The Job
It was the morning, October 17th, the day of “the job” had arrived. The night was quiet, without howls and wailing, therefore he had faith that all would come out well. He went to the toilet and urinated sitting, relaxed while he was rubbing his eyes to finish waking up. He rinsed his face and went out into the corridor. He went to his little daughter’s room, looked at her tenderly for a few seconds and closed the door.
The apartment was very tidy and clean. Already in the living room, he saw the piano he played with pleasure almost every day after dinner. He came close and ran it, discovering a small horizontal door on the floor. From there he took out a suitcase and from it a weapon, after which he placed everything back in the original position.
From the balcony he enjoyed the great view of a fully sunny Moscow, just as he liked. The heat and humidity were unusual for the time of year. On the horizon he saw the storm coming forward, promising to be intense.
He returned to the kitchen and prepared the breakfast with dedication. He served it and enjoyed it while he examined the photo of Nikita Jakov, the famous journalist, that he liked. Life was unfair. Immediately afterwards he started memorizing the number on the back of the photo.
Already in the car, he drove it with pleasure, enjoying the comfortable leather seat. At the last corner before reaching his first destination, he gave way to a thin and bony-looking old woman , who with one injured leg crossed the street slowly and, on reaching the other side, thanked him with a metal smile. A hundred meters from there, he changed cars.
The dark clouds had already reached the Sun and were about to take over the sky. The lightning started to occur with increasing spectacularity and the sound of the thundering increased until it became shivering.
He drove north until he reached the Moscova River, whose waters were coming down black. He crossed the bridge and reached Mokhovaya Avenue, which led to the heart of the city: Red Square. The traffic was heavy and slow. Without losing his calm, he took the advantage to appreciate the National Library, the Picadero and the entire Kremlin Western wall. He loved that part of the city, his city.
The slow speed encouraged him to observe the people, who suddenly began to point toward the sky: between the rays, a bright and persistent luminous sphere moved slowly in the direction of the storm. Also, not far from there, a bird of unusual size flew over the area. He watched the phenomenon as long as he could, but he had no room to distract himself.
He reached the point where the Avenue Okhotny Ryad was taking over and the majestic old Moscova Hotel was emerging on the right. He had reached his destination. He parked right in front of the hotel, where another car left him free space once he arrived.
As soon as the engine stopped, a strong wind broke out, making ground, leaves and demons fly. A very old man in strange clothes crossed in front of the car, whistling, with eyes focused on his. A branch struck the back of the car. He cursed, restraining, and remained calm, with the confidence that there wouldn’t be any unpredicted incident.
He looked at the clock, there were still ten minutes to go. He spent that time observing the architecture of the Hotel, for which he felt an inexplicable magnetism. He found it surprising that the design chosen for such an important building was asymmetrical, with markedly different side wings. The general style was Stalinist, solid and relentless. One of its wings followed that line, hard and efficient, with small windows and few details. The other, kind and colourful, had larger, windows with ornaments. A fearful design to clarify the contradictions or, perhaps, with the sufficient courage to expose them.
While he was examining the great classical columns of the central porch, the rain broke with an unusual fury and began to fall heavily as if it were stones. People running in all directions and seeking shelter added drama to the scene. He did not like the rain, but the downpour favoured the execution of “the work,” as if the storm had also been prepared.
When the time came, he adjusted the knot of his tie and got out of the car. He looked in all directions adjusting the sack and, below it, the weapon. He didn’t let rain put pressure on him, although it was a waterfall, and in a few seconds he was completely wet. He walked firmly towards the hotel door, where many walkers had taken refuge. Asking permission with genuine kindness, he infiltrated the central hall.
With the complete confidence of a guest he slowly walked across the front of the reception, pretending to dry his face with a handkerchief. He climbed the elevator along with several other guests, and took advantage of the seconds to reach the floor where he was going to relax. When he arrived, he greeted soberly and stepped out of the elevator. He walked to the room whose number he had memorized during morning and on the way looked directly at security the cameras, which had already been disconnected.
He used the access card that he had been provided. In a single movement, he entered the room and made five silent shots on the torso of Nikita Jakov, who was working and had no chance to react. He took his pulse and confirmed that the journalist was definitely dead (not even the Waters of Life and Death could have resurrected him).
He carefully closed the room door behind him and, as quietly as he had entered, he left the hotel. The torrential rain had turned into a soft drizzle. He got in the car and did the reverse route, including the car change. Up until he got to the parking lot of his building.
He came close to the tree he had planted and caressed the old boots that hung from it. Without removing his tie, he entered the building and climbed to one of the last floors, to his apartment, which had no mirrors. As he entered, he heard his wife’s voice. She was giving directions to his daughter who was already running from the kitchen to greet him. They embraced with deep affection for a few seconds and, at her question, he answered yes, he would have all day to play with her.
Translation by Branka Milisic, branka123[at]yahoo.com
Original version (in spanish)
