Chapter 2
Ernest Crump thought about his goal while comfortably sitting in first class of the Transcontinental Plane. He already knew the reasons for his trip.
Professional assassins rarely travel to their orderers, especially if they are self-employed and do not belong to any clan of organized crime. Ernest Crump was one of the rare, individual, top professional assassins. He liked to believe he was the best beyond any competition in the underground world. He had the qualities necessary for that kind of people. That enabled him to stay away from the eyes and hands of law for twenty years. Any comparison to the unscrupulous killers of various gangs or Mafias was an insult to his personality and profession. He despised them—he felt superior, intellectually and technically. His assassinations were works of art, and he himself was a perfect master of killing, capable of fulfilling every wish his clients had. He enjoyed high status and reputation among his colleagues. He felt self-satisfaction and delight after a successful action. He strived toward perfection. He was an intellectual among the manuals.
And nobody knew where he lived.
Only few people knew where he could be reached for job. He offered discretion, and he required discretion. He used PO boxes to communicate with his customers. Before he retired to deep secrecy, he had to spend several years in public to create an image and provide future contacts. Then he disappeared without a trace. The myth remained, and only a small circle of big criminal bosses knew the way to reach him.
He chose a glass of orange juice the stewardess offered him. He did not drink or smoke, and he regularly worked on his fitness. He knew only those martial arts movements that were enough to defeat the opponent with one blow. He knew everything about arms, explosives, and other killing devices. He was physically adroit and tough. He had an ordinary look—he was short and thin and had a plain egg-like head with brown hair. Nobody would take him for a dangerous man unless they could see his eyes.
"Premium has been paid, and we will take care about the rest of it." This was written on a piece of paper in an envelope without an address that he found in one of the many PO boxes that were in a post office in the east part of London. At the same time, his money at the bank account at Tomas Cook Bank enlarged for $100,000. The money was transferred by a Cayman Islands bank. There was a phone number from Sao Paulo, Brazil, on the paper, and a note that it was a further contact number. The big money made him accept the challenge.
Soon, the plane landed at the Rio de Janeiro Airport.
Chapter 3
Crump stayed at the Meridian Hotel, the most luxurious in the city, the way a successful businessman would. He enjoyed the contrasts of Rio de Janeiro for two days. When he sensed he had adjusted to the new environment and Latin American spirit, he began his meeting preparations. First, he checked the phone number owner and he rented a car. He had the habit of making his arrivals as ordinary as possible, so he did not check out of the hotel. Let them think he was a usual tourist, one of the two million in an army of globetrotters cruising through Rio de Janeiro.
His travel by car from Rio to Sao Paolo was long and tiresome. He was to endure the infernal summer heat that turned the car into a moveable oven. But it was just a small challenge to his self control.
Never lose your nerves. Always keep your peace of mind, even in the most challenging situation—the first rule of professional assassins.
He drove a Chevrolet Chevette, a Brazilian version of the European Opel Cadette, a car that was part of the traffic.
Never stand out in your surroundings where you work—the second rule of professional assassins.
That was the way to avoid the chance to be easily remembered should some unplanned accident happen, of course, because of somebody else's fault. Dark hair and dark contacts made him become part of that environment even more.
Although there were cruel laws in the underground that provided secrecy for the criminals, Ernest Crump additionally provided his secrecy. He took care of small details.
Never neglect small details—the third rule of professional assassins.
He dialed the number from a street phone booth. Somebody answered immediately.
"Yes, who's that?" a man's voice asked. Crump kept quiet. The man hung up.
So, somebody else is in the apartment. The owner let a stranger answer the phone, thought Crump. He would check them out before he approaches them.
Doubt every situation—the fourth rule of professional assassins.
He was always afraid there would be a setup behind some of the calls. That was why he always acted carefully. He worked in Brazil only once before. He was supposed to kill a runaway gangster who had betrayed his friends and disappeared with five million dollars. It was a piece of cake. The victim had common thieves for bodyguards. Not a problem to worry about. He planted a bomb in his car easily and it blew up. It was ten years ago.
Now he was not the same man. It was hard to believe the Brazilian police managed to trace him. Nevertheless, a little precaution was never too much.
The apartment was owned by Genevieve Cohen, French according to the name. He could repeat the call, introduce himself, and arrange an appointment at neutral territory chosen by him, where he would provide an easy escape in case he entered a trap. He thought of it as if it was a critical situation.
Secure your back—the fifth rule of professional assassins.
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