The Lance

CHAPTER TEN

The Visitor looked out over the lights of Jerusalem.

A cell phone rang, one of several he kept for these calls.

"Yes."

"We have a problem."

The caller spoke in German, with a slight American accent. The voice was husky, a rasp of cigarettes or whiskey. He might have been in the next block or across the Atlantic. There was no way to tell.

"Yes?"

"Our business strategy requires modification. A representative of a rival consortium based in America has arrived. He intends to interfere with our negotiations. Perhaps you could resolve this with him?"

"His name?"

"Carter."

"You wish me to visit him?"

"Yes, please do. I am sure you can make a satisfactory arrangement. Your usual consulting fee will be doubled for this assignment."

"Where is he staying?"

"At the King David Citadel Hotel. He is one of their best negotiators."

A pause.

The Visitor asked, "Is the meeting still on schedule?"

"It is. Continue supervising the arrangements. An update has been sent to you. Negotiate with our competition."

"I understand."

The call ended. The Visitor placed the phone on the floor and crushed it with his heel.

It was an unexpected assignment, but it shouldn't take long. The Visitor went to his laptop. He opened a program that had never been certified by Microsoft or anyone else and tapped into the reservations computer at the King David Citadel. He noted Carter's room number and the fact that he was in the hotel.

He tapped another key and brought up an encrypted message, the "update" his caller had mentioned.

Carter was going to meet with an Armenian merchant in the Old City. The instructions were clear. Eliminate the Armenian and the possibility of that meeting ever happening. A picture of Carter, his contact and the address where the meeting was to take place were provided.

Perfect. The Visitor was efficient. When Carter came to meet the Armenian, opportunity might present itself to take care of two problems at the same time.

He thought about the day ahead. He went over the assignment in his mind's eye, a professional working through his game plan, visualizing the steps, the terrain, possible complications or obstacles.

The Visitor shut down his laptop. He took out the silenced Ruger .22 he preferred for his work. Quiet, effective, with little chance of rounds penetrating places they shouldn't go, it was his favorite weapon. He got a kit and laid everything out in a precise row and began cleaning the gun. The smell of solvent and gun oil and the sheen of the deep bluing on the metal provided a peaceful, ordered sense of purpose, an existential meditation focused on the instrument of death in his hands.

The Visitor thought of his home in Germany, in the mountains of Bavaria. It was so different from the barren, desert land of this Jew nation. Green trees and black earth, snow capped peaks rising like gods to the pure, blue skies. The smell of pine and the glory of alpine flowers blooming in the high country in the spring. Warm summer days. Fair women with rosy cheeks and wide hips.

But his beloved Bavaria was corrupted, diseased.

Poisoned by Jews and foreigners, mongrel races swarming like cockroaches over his beloved Fatherland, Germany's patrimony traded for a mess of porridge by spineless politicians catering to the Zionist Americans and their ilk.

It wasn't too late to reverse the damage. Soon, the Jews would be brought down. A long delayed completion of the final solution was coming to this nation of sub-humans called Israel.

The Visitor hummed to himself as he wiped excess oil off the pistol.