his left forearm was broken as well. He slipped his mobile phone from his pocket to report his failure to Rafiq.

Failure. He couldn’t even meet his own gaze in the mirror. How could he face Rafiq?

Am I growing soft?

From a block away, Alberto noticed the lights were on in his thirteenth-floor apartment. He looked at his watch. 9:05PM. Strange. Paula should be gone by now.

He passed by his security detail with only a nod. He felt their eyes following him as he waited for the elevator, but when he turned around they all avoided his gaze.

Instead of Paula greeting him, his apartment was dark.

He flipped on the light. “Paula?”

Nothing. “Paula?”

The place was empty. Perhaps she took the stairs when I was in the elevator.

In the kitchen, he found the dinner Paula had cooked for him and he poured himself a glass of wine.

It was Friday. His report was due to Congress a week from Monday. He should use this weekend to relax. He needed to be fresh for the final week. But he could not shake the feeling that he was being watched. He flipped on the television and began to watch replays from the midweek football matches, half-listening as the commentators discussed the current league standings.

After fifteen minutes, he gave up. The only cure for this nagging feeling was work. He retrieved his briefcase from the hallway and headed to his home office.

He stopped short in the doorway.

Someone had gone through his papers. They’d tried to replace them as he’d left them early that morning, but they’d been moved, he was sure of it. Paula knew better than to touch his desk. When she was hired, that was the first thing he’d discussed with her. In five years, she’d never broken that rule.

A quick survey showed that nothing was missing. He dialed the security detail in the lobby. Marcos answered after two rings.

“Yes, Mr. Nisman?” His voice was cold, professional.

“Was anyone in my apartment today besides Paula?”

“No, sir. Is there a problem?”

Alberto was about to launch into an explanation, but checked himself. “No, thank you, Marcos. Have a good evening.”

He hung up the phone but didn’t take his hand off the handset. He thought about calling Jaime, but his friend had his own problems to deal with — also of Alberto’s making. His daughters, maybe? He considered Diego for a long moment, then spun his chair around so he could see look out over the lights of the city.

Buenos Aires, a city of three million souls. And Alberto Nisman didn’t have a single friend.