His reputation had finally caught up with him. No mistakes. No public bloodletting to be cleaned up and swept away. On the contrary. He was too perfect. Too meticulous. South Africa National Intelligence’s pride and joy. Political opponents, business competitors and a myriad of American officials had died – all of natural causes or accidents.
The emperor had reached into his deep, dark pocket. The one he has no knowledge of. The deniable one. Delta Force officially didn’t exist. Perfect. A soldier discharged from Delta Force certainly didn’t exist. “John” – as good a name as all the other lies in his life- was pulled from the shit, blood and mud of Kabul. Uncle Joe Biden’s legacy. Remove the thorn from the emperor’s eye! Its costing us money. Simple. Direct. No questions or clarification.
Four flights. Eight time zones. John crouched silently beneath the staircase of the University of Cape Town’s main hall. The Thorn would enter the same space. The head of the second biggest tech company in the USA would deliver a talk this very day. In this very hall. The bait had been set. The wolf waiting in the shadows for the lion. This work did not require the study of history or philosophy. If anything, they hindered the surgery. John had that weakness. His only one. Sitting silently for hours in the darkness led to it. He posed challenging questions to pass time.
Genghis Khan’s grandson had wiped out a heretical sect of Shiites. Known in the West as the Assassins. Despite the lack of a conventional army, this Muslim sect exercised tremendous political power through a highly sophisticated system of terror and assassination in the early 13th century. They had one simple and effective political strategy: kill anyone who opposed them in any way.
John had many dark days as he grew older. Days of introspection; trying to calm the noise in his head. A thought struck him now: was he not simply a modern derivative of the 13th century sect? Jung said the human soul is a tree that grows its roots down into the depths of hell!
John often thought of these things. He was a student of the human shadow. Our dark side. He had pondered deeply on the terrible thing’s humans did to each other. He thought deeply about Auschwitz. How could another human be a guard at such a place? That was easy to answer. Of course, YOU could be a guard at Auschwitz. But could I?
The air felt different. A breath out of place. He was good. Very good. At once, The Thorn was in front of John. He dropped his silenced weapon to his side, tired eyes staring back at John.
John secured the gun carrying arm with his left. Two lightning-fast strikes with his right punctured lungs and heart before leaving the knife in the carotid artery. Silently the Thorn crumbled to the floor. It was done. John automatically searched his pockets. It was only on the flight back that he unfolded the note from the front chest pocket:
Have you ever, as I often do, felt you are living another’s life? Have you allowed yourself to become a supporting actor in another person’s play? Does your soul call you awake at night, turning your bed into a torture chamber as it drags you toward your dying dreams? Do you also feel beyond the insignificant drudgery of your daily existence, you have so much more to be? So much more to feel? So much more to love? Love, courage, friendship, beauty, truth, grace and virtue. All of these you have. All of these lie dormant and as such life loses its worth. Resentment grows. Nihilism becomes the battlement that defends your dying self-worth. Hatred, Rage and Pain.
Finally, your humanity dies. That strange sensation of detachment from your life takes its place. More observer than participant. And all you observe becomes foul. You spend a lifetime destroying your dreams. Destroying you!
Evil will find you. Politicians will smell you out like a pig a truffle. A man becomes a welcome tool to twist the world for these foul men. A gentle push. Some dark encouragement. That first life taken. Its horror turns to pleasure by the third or fourth. You pay this unfair world in kind for turning on you.
Reflections from mirror fade. Eyes darken. Death follows you. Powerful men stand on your shoulders. You have become foundation for stench.
Reward follows until the light is turned on, you’re standing. Rat’s scurry. Liability. Power turns on you. One as you will be sent. In some dark place, you bleed. Lovers pass you by just inside the light. A flower wanes.
What will your last heartbeat recall? Love? Friendship? A school sweetheart? Kids at play? Or will those you took circle your last stand? Eyes black. Insisting you recall reasons why? You have none. Blood mixes with foul in the gutter. You are hell.
John looked up from the page and out of the aircraft window. Could hell be undone by ink and cloud? All that’s left was to try.
