Rules of Deception

47

Wait and watch.

The Ghost eyed the restaurant from across the street. His point of vantage was a kiosk selling the usual newspapers and magazines. He passed the time browsing through a number of soccer reviews. When he caught the proprietor giving him a nasty look, he bought some chewing gum, a pack of cigarettes (though he didn’t smoke), and a copy of the Corriere della Sera, the Italian daily paper.

Tucking the newspaper under one arm, he strolled to the end of the block. The long night’s struggle had left him haggard, and he needed all his strength just to cover the short distance. He did it all the same, making sure that no one could spot his frailty.

He was dressed in a trench coat, collar turned up at the neck, a gray wool suit he’d had tailored in Naples, and a pair of hand-cobbled shoes the color of whiskey. Today he was an Italian businessman. Yesterday, he’d been a Swiss hiker. The day before, a German tourist. The only person he wasn’t allowed to be was himself. He didn’t mind. After twenty years in his line of work, the less time spent in one’s own company, the better.

He’d found Ransom at dawn, pulling out of a car dealership’s parking lot where he’d spent the night. The American was clumsy and amateurish in his efforts to spot a tail. He drove too slowly when he should have floored it. He stopped regularly to look over his shoulder. He parked too close to his destination. His actions were futile. Any attempt to hide was undermined by the homing beacon implanted in the religious medallion that hung from his neck.

The Ghost was content to wait and watch. The close-in kill was his domain. He’d built his career on caution and planning, making it a rule never to attempt the casual hit. It was his policy to reconnoiter the site, prepare a trap, and then lie in wait. The Lammers case was a model of planning and execution. Blitz, less so, as there had been so little time to prepare. Ransom’s sudden arrival was testament to the risks inherent in hurried work.

And then, of course, there was the dream.

Ransom would kill him.

The Ghost tried not to be superstitious. Dreams were the province of the Indians who’d worked his family’s coffee plantation. Not that of an educated man. And yet…

Just then, he spotted Ransom emerge from the restaurant.

He watched the American cross the street and disappear into a crowd near the factory gates.

For now, he was happy to keep his distance.

He would know the chance when he saw it.

Until then, he would watch and wait.

And he would pray.