The Weather Men (Chapter 1)

The Weather Men

Chapter 1

2004. Chelsea, London, United Kingdom

It was a warm, early summer evening as the elegant, fifty one year old, grey haired man watched the women lying in each other’s arms through his open window on the fourth floor.

He watched their bare chests heaving; catching their breath after their intense love making, smiling as the young blonde delicately untangled her long tanned legs from the brunettes, then made her way off the bed and walk gracefully, like the model she was, to the small antique table next to the open window.

Once there, her beautiful trim tanned figure was caught like a perfectly framed picture in the breeze of the open window, her long blonde hair swaying slightly in the gentle breeze, her small firm breasts still shiny with sweat and her large pink nipples hard in reaction to the coolness of the air.

As she reached for the open bottle of red wine standing next to two empty large bulbous wine glasses, her slender fingers, with perfectly manicured bright red nails, gently gripped the dark green body of the bottle and carefully poured a good measure of the dark red heady liquid into the two glasses. He appreciated that it was good Bordeaux, he couldn’t make out what year it was but he recognised the famous label.

Putting the bottle down she released her hand and reached to the right, her slender fingers deftly lifting the edge of the emerald green table runner, to retrieve a small white sachet hidden there. Her back still to the bed, she opened the sachet and gently shook its entire contents into the glass on her right.

With a quick flick of her wrist, she threw the empty sachet out of the open window, watching a moment as the breeze caught it and took it away.

He could see that they were talking to each other the whole time, the older brunette laughing at something said as she sat herself up on the bed retrieving her mobile phone from the tall bedside table. Its red diode light was flashing showing it was set to silent, looking briefly at the display she returned it without accepting the call.

He couldn’t hear what was said, he could only watch, but it didn’t matter. It was the watching that was important for him. What was said was irrelevant.

As the model picked up the two wine glasses she gently swirled the glass in her right hand to ensure the powder had dissolved completely as she turned and made her way back to the bed with a warm and affectionate smile on her lipstick smeared lips. The two women continued to talk as the model passed over the contaminated glass to the brunette before sitting down beside her.

Putting her left arm around the brunette’s shoulder, she pulled her closer whilst leaning forward and, finding her lips, she kissed her long and passionately, their tongues hungrily finding each other.

He watched closely as their lips pulled away, tongues trying for one last contact before being parted. Looking longingly at each other, smiling with genuine affection in their eyes they gently touch their glasses together and lift them to their mouths to take a sip of the delicious red liquid.

Her arm still around the brunette’s shoulders, the model moved her hand down and gently started caressing the brunette’s left breast. A look of pleasure turns to puzzlement on the brunettes face, as if she has just taken a sip of corked wine.

He knows it won’t be long now, and watches as the grip on her glass becomes weak and she starts to struggle for air, her eyes glazing over. She dies as the model continues to gently stroke her breast. The brunette’s lifeless arm drops so that her glass tips and the contents spill out as if in slow motion onto her naked belly and into her lap. The liquid pooling there for a moment before running down her legs in a thin red trail, onto the highly polished light oak parquet floor.

The model takes another sip of her wine, a brief moment of sadness flashes in her eyes and is gone. She lifts her arm from the brunette and, releasing her as she stands, makes her fall onto the bed like a toppled doll. Standing now, the model takes a moment to look into the brunette’s lifeless green staring eyes, the lifeless mouth ajar, empty wine glass in her still hand.

Her own hand trembling slightly as she takes yet another sip of wine, she makes her way back to the table by the open window. The cool breeze gives her goose bumps as she picks up the mobile telephone that’s lying there. Holding it in her hand she looks down at it a moment before dialling the number she has memorised.

On the second ring it connects and she hears a deep flat male voice;

“Ja?”

She says;

“…It…it is done, now what of my...”

Into the handset, to the grey haired man who has been watching them through the powerful telescopic sight, mounted on the silenced Draganov sniper rifle.

The crosshairs are focused on the centre of the models face as he slowly applies pressure to the trigger, silently releasing a round, her shaky voice still talking in his ear.

Void of any emotion he continues watching. The model adjusts her position slightly, making the bullet impact into her face just below her left eye. It exits at the back of her skull in a fragmented crimson spray; flying out in a silent arching fan as she falls down dead.

Retrieving the spent cartridge case he reflected that the watching was the part he enjoyed most about his job. That those he watched didn’t even know he was there, didn’t know what he was about to do. Like the model, she didn’t know he had watched her for twenty two years. Unhurriedly dismantling the rifle, he realised it was the fact that they just carried on as normal, with no cares or worries that fascinated him.

Surely, he thought, it must be the best way to go, instantly; no time to think or regret, one minute everything, the next nothing. He had been doing it so very long now; it was his calling really. It was more than a job; a vocation, his vocation? Yes, that’s exactly what it was.

He had discovered his fascination for watching others early on in life. It had caused him no end of trouble, until he had been released from prison when he was twenty one and given a new path. The killing was a by-product of the job, he took no pleasure from it. It was the inevitable, the end result after becoming visually entwined in their lives.

Sometimes it was deciding how long to watch for, before he decided when it was time to finish it, which gave him the most satisfaction. It had changed his life. It was why he loved his job; it was why he was so good.

He pulled the Velcro securing straps tight over the separate rifle parts, sat in their protective foam slots, in the bottom of his light blue Samsonite suitcase. Replacing the floor covering, he filled the rest of the void with the various items of random clothing he had purchased, at Primark on Oxford Street, three days ago and closed the lid.

Taking off his latex gloves he puts them in his pocket and adjusts the small gold antique ring on his left little finger. It has a pyramid shaped by two offset triangles engraved on its flat square, shiny surface; a sign of his graduation and acceptance all those years ago. Now ready to leave, he picks up his mobile phone and dials that month’s contact number.

On the fourth ring he gets a connection and an automated response tells him to leave his message.

In his deep flat voice, as if talking to an old friend he says;

“I just wanted you to know that the show was a great success. The model performed superbly but, unfortunately, is no longer able to take any further bookings.”

After a minutes silence the automated voice congratulates him and tells him that $1million has just been cleared into his Zurich account. He cuts the call, picks up the Samsonite case and walks out of his hotel room and heads down to reception.

After paying his bill in cash, and the usual pleasantries with the pretty receptionist, he walks out of the hotel through the logo emblazoned, reinforced glass, double doors into the noisy warm dusk of the London evening. He stops next to the first black cab outside and takes out his mobile phone.

He had already programmed the number he needed into the speed dial and now pressed *5, automatically the numbers played a melodic tune of differing beeps as they dialled; shortly followed by the rhythmic ringing of his mobile trying to make the connection.

On the third ring it connects, confirmed by the automated click connecting to the mobile phone taped and wired to an incendiary device he had hidden deep in the filling of the couch in the models flat two days ago.

Twenty seconds later the line goes dead as the device initiates, setting off a raging blaze. The growing fire feeds from the open window and quickly ravishes the flat. The uncontrolled, insatiable orange beast hungrily spreads into the building, destroying everything in its path.

He puts his phone away and gets into the famous London taxi; he should still make the 8:30 pm flight to Munich.

“City Airport please driver.”

****

The cosy downstairs bar of the Victory Services Club, on Seymour Street, was crowded because of the annual Cavalry Memorial weekend held in London. Reese Jones, already on his second 15 year old Scotch on the rocks, sat waiting, getting concerned. He had tried three times to reach her now and every time he had only reached the answer machine, on both her mobile and home phone.

He knew that something wasn’t right. She hardly ever missed a call and, on the rare occasions she did, her call back was almost immediate. She knew they had a meeting with the boss and a table reserved for dinner in the club restaurant for 8 pm.

It was already 7:45 pm and he still hadn’t heard from her. Normally Pippa would be walking in by now, all glamorous and long flowing shiny brunette hair, making the men’s heads turn in appreciation.

He must remember to ask her for Jenny’s number, at least he would be able to call her and find out where she was. Maybe she was at Jenny’s place and indulging in a little fun, as lovers do, and just lost track of time. That would certainly explain why she hadn’t answered her phone. It had happened to him a few times.

Luckily the boss hadn’t arrived yet and he knew where Jenny’s flat was so he could nip round quickly; just to make sure everything was alright. After all, her Chelsea flat wasn’t far from the club and, if they were late, he only had to buy the old man a large, old, Scotch and everything would be fine.

His mind made up, Reese downed the remainder of the light golden warmth of his Speyside malt and left the bar. He walked out onto the street, leaving the Victory club turning left, heading towards Chelsea.

A few streets up he passed the ex-Labour, Prime Ministers house, with the armed Police guards outside the front door looking bored and misused. RJ couldn’t help but smile, if only they knew, he thought to himself.

After another five minutes of his brisk pace he rounded the corner and saw a huge smoke cloud coming from the direction he was heading and instantly broke into a run.

As he got closer he could hear the sirens and after only a few more strides saw the array of fire engines, just before he smelt the pungent smoke. An army of firemen were working hard in the noisy, smoke filled, atmosphere to take control of the raging fire which had engulfed the entire building. He saw a police cordon had been drawn to keep onlookers at a safe, and un-interfering, distance.

Starting to sweat and breathing heavy he broke out of his run into a brisk stride and headed into the noisy crowd of onlookers. He pushed his way through towards a young Police woman he had spotted standing on the outer edge of the cordon, keeping the spectators at a distance and moving the merely curious along.

The Police woman controlling and observing the throng of people on the other side of the blue and white police tape barrier noticed the crowd parting as a short cropped, blond haired man, dressed in a dinner suit, was pushing his way through them towards the cordon’s edge.

Her still fresh Police training made her instinctively take in all the details as she watched.

He was sweating, about 1.73/75 metres tall, average build but broader at the shoulders, handsome, but not in a vogue magazine kind of way, blue eyes. His shirt crisp and white, a scarlet cummerbund and an old fashioned, hand tied, bow tie.

His tanned face held an anxious look as he arrived in front of her and says;

“Is everyone out of the building?”

“I don’t know…Sir.”

Her reply was a little curt and a little too agitated for his liking.

“Well would you kindly use the radio you are wearing, and find out?”

He was in no mood for attitude and added;

“And tell control; it’s an RO13 directive, black.”

The Police woman looked a little intimidated as she withdrew herself a short distance from the noisy onlookers, unclipped her radio and spoke sharply into it. When her radio crackled into life with a response, her face drained its colour and she hurried back to Reese nearly tripping herself up in her haste.

“I’m ever so sorry Sir. I didn’t know who you were…”

“Never mind about that now, what did they say?

The Police woman looked unsure as she gave him the information;

“According to the tenant list an elderly gentleman from the ground floor and a lady, a model we believe, is missing from the fourth floor.”

She didn’t know if that was what the mysterious blond haired man had wanted to hear. She just watched him take out his mobile phone, look at it a brief moment with a pained expression, then press two buttons before he turned his head and said into the handset;

“Make it two, very large, old ones.”

She continued watching him as he cut the call, turned his back to her and slowly walked back the way he had come, his broad shoulders gently falling and rising.

As if he was sobbing.