Just following orders
ostwick's heart pounded feverishly as he tore open the yellow manila
envelope he'd just accepted from the courier. He pulled a white sheet of
paper from inside and stared at the name on the top of the page. A single
droplet of sweat trickled from his stark forehead, over his round, red
cheek and onto the paper.
"Oh no!". He said to the living room carpet.
He picked up the telephone and slowly pushed the numbers that would connect him with Antonio DeSanta. It rang twice before a cheery though unrefined voice greeted him.
"Mr. DeSanta's office, Delores speaking". Bostwick cleared his throat....
"H...hello Delores, this is Bostwick. Can I talk to Mr. DeSanta please?"
"I'll just check honey, hang on", and there was a moment of silence before his ears filled with unfamiliar classical music. Music to wait by.
Bostwick hated to wait. Another moment of silence then a gruff, impatient voice that reminded him of Marlon Brando in The Godfather.
"DeSanta! What!"
"Mr. SeSanta, It's Bostwick here. I just got my new assignment..."
"And?"
"I can't do it".
"Whaddya mean, you can't do it!"
"Well...it...it's the Prime Minister. I'm not ready. I've never had anything this big before"
The voice on the other end of the phone became soft, though tinged with impatience.
"Now look Julian, in this organisation, I only give the big jobs to my best people. If I didn't think you could do it, I wouldn't have given you the job. Understand?"
"But Mr. DeSanta...what if I...what if..."
"Now look here Bostwick. It's easy. All the groundwork has been done for you. How to get into the hotel, how to get around security, everything. You'll be receiving a package this afternoon. It's your disguise. Just follow instructions, and you won't go wrong, see?"
"What if I get caught...?"
DeSanta cut him off sharply.
"I trust you WON'T get caught Julian. You've been in this business long enough to know that the true professionals never get caught".
Bostwick sighed deeply. He knew there was no way out of this.
"Okay sir. I'll do my best", he said, and put the phone down.
He re-read his orders, then poured himself a double scotch. By this time tomorrow, he'd have completed the biggest assignment of his career. Of his whole life. His mission was to shoot the Prime Minister.
Later that afternoon, Julian Bostwick sat at the dining table, cleaning his equipment. He polished every piece of metal meticulously, making sure to remove any dust particles. He took a cartridge from a black drawstring bag and stared at it, turning it over and over in his hand. Little beads of sweat formed again on his brow. Nerves. A dead giveaway every time.
Bostwick watched the evening news on television.
"Our top story tonight, the Prime Minister arrived at Tullamarine Airport this afternoon under a heavy veil of security; stepped up after an incident yesterday involving a sniper attack..."
Damn. Thought Bostwick. Wish I'd been there.
He knew that he'd have to use his head on this mission. If he failed...well...he knew that Mr. Desanta had a way of dealing with those who let him down.
The next morning, Bostwick showered, dressed in a grey suit and combed back what was left of his hair. He dismantled his equipment and packed the pieces carefully into a black suitcase.
After a short taxi ride, he arrived at the hotel. He crossed a magnificant marble foyer and approached the maitre d'hotel.
"I have a reservation - the name is Harvey. Mr. Lee Harvey."
"Oh yes Mr. Harvey. We have you on the fifteenth floor. I'm sorry we couldn't place you any higher as you requested. The entire remaining two floors are unavailable due to a conference."
"Oh?" said Bostwick. "I suppose you have some important people staying here then".
"Yes sir. Quite important, though I'm not at liberty to divulge any information as to whom".
"Well", said Bostwick, grinning. "Anyone would think it was the Prime Minister or something"
The maitre d's face flushed crimson as he handed Bostwick the registration card.
Bostwick signed it, accepted his key and winked at the man before he took the lift to his room.
Once inside, he put the chain lock on the door. He threw his suitcase on the bed and opened it. He took out a neatly folded navy blue maid's uniform with the hotel logo embroidered on its white collar. Then he took out a pair of pantyhose, sensible flat white shoes, a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles and a black shoulder length curly wig.
Half an hour later, Bostwick stared at his reflection in the room's full length mirror. Luckily he'd shaved that morning. He giggled nervously at the homely, emasculate person in the mirror. He felt slightly ridiculous. "The things one does for a living", he said. The shoes pinched, and the dress was a bit tight across the rump, but apart from that, Bostwick felt confident he could pass for a housemaid.
He re-assembled his equipment and placed it between two pillows. He left the room and took the lift to the seventeenth floor. As the lift door opened, he came face to face with a tall, burly man in a black suit who eyed Bostwick suspiciously.
"Pillows", he said, pitching his voice higher. "And I've come to change the towels".
Sweat trickled down Bostwick's face from beneath the wig. The giant in the suit raised his eyebrows and for a moment, Bostwick felt a little faint. Finally, the man said "Okay....this way". He led Bostwick down the hall a few feet and knocked on the door of the penthouse suite.
As the door opened, Bostwick threw the pillows aside and gripped the cool metal handle. He stepped back so that he could get a good, clear shot. As the Prime Minister appeared in the doorway, the bodyguard lunged at Bostwick, who stepped aside and took his shot. And it was a good shot. He got the Prime minister in a white fluffy terry towelling dressing gown, flanked by a pretty young blonde, dressed likewise. As he tried for another shot, but the bodyguard grabbed for the camera. Bostwick blinded him temporarily with a flash and ran for the fire escape. He took the stairs three at a time and reached his floor and the safety of his room, panting and perspiring before the bodyguard had any idea where he'd gone.
Feeling relieved and very pleased with himself, Bostwick changed clothes and picked up the phone. He dialled the editor of "Surprise" magazine. "Hi Dolores...it's me, Bostwick. Is Mr. DeSanta there?" "Sure honey, I'll just get him...hang on".
As he waited on hold, Bostwick leaned against the wall and recounted the last fifteen minutes. If this doesn't get me a pay rise, and the ticket to easy street, I don't know what will. He thought. DeSanta would be over the moon. He glanced at the bed and suddenly a wave of sheer horror grabbed him by the throat. His eyes widened in disbelief, as he put the phone down and slowly slid down the wall to the floor.
His expensive, shiny new camera glinted at him from the bed. Its plastic lens cover still firmly attached...
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