Blood of the Assassin - By Russell Blake Page 0,13
of our allies. The French. News that should have everyone in this room on edge.”
He had the gathering’s attention, and nodded to a man nearest the wall switch. The overhead lights extinguished and Rodriguez flicked on the power button for an old-fashioned overhead projector, waiting as the cooling fan whined into service and the lamp flickered on. He took his time, and then slid a transparency onto its glass top. A grainy black-and-white photograph of a man in a police uniform occupied most of the far wall, with another, sans hat, staring into the camera – obviously some sort of an official ID photo.
“This man is Werner Rauschenbach. He was a member of the Berlin police until ten years ago, when he was forced out under a cloud. His duty record was unremarkable, and he failed to distinguish himself in any way, except for a history of brutality charges filed by suspects he collared. By our standards he would be considered gentlemanly. But the point is that he was unexceptional.”
He slid another photo onto the screen, replacing the one of Rauschenbach. A corpse lay on a cobblestone street, a chalk outline around it, blood pooled on the stones.
“This is the first known execution by an assassin known as the Iron Eagle. Tomas Schultz, the number one man with one of Berlin’s numerous organized criminal syndicates until he met with his untimely demise. He was coming out of a famous nightclub, a group of bodyguards surrounding him, when a high-powered rifle blew his head off. It changed the lay of the land in Berlin, and enabled his number two man to take the reins – soon after which the Russian mob moved into the city in earnest, partnering with him.”
The room was silent, paying rapt attention.
“Rumor has it that Rauschenbach is the Iron Eagle. Apparently, once he quit the force, he took up contract killing and showed a real flair for it. He received sniper training in the army and scored near the top of the charts as a marksman. He’s believed to be responsible for a number of the most high-profile executions in Europe and the former Soviet republics, and is at the top of several of the most-wanted lists. In spite of which, he seems to be able to travel without restriction and continue his line of work, undeterred by the manhunt targeting him.”
A thin, balding man with bottle-cap glasses coughed.
“Yes, Umberto?” Rodriguez asked. He knew the analyst well enough, and didn’t want to have to wait for him to work up the courage to interrupt. Umberto was brilliant but excessively shy, and preferred not to speak unless it was something important.
“Why are we interested in him?” Umberto asked.
“I’m glad you asked. He’s considered to be the foremost hit man in Europe. Perhaps in the world.” Rodriguez changed the transparency again, and this time a photo of a burning car chassis occupied the wall. “This was the Egyptian ambassador to France. He was vaporized two years ago. Had a complement of serious security professionals working for him. Didn’t do him any good.” Another photograph. “And this is the Dutch attaché to Spain from six months ago. He was found in his home in Madrid, strangled to death.”
Umberto stared at Rodriguez in his vaguely reptilian way, his question still open, and raised an eyebrow.
“The Iron Eagle progressed at some point from organized crime and business targets to politically motivated or sensitive ones. Three days ago, the French came into possession of information that indicates he’ll be making an appearance on our shores, sooner than later. A man was killed in an attempt to keep that secret, and another was almost killed.”
An older man with a bushy mustache at the far end of the table chuckled.
“Don’t we have enough killers here, without having to worry about illegal immigrants coming to compete with ours? I know the global economy is rough, but still...”
Everyone laughed nervously, and Rodriguez smiled.
“Yes, well, I’m afraid this isn’t a funny matter. In addition to the information that he’s coming, we also got an idea of his target – one that, if he’s successful, will permanently alter the future of Mexico...and not for the better.” Rodriguez continued speaking for three more minutes, and when he was done, the gathering was somber, any trace of good humor banished. The lights came back on, flooding the room with their fluorescent glare, and he continued in a serious tone.
“Obviously, this cannot be allowed to happen. There’s more at stake than our