When she'd asked, 'Can I help you?' he had replied politely that he was from the hospital, come to collect the personal effects of a recently-transferred resident of Cedar Falls.
He was tall and thin, with deep black skin and a high forehead. More than one witness would describe him as 'African' in appearance. They didn't known that in the global bounty hunting community he was known by a very simple name: 'the Zulu'.
Dressed in a white labcoat, he strode calmly through the home, carrying a white organ-delivery box in his hand.
He found the room quickly, found the old man, Frank Nicholson, lying in his bed asleep.
Without missing a beat, the Zulu drew a machete from under his coat and . . .
The police found his car two hours later, abandoned in the long-term carpark at the airport.
By that time, however, the Zulu was sitting in the first-class section of United Airlines Flight 45 bound for Paris, the white organ-delivery box resting on the seat beside him.
Frank Nicholson was missed at the retirement village. He'd been a popular resident, friendly and outgoing.
The management had liked him too. Since he'd been a doctor in his career days, he'd saved more than one elderly resident who had collapsed on the golf course.
It was funny, though, unlike many others, he'd never really spoken about his glory days.
If asked he would say he'd been a scientist at the US Army Medical Research and Materiel Command at Fort Detrick, 'just doing some medical tests for the armed forces' before he'd retired the previous year.
And then came that night when the assassin had come and cut off his head.
FORTERESSE DE VALOIS
BRITTANY, FRANCE
26 OCTOBER, 1150 HOURS LOCAL TIME
(0550 HOURS E.S.T USA)
He'd always loved anarchy.
Loved the idea of it, the concept of it: the complete and utter loss of control; society without order.
He particularly loved the way people—common people, average people, ordinary people—responded to it.
When soccer stadiums collapsed, they stampeded.
When earthquakes struck, they looted.
During anarchic warfare—Nanjing, My Lai, Stalingrad—they raped and mutilated their fellow human beings.
The teleconference with the other members of the Council wouldn't begin for another ten minutes, which gave Member No. 12 enough time to indulge his passion for anarchy.
His real name was Jonathan Killian.
Jonathan James Killian HI, to be precise, and at 37 he was the youngest member of the Council.
Born into wealth—his father had been American, his mother French—he had the supercilious bearing of a man who was accustomed to having everything he desired. He was also possessed of a cold level stare that could give the most combative negotiator pause. It was a powerful gift, one that was accentuated by an
unusual facial feature: Jonathan Killian had one blue eye and one brown.
He was worth $32 billion, and by virtue of a labyrinthine network of companies, was the ultimate owner of the Forteresse de Valois.
Killian had always disliked Member No. 5.
While wealthy beyond measure thanks to an inherited Texan oil empire, No. 5 was of low intellect and prone to tantrums. At 58, he was still essentially a spoilt brat. He had also been a continually stubborn opponent of Killian's ideas in Council meetings. He was very irritating.
Right now, however, Member No. 5 stood in a wide stone dungeon on the lowest level of the Forteresse de Valois, deep within the castle's stone mount, accompanied by his four personal assistants. The dungeon was called the Shark Pit.
Sixteen feet deep with sheer stone walls, it was perfectly circular; and wide too, about 50 yards across. It was also filled with an irregular array of elevated stone stages. One thing about it was clear: once a person was placed inside it, escape was impossible.
In the pit's centre, plunging vertically down into the earth, was a 10-foot-wide 'sink-hole' that led directly to the ocean.
Right now, the tide was coming in, so the water entering the Pit via the sink-hole was rising fast, spilling out into the wider pit, filling it, turning the irregular collection of elevated stages into a series of small stone islands—much to the horror of Member No. 5 and his assistants.
Adding to their fear, two dark shapes could be glimpsed swimming through the alleyways between the islands, just beneath the surface of the water—shapes featuring dorsal fins and bullet-shaped heads.
Two large tiger sharks.
In addition to all this, the Shark Pit came with two other features worth noting.
First, a viewing balcony situated on its southern side. Before the
Revolution, the French aristocracy were known to hold gladiatorial contests in their dungeons—usually pitting peasants against peasants, or in the more elaborate dungeons like the one at the Forteresse de Valois, peasants against animals.
The second noteworthy feature of the Shark Pit could be found on the largest of its elevated stone platforms, over by the northern wall. On this stage sat a truly terrifying device: a 12-foot-high guillotine.
Tall and brutal, the guillotine was an addition made by Jonathan Killian himself. At its base was a crude wooden block with slots carved into it—slots for a person's head and hands. A crank handle on the guillotine's side raised its steeply-angled blade. A simple release lever dropped it.
Killian had been inspired by the acts of Japanese soldiers during the sack of the Chinese city of Nanjing in 1937.
During three horrific weeks, the Japanese had subjected the Chinese to unspeakable torture. Over 360,000 people were murdered by hand during that time. Horror stories emerged of Japanese soldiers conducting beheading contests; or worse, giving fathers a choice: rape their own daughters or watch them be raped; or telling sons to have sex with their own mothers or die.
Killian was intrigued. Usually, the Chinese men would take the honourable way out and accept death rather than perform such hideous acts.
But some did not.
And that was what had amused Killian. Just how far people would go in pursuit of self-preservation.
And so he'd had the guillotine inserted into the Shark Pit.
It was designed to give those who were placed in the pit a similar
choice.
Die a terrifying death at the mercy of the tiger sharks, or die quickly and painlessly by their own hand on the guillotine.
Sometimes, when he had a group of people in the pit (as he did today), Killian would offer them Faustian bargains: 'Kill your boss on the guillotine, and I will release the rest of you'; 'Kill that hysterical screaming woman, and I will release the rest of you.'
Of course, he never released anyone. But the prisoners never knew that, and on many occasions they themselves died with blood on their hands.
The five people in the pit scratched desperately at the walls, the incoming water rising rapidly around them.
One of No. 5's female assistants made it a few feet up the wall— making for a tiny stone handhold there—but she was quickly pulled down by a bigger man who saw the handhold as his chance at life.
Killian watched them from the southern viewing balcony, utterly fascinated.
One of these people is worth $22 billion, he thought. The others earn about $65,000 a year in salaries. Yet now they are all truly equal.
Anarchy, he thought. The great equaliser.
Soon the water level rose five feet above the floor—chest height—and the two tiger sharks now roamed the pit more freely in a rush. At first the people cowered on the stone islands, but soon those islands also went sufficiently under the surface.