Angel and the Assassin

vein.
    Weirstein drew in a long breath and fell silent. A hissing sound followed as
    blood began to gush from the vein. Kael pressed all his weight down onto the man‟s
    back, making it impossible for him to rise. Weirstein struggled to get his hands to
    his neck in an automatic response to stanch the flow, but he was helpless, his blood
    and his strength rushing from his body.

    Angel and the Assassin
    11

    When the struggle was over, the target dead, Kael stood up and checked
    himself for blood spatter. There was nothing. He took the condom to the bathroom
    and flushed it down the toilet, then dressed without hurrying.
    At the door he looked back. A thick pool of dark blood soaked the carpet
    beneath the man‟s neck. His eyes were half-open.
    Nice-looking man.
    In the corridor Kael walked quickly, but calmly, back the way he had come,
    pulling off his latex gloves and shoving them into his pocket. The passage leading to
    the alleyway was empty. Already Kael wanted to be home. A short first-class flight
    and he would be back in London at his expensive flat on the River Thames, settling
    into his own bed, sleeping for hours.
    “ Scheiße !” he said out loud, but in German. Shite.
    The man he had left unconscious in the mop cupboard had come round and
    pushed the door open a crack, perhaps looking out to see where he might find
    clothes.
    His wide, frightened eyes met Kael‟s, and even though he had not actually
    seen Kael earlier, it was obvious Kael was the man who had attacked him. For one
    thing, Kael was wearing his uniform. He slammed the door closed, shutting himself
    in.
    Kael grabbed the doorknob, but the man had tight hold of it. Anger flooding
    him, Kael yanked hard. The door flew open, and he stepped inside, his hand already
    on the scalpel in his pocket. Naked and terrified, the man held his hands
    defensively in front of him. Without taking his eyes off the target, Kael saw stacks
    of cloths on a shelf to his right. He snatched a cloth and with lightning-quick speed
    brought the scalpel up and found the man‟s jugular, pressing the cloth over his
    hand to prevent blood spatter.
    Collateral damage. Why did you have to open the door? Why did you have to see
    me?
    Gently he lowered the man to the floor. Taking a fresh cloth, he wiped the
    man‟s flesh where he had touched him and cleaned off the doorknob on both sides of
    the door, then closed it carefully. Outside in the cool night, he grabbed his bag of
    clothes and left without looking back.
    If there was one thing he hated, it was collateral damage, but as they told
    them in training, there would always be some.

    * * *
    London, England

    Naked, fresh from a hot shower, and hungry, Kael walked into the kitchen and
    opened the fridge. A carton of cream for coffee and a carton of milk for tea stood side
    by side. The fridge was empty. He never cooked and rarely ate at home. Sometimes

    12
    Fyn Alexander

    he threw a half-eaten jar of caviar in there, but today there was nothing. He could
    eat later.
    He wandered into the extensive living room and crossed the bare hardwood
    floor to the picture windows that looked out onto the Thames. The sun was just
    beginning to rise over the water, casting it into a pure golden light.
    Kael liked his flat spotlessly clean and perfectly neat. It was so perfect it look
    unlived in. There was not a photograph on the walls or a memento from his travels
    on the pristine glass-and-oak coffee table or sideboard, but there were several
    tasteful pieces of abstract expressionist art on the walls. He adored Rothko but
    doubted he would ever be rich enough to do anything but look at them at a gallery.
    For a fleeting moment, his mind went back to Vienna. The sex had been
    excellent. God, he was tired.
    In the bedroom stood the king-size bed where he always slept alone. The white
    sheets were crisp and perfect, the white duvet fluffed to perfection, the pillows just
    right. A charwoman came in twice a week, but only when he was home. Otherwise
    he changed the bed himself every day.
    Kael slid his arm under the mattress and took out the book. He‟d be in deep
    shite with MI6 if anyone found it, but ever since last year when Misha had died, he
    had been planning to make a record of his life. He threw back the duvet and piled
    up the pillows, then sat back with his knees up. From the bedside table drawer, he
    took a pen and began to write.

    I met Conran at school when I was twelve and he was sixteen. I was already
    tall for