He was a boy, just seven and terrified. The commandante thrust a pistol into his hand and marched him to his parents, who were made to rise to their knees. The commandante took his hand in his own, raised it, and guided his finger to the trigger. Then he whispered in his ear that if the boy wished to live he must shoot his parents. Two shots rang out in quick succession. His father and mother fell sidelong into the mud. It was the boy who had pulled the trigger.
Then, showing neither fear nor hesitation, he turned the gun on himself.
Miraculously, he did not die.
Impressed by this show of unflinching courage, the commandante made a decision. Instead of leaving him with his father and mother, his four sisters, and his dog, as examples to the peasantry about the wisdom of exercising their right to vote, the commandante spirited the boy out of the mountains. Surgeons removed the bullet that had obliterated his jaw. Dentists repaired his broken teeth. After the operations, he was taken to a private school where he proved a devoted student. All this the government paid for. It was an investment in a very special “project.”
As a student, the boy excelled in all subjects. He learned to speak French, English, and German, as well as his own native tongue. In athletic endeavors, he proved to be fleet of foot and graceful. He shied away from team sports and concentrated on solitary competitions: swimming, tennis, and track.
Every week, the commandante looked in on him. The two enjoyed tea and pastries at a local café. At first, the boy would complain about his nightmares. Each night in his sleep he would meet his mother and father, who would plead with him for their lives. The images were so haunting, so real, that they followed him into the waking world. The commandante told him not to worry. All soldiers had these nightmares. Over time, a bond developed between them. The boy took to referring to the older man as his father. He grew to have affection for the man. But the nightmares did not go away.
He began to have problems at school.
The first involved his social disposition. Either unable or unwilling, he refused to interact in a normal manner with his fellow students. He was courteous. He was cooperative…to a point. But never did he let down his veneer of arctic aloofness. He had no friends, nor any desire to make any. He took meals alone. After practice on the athletic fields, he returned to his room where he dutifully completed his homework. On weekends, he would either play tennis with one of several acquaintances (refusing any invitations to join them afterward) or stay in his room and study his languages.
This was all the more strange because the boy was growing into a handsome young man. His features were thin, well-defined, and wholly aristocratic, betraying barely a drop of his mother’s Indian blood. Further, he had about him a charisma as was found in natural leaders. His company was sought after by the more popular boys. Always he refused. The spurned invitations quickly turned into taunts. He was labeled a queer, a bastard, and a freak. He responded with a savagery uncommon in a boy so young. He discovered that he was good with his fists and that he enjoyed bloodying his opponent. Before long, the word went out. He was a loner and not to be bothered.
The second sin, and in the school’s eyes, by far the graver, was the boy’s unwillingness to participate in worship. The school was of Roman Catholic denomination and demanded that its students attend daily mass. While he would take his place in the pews, he would neither pray nor join in hymns. When kneeling at the altar, he refused the body and the blood of his Lord Jesus Christ. Once, when the father tried to force the sacrament into his mouth, he bit the priest’s fingers hard enough to draw blood. Even worse, the school’s chieftains observed that he was teaching himself his mother’s ancestors’ language and had taken to uttering prayers to a pagan deity in the forgotten words.
Of all this, the commandante was apprised. Instead of being disheartened with the way his “project” had turned out, he was pleased. He had uses for individuals whose conscience had been scrubbed clean of artifice. Especially a man who by appearance and education possessed all the qualities of a gentleman. Such a man would be able to move in the highest circles of society. He would be granted access to the most rarefied gatherings.
In short, he was a perfect assassin.
In a minute, “the perfect assassin” was through the town and into the surrounding hills. He turned onto the Via della Nonna and found the Villa Principessa easily enough. He continued on a kilometer and parked his car at the top of a shaded dead-end street. There he followed his ritual. He freed the vial from around his neck and dipped the bullets into the amber liquid, blowing lightly on each. All the while, he offered his prayer.
When he finished, he stepped out of the car and opened the trunk. He donned a fleece pullover, a rain slicker, and a flaming red Ferrari cap. People saw the cap, never the face. Off came the loafers. In their place, he donned a pair of hiking boots. As a final touch, he threw a rucksack over his shoulder. The Swiss were crazy for walking. Closing the trunk, he tucked the weapon into his belt and set off down the street.
He had walked a hundred meters when he saw a dark-haired man led by three dachshunds emerge from the front door of Villa Principessa and start toward him up the street. The man was in his mid-fifties. He had blue eyes and wore a navy sweater. It was him.
The Ghost approached with a welcoming smile. “Good morning,” he said amicably. It was not often he had the chance to speak to those he was assigned to kill. He enjoyed the opportunity. Over the years, he had developed certain beliefs about mortality and fate, and was curious to see if this man had any notion that his time on earth was at an end.
“Morning,” Gottfried Blitz replied.
“May I?” The Ghost bent to pet the dogs, who eagerly licked his hands.
Blitz crouched and scratched the dogs about the head and neck. “My children,” he said. “Grete, Isolde, and Eloise.”
“Three daughters. Do they take good care of their father?”
“Very good care. They keep me in good health.”
“What else is a child’s job?”
Inches separated the men. The Ghost gazed into Blitz’s eyes. He sensed a current of disquiet within the man. Not fear, but caution. He held the man’s gaze long enough to convince him that he was not a threat. He does not see it, mused the Ghost. He is oblivious to his fate.
Giving a casual “salud,” the assassin rose and walked on to the bottom of the street. A glance over his shoulder told him that Blitz had continued in the opposite direction.
The encounter left him shaken. The man might be nervous, but he did not suspect that his life was at its end. His soul had not considered the idea.
The Ghost pressed down a bolt of fear. Nothing terrified him more than the prospect of dying suddenly and without warning.
Turning the corner, he jogged up a short hill. Fifty meters along, a dirt road ran into the street from the right. He headed down the track, counting the houses as he went. Coming to the fourth in line, he hopped the low fence and walked unhurriedly to the villa’s back door. He looked to his left and right, scanning for inquisitive eyes. Satisfied that he couldn’t be seen, he knocked twice loudly. The gun rested in his palm, one bullet chambered, three more to make sure the first did the job. He noted that the house wasn’t wired with an alarm system. Arrogant, but a nice touch all the same. He pressed his fingertips to the door, feeling for any vibrations. The house was quiet. Blitz had not returned from his walk.