Two figures stood in the middle of Grand Central Station, New York. One a petite, athletic looking woman of thirty with a neat bob of dark red hair, the other a man in his mid forties with closely cropped, rapidly greying hair, a weeks stubble and a frame which suggested he favoured a few pints of beer over anything athletic.
“Jesus, why are there so many American flags everywhere, this isn't Baghdad?”
John fumbled irritably for a cigarette, remembered he was in America, decided it would be more stressful being shot than going without one, so put them away.
“They give free guns to school kids but you can't fucking smoke anywhere!”
Hannah raised her eyes and took a deep breath.
“As soon as we get to the hotel you can have a drink,” she said, trying to placate him.
“Oh yes, drink, I can have half a pint of fizzy cows piss in a bottle but I can't have a fag to go with it, can I? At least I can smoke on the balcony.”
John glanced up at the gargantuan stars and stripes hanging from the ceiling.
“The only English people this keen on flags are the BNP.”
“They put that up after September 11th.”
“Typical jingoism,” snorted John.
A passing couple eyed him with disgust. John was impressed they knew what the word meant.
Hannah put an arm around him and laid her head on his shoulder.
“That's enough,” she whispered, “you're drawing too much attention.”
John assembled his face into a passable imitation of contrition.
“I'm sorry, darling,” he said hugging her tightly.
“I'll go outside and see if we've been met,” he whispered, “you check the locker.”
Hannah broke the clinch and stared reproachfully at him – he wasn't sure whether it was genuine reproach but that was a good thing; if she could fool him she could fool anyone.
“You just want to smoke, don't you?”
“Of course, I'm awake and sober. If we have any future assignments here I'll demand enough expenses to cover forty fines a day.”
“Okay,” she patted him on the back just hard enough to hurt, “you go and have a cigarette, honey, I'll get a coffee.”
“Good idea,” thought John as he walked briskly towards the exit, “drinking coffee from a Styrofoam bucket is the best way to fit in around here.”
Hannah bought a small coffee, which still required both hands to carry, and strolled across Grand Central Terminal. Looking as if she had all the time in the world she pretended to spend a minute looking for the locker rather than going straight to it. Putting her coffee down on the floor she tapped in the combination and opened the locker. A box wrapped in gift paper and tied with a pink bow awaited her (“patronising twat!” she muttered to herself).
Careful not to reveal in her actions how heavy the contents were, she picked up the package and slid it into her overnight bag.
At the hotel John paced up and down the tiny balcony doing a fair impression of an industrial chimney.
A familiar, satisfying metallic click from the room behind brought him to his senses; he reluctantly stamped out his cigarette and went back to find Hannah screwing the silencer on to the rifle. He looked at his watch.
“There's ten minutes yet, I could have finished my fag!”
“I need the smoke to clear so I can see the target,” said Hannah, standing up and carrying the rifle towards the balcony. "Anyway, the motorcade may be early."
John grinned sarcastically.
“Very funny. He's arriving by cab. Trying to be inconspicuous.”
She put on thick gloves and unlocked a small box.
John stopped grinning and took several steps back as Hannah gingerly removed the minuscule poison dart from its vial and loaded it into the rifle.
“I had a friend who was killed by that stuff,” he said, more to himself than out loud.
“I know,” said Hannah, trying to concentrate on her delicate task, “they used an umbrella.”
“Bloody Russians,” he muttered. “Still obsessed with Graham Greene.”
She snapped the rifle closed and placed it carefully on the bed.
“Come on, help me move the table.”
He snapped out of his reverie and picked up one end of the heavy, fake antique writing desk this hotel chain always helpfully provided. It was probably intended to lend an air of opulence to the room rather than to assist an assassin's rifle to reach over the balcony railings but no matter.
Hannah fitted the table-top tripod to the rifle and lined up the shot while John went to the mini bar.
“Do you want a beer?” he asked.
She slowly stood up, turned to him and placed her hands sarcastically on her hips.
He looked up from the fridge, awaiting her answer.
She waited a second for the penny to drop.
“Oh, of course,” he smiled sheepishly.
“We'll be in the bar in fifteen minutes.”
“Yeah, sorry, wasn't thinking.”
He sat down on the bed but it squeaked so he got up and went into the bathroom, put the lid down and sat on the toilet.
He couldn't remember how many times he'd been with Hannah in these circumstances but it always fascinated him. How somebody so placid and sweet looking could be so removed and calculating. Killing people always bothered John, he really preferred not to if at all possible. He thought Adam was the same most of the time, though Jennifer often seemed to positively relish it.
“Yuk!” exclaimed Hannah from the other room.
“Problem?” he asked quietly.
“No, it's just Richard Miller picking his nose. I could have done without a telescopic view of that.”
A few minutes passed while John stayed as quiet as possible, only moving his arm to take the odd swig from the overpriced and underwhelming bottle of beer.
“Here goes,” said Hannah quietly.
John drained the rest of his beer and checked that he had the room key in his wallet. He took out his phone and waited.
After what seemed a few minutes Hannah let out a deep breath and stood up.
John got up, put the beer bottle in the bin and left the bathroom as she began to dismantle the rifle.
His phone rang.
“Okay, see you in the bar in five minutes.”
He put the phone away.
“Bingo. Let's go.”
They packed the rifle away in its presentation box and dragged the desk back. Hannah smoothed over the indentations it had made in the carpet while John shut the balcony doors.
As they left the lift and walked through reception John paused.
“What do you want?”
“Vodka and orange please, I'll just put Auntie Donna's present in a cab.”
She went down the hotel steps and scanned the street. Ignoring the dirty looks from the drivers of the crocodile of yellow taxis parked at the curbside, she stepped into the street and hailed a passing cab.
“Take this parcel to this address, please,” she said, giving him a fifty dollar bill.
“Sure thing, mam,” said Jason Thomas in a terrible imitation of an American accent.
“Thank you very much cabbie,” she said in a tone she new would grate on him and slammed the door.
She paused to smile at the driver of the first parked cab and then went in to the bar to join John and Richard.