The manager nodded. “It’s set up and ready,” he said. “I can’t begin to tell you how delighted I am that you agreed—”
Klien turned him out. He might refuse commissions from world governments to advise them on security matters, but if an offer came along which he might turn to his own advantage, then he would graciously agree to lecture, even going so far as to donate his usual fee to charity.
The security and communications company Inter-Tech had offered him fabulous sums to promote their latest range of computer communication devices. Klien had initially turned down their offer, and then had seen a way he might benefit from the deal.
The hotel’s security team had followed his instructions to the letter. In a small room next to the conference room, accessible by a door which could be locked, a com-screen had been set up. The other was in the conference room itself.
Klien watched the room fill up with about thirty men and women from various companies in the city, along with the hotel’s own security staff. He smiled to himself. As well as supplying himself with a foolproof alibi tonight, he could be assured that the security team was otherwise engaged.
He was introduced by the manager and stood as applause filled the room.
“Thank you… please… As you know, I don’t usually accept invitations to endorse company products, but Inter-Tech’s latest range is in my opinion something very special… and I’d heard it rumoured that the hotel has one of the finest cellars in the sub-continent. To your good health.”
He raised his glass and sipped as polite laughter greeted his quip.
“Tonight I’d like to talk about the Inter-Tech Arrow 200 com-screen.”
For the next thirty minutes he sang the praises of the Arrow 200’s design features and technical specifications, the screen’s reliability and range, peppering the advertisement with anecdotes and personal accounts of his experience with other screens over the years. The audience listened with genuine interest.
At one point he glanced at his watch. It was just after eight. Ali Bhakor would be waiting for him on the fourth floor, room 180. It was time he was moving.
“But enough of the talk,” he said now. “I think it’s time for me actually to show the Arrow 200 in action. If you’ll bear with me for one moment…”
He left the stage and moved into the adjoining room, quietly locking the door behind him. He approached the com-screen and loaded the recording he had made the day before. He switched on the screen. In the conference room, he could hear his relayed voice saying: “Thank you for your patience. Now, I think you will agree with me that the clarity of both sound and vision…”
Heart hammering with the thrill of the risk, Klien pulled the fine net of fibre-optic capillaries from the inside pocket of his suit and drew the device over his head. In the same pocket was the activator. He fingered the touch-pad. Instantly he was aware of a haze of light in his vision. Seconds later his eyes adjusted, and he quickly slipped through the door to the corridor. To any casual observer he would no longer resemble Ezekiel Klien, but a man in his sixties with a hatchet-thin face and silver hair. The capillary net was, officially, still in its design stage. As chief of security at the spaceport, he had contacted a local software company and sponsored its manufacture. It was making his work a lot easier.
He hurried along the corridor to the elevator and ascended to the fourth floor. His heart was pounding at a rate he only ever experienced on nights such as these. He tried to calculate the risk. The only possible danger was if the recording on the com-screen developed a hitch—and what an irony that would be! The pre-recorded disc would last fifteen minutes, allowing him what he considered to be more than enough time to get to the fourth floor, deal with Bhakor, and return.
He knocked on the door of room 180, and seconds later it opened fractionally. A sliver of Bhakor’s dark face appeared. A blood-shot eye blinked at him. “Smith. Ah-cha. You have the slash?”
“Don’t worry,” Klien said, slipping into the room. He crossed the lounge and sat down.
Bhakor returned from closing the door and lowered himself into the opposite armchair.
Klien watched the man as he leaned forward nervously. It was always his main regret that he could not, before he despatched his victims, lecture them on the error of their ways, explain to them just why they had to die.
Bhakor was impatient. “You have the slash?”
Klien nodded. “Have you had a good life, Bhakor?” he said.
Bhakor blinked. “What? What do you—”
“Are you ready to meet the judgement of your god?”
Before Bhakor could react, Klien pulled the laser pistol from his inside pocket and fired at point-black range, the blast charcoaling the right side of the drug dealer’s head. He slumped back into the chair with a posthumous grunt. The flesh of his cheek was blackened and cracked and the stench of singed hair and pomade filled the room.
Klien stood and pulled a razor from his pocket. Carefully, with almost loving exactitude, he sliced a crucifix in the plump flesh of the dead man’s left cheek. Then he hurried from the room, filled with an exultation and joy at the knowledge that he was doing God’s duty and sanitising this terrible world.
Two minutes later he entered the small room on the third floor, pulled off his capillary net and waited five minutes for the recording to finish. He heard his voice from the next room: “…as I think you’ll agree. Thank you.”
He pocketed the disc, unlocked the door and stepped through to stirring applause. He took his place on the stage, faced the audience and smiled.
“Thank you. I can honestly say that I think that little display went very well. I, at least, am very pleased with the performance.”
He wound down the talk, replying to a few predictable questions and thanking all present for being a knowledgeable and appreciative audience.
He stayed behind briefly for drinks with the security team and selected guests. He made an appointment to visit the team and go through a few of the latest systems. He had to suppress a smile as he arranged a date with the head of security. He would certainly enjoy telling them what they should do in future to ensure that their guests were not murdered in their rooms. Surveillance cameras would, he thought, be a good start.
Thirty minutes later Klien excused himself, left the hotel and drove into Calcutta city centre. He parked outside the opera house five minutes before the performance was due to begin, ordered a drink from the bar and slipped into the comfortable seat of his private box high above the stage.
For the next two hours he put aside his consideration of the state of the planet and enjoyed the music. He had often wondered if his love of opera and his ability to kill were somehow linked. He thought that they might be. He was, after all, doing God’s bidding here on Earth, and it was as if his appreciation of the beauty of classical music was a gift from God, a reward, as it were, for services rendered.
As the music swelled, Klien smiled to himself.
Later that night, at home, he suffered another episode of his recurrent nightmare. He was back in a cavern far below ground and tall, grotesque aliens were performing their terrible ritual. This time, they were accompanied by the strains of Puccini’s La Bohème.
Klien sat up with a startled cry and fumbled for the light pad. The images vanished, along with the terrible sense of evil that always accompanied the dream, and his breathing gradually returned to normal.
Unable to sleep, he dressed and moved to his study. On the desk was the pile of pix he had left out the night before. He picked them up and stepped out on to the balcony. Spotlights in the garden illuminated the white cladding of his dwelling. Five years ago he had moved to one of the most exclusive areas of the city and bought a luxurious polycarbon house on Allahabad Marg—a scaled-down version of the Sydney Opera House. Kitsch, he knew, but at the same time appealing.