The Mark

How I hate that shade of pink!

I tell myself to stop thinking about her sartorial taste as I sit on the edge of the bed and tie my shoelaces.

Stop it. Her sense of dressing should be the least of your worries right now. Besides, you didn't marry her because you admire what she drapes her body in.

So I pull myself up, turn to her, and help her with her zipper. She smells good. It's the Burberry perfume I had picked up for her the last time I went to Dubai. I turn her around to face me. She has beautiful doe eyes. Lined in black and sprinkled with just the right amount of sparkly grey, she looks up at me and smiles. She does have a beautiful smile. It lights up her face. My attention is momentarily diverted by the swipe of her tongue over her lips, reminding me of long, sweaty nights. She smiles again, knowingly this time. 

No, baby, I don't think you can read my mind right now. It's better this way. And easier.

She whispers something suggestive in my ear. I wink and smack her behind in a show of obvious appreciation. That'll hold her until my job is done.

We walk out of our apartment and close the self-locking door behind us. She holds up her keys, raises her eyebrows in question. In the 18 months that we've been together, she has come to know how particular I am about always carrying my own set of keys. I had left them behind, but I nod in affirmation. I won't need those keys after tonight.

The black SUV parked in the basement had cost me a pretty penny. They pay me well for the kind of work I do. Besides, the cost of the car was covered in the expense account. My personal bank account in the Cayman Islands has already been credited with the fees I command...all in advance. They know that when I'm hired, I finish the job.  

I put the gearstick on drive and pull the vehicle out of the parking lot onto the busy road. I had already driven on that route enough times in the past month to know that we'll reach the hotel in 24 minutes or less after starting at 6:50 in the evening. She turns on the stereo and I smile and pretend to enjoy 'Kings of Leon' as she bobs her head to the music. Her earrings, with tiny bells on them, tinkle with every shake of her head. This is so annoying. Personally, I prefer the classics. Give me Mozart or Bach any day. I like how they soothe your nerves and help you think more clearly, plan more clearly.

We reach in under 22 minutes. The place is already thronging with the who's who of politics and media. Security is very tight. Nothing I didn't expect. Roshan, the head of security, is doing his job well. Right now, he's at the entrance. I hand over my mobile phone and the small bag with my camera equipment. The officer at the entrance picks it up and puts it through the X-ray machine for a thorough check. Smooth sailing. Wait! Not yet. Roshan comes forward and picks up my bag, as if with half a mind to open and check its contents. That is when he sees her, pink suit, tinkling earrings and all, and his face splits into a friendly smile. They had met each other in passing on a few previous gatherings. She explains that I am her plus one. He lets us pass after a few minutes of friendly chatter and a wave of his big hand. 18 months just paid off. 

The huge banquet hall in the hotel is alive with conversation and the clink of wineglasses. Everyone who is here is a public figure. This massive gathering is a conglomeration of some very influential people who have the collective power of making or breaking an entire nation. If not for the plus one, I would have easily needed another six months to get here on my own.

Like a pro, she maneuvers her way through the bevy of waiters carrying trays of hors d'oeuvres and makes a beeline for the group of fellow editors. I follow her and exchange the expected pleasantries with the few people that I know and get introduced to a few that I don't. Time is of essence. And my time is precious. I excuse myself.

According to plan, I take the ornate corridor leading to the staff restrooms on the ground floor. I walk by some security personnel with impassive faces holding some very impressive firearms. Thanks to the tag around my neck with ‘PRESS’ written in huge red letters, I get access without raising any eyebrows. I reach the restroom and push the door open. As expected, there is no one inside. Every member of the staff is busy catering to the crowd outside. I put the camera bag on the counter that holds a line of three white sinks in Italian marble. What a waste! The thought of decimating such fine pieces of art is a shame. My dinner jacket is a bit snug; I don't like working in the confines of restrictive clothing. I take it off. Now the camera bag. I unzip the bag carefully, so as not to disturb any of the multicolored wires attached to the beautiful piece of work inside. Here it is! Straight from the land of the communists. Roshan has done his job well. He was quick enough that no one saw him replace the camera bag with an identical one. With the cumulative four million dollars sitting in his six bank accounts, he can easily disappear into Neverland until the authorities close the file on him. 

What is inside the bag is a brilliant, compact piece of work; no bigger than a camera. Yet, its effect, I know from experience, is a hundredfold. They will not forget this easily. The last time I saw something this beautiful was in Afghanistan seven years ago. 

I put my hands inside gently, as though reaching for a lover's body. Click! There is a small, almost dismissible, sound from the other side of the door. My fingers pause. My ears strain. I quickly take the Glock out from the small compartment in the camera bag and cover the bag with my dinner jacket. I turn around to face the door with my hand on my gun. Too late! A sharp, piercing pain to the left of my chest. My breathing stops. The last thing I see is a flurry of pink and the glitter of gold earrings that make a tinkling sound - like bells.

............................................................................................................

She looks down at the spreading circle of red on his white shirt. Egyptian cotton that almost feels like silk. She had bought that shirt for him and admired how he looked in it this evening. He had always been a looker. She picks up the dinner jacket and the camera bag. There was only one person other than him who had touched that camera bag from the time it left the X-ray machine till he entered the restroom. It won't be difficult to connect Roshan to the crime and seal the security breach. You just have to follow the money trail. 

Someone will clean up the mess in the restroom. She doesn't have to worry about that.

She looks back at him one last time. There's a tiny speck of moisture in the corner of her eye. Damn! She had done this before. He was no different. The rule is to never get attached to the mark. 18 months just paid off. She will miss the long, sweaty nights though.

The speakers in the hall break into a Mozart just as she plasters a smile on her face and walks out.