Goddess of Death by Roy Lewis Page B

agreed originally to take the job on the usual conditions, namely that he chose the time and place for the hit, the new demand had irritated him. But the urgency had been unmistakable.
    Not that it mattered a great deal to him. The contract would not be a difficult one to complete. It seemed that the target lived alone, spent considerable time outside on his terrace, reading; he had few visitors, and the terrace itself was overlooked by several other properties close by. One of them, a well-appointed villa with swimming pool, had been rented for him by the men who had commissioned the hit, though at arm’s length so their involvement could never be traced – he did not even have to seek out a base for himself.
    Admittedly, it was not the usual way in which he worked: he preferred to make such arrangements for himself. There was then no possibility of slip-ups, since he saw to the details himself. On the other hand, with the element of urgency creeping in he had agreed to the plan proposed. And, he had to admit to himself, there seemed no obvious likelihood of error. He had spent two days watching the villa below him onhe hill, and there was a clear pattern in the behaviour of the target.
    A woman arrived each morning, at ten. She was perhaps thirty years of age, slim figure, long black hair, dark-skinned, and she arrived to clean, stayed no more than one hour, and did not return until next morning. After she left, the target routinely took coffee on the terrace. The woman had walked up from the village, a mile distant. She had a confident swing to her hips: she was attractive. The target displayed no interest in her. Sam Byrne wondered whether the man was gay.
    Not that it mattered. He did not even know the identity of the man he was about to kill. There was no need for him to have a name: the location, the photograph of the target had been sent to him and now that the money had been paid it was only a matter of completing the contract. And, in view of the urgency, the sooner the better.
    The cleaner had been in the villa for almost the whole of her allotted period. He could see her moving about, completing her work in the bedroom. Byrne rose from his chair, stretched, and stripped off his shirt. There was time for a brief period in the pool. Let the target enjoy the last coffee he would ever taste.
    The sun was hot on his back. He took off his shorts and dived naked into the cool water, and struck out with a strong, steady stroke. Ten minutes later he emerged, refreshed, and towelled himself down as he watched the woman leaving the villa, begin her stroll back down to the village at the foot of the hill.
    The mark was on the terrace, reading, as anticipated. There was an empty cup of coffee on the table at his elbow. Since he was in the shade of the awning he wore no sun hat. He sported a flowered shirt, somewhat gaudy; his swim shorts were brief. His naked feet were crossed at the ankle.
    Sam Byrne positioned himself at the balustraded wall, behind the Sharpshooter rifle. He adjusted the telescopic sight slightlyand waited, slowing his heartbeat, calming himself, breathing regularly. Then he adopted the killing position.
    He went through his routine, finger hovering near the trigger. Satisfied, he stepped back, wiped his brow and his hands and took a deep breath, before once more taking up the killing stance.
    Thirty seconds later, it was done. He remained where he was for a few minutes, a vague feeling of disappointment in his chest. It had not been a perfect strike. The bullet should have drilled into the man’s head, between the eyes, but at the last moment the target had shifted slightly in his seat, raised his head, looking about him almost as though he had a sudden premonition of the death that would be winging towards him in a split second.
    The bullet had taken him in the throat. The target had not died immediately: he had jerked, fallen back, kicked his legs, and then, head laid back he had twitched, slowly