The weather forecast was accurate. It was a wet and miserable autumn evening. The drizzle and poor visibility created a traffic build-up. He was unconcerned. His mind and eyes were relentlessly focussed on the hacienda. The exterior façade looked shabby and worn out. It was dull and badly needed a coat of paint. But beyond the outhouses and the naked eye, hidden behind a curtain of bougainvillea was a luxurious and opulent residence; fit for a head of state!
The car, a silver, 3 year old Volvo Estate – a family car; turned, silently and quietly got off the road. No motorcade; after all this was supposed to be top secret meeting between the two leaders; away from the eyes of the media and certainly away from the eyes of the ‘extremists’ who would do anything to prevent this meeting taking place.
He followed the car’s journey from the motorway onto the narrow lane, going through the mud, like going through slush. The car approached the gates of the old hacienda and immediately the gates creaked open, giving him a brief view of the outhouses and the compound within it.
The gates closed with a thud. From up above perched comfortably on the tree, he set his sight on the target through the night-vision lens. He could view the subject in detail. The Volvo passed through a second set of gates and came to a stop in the only area that was entirely open and clear. Whoever was in charge of security obviously had taken a lot for granted, feeling assured that no one would know anything about the place and of the meeting.
An attendant opened the car door. The first thing he noticed were the smart shoes, with rather high stilettos. He also noticed the well toned legs and the smart navy blue suit. She was about 5 foot 4 inches, and perhaps that explained the stilettos. The most striking feature were her eyes – a luminous greenish bluish shade, but so alive.
He aimed the rifle at her and through the telescopic lens positioned the coordinates on her forehead. She was shaking hands with the staff -unnecessary, but then that is what made her so popular. Calmly almost poetically, he squeezed the trigger. The silencer numbed the noise resulting in a low thud. One minute she was smiling that radiant smile and talking, the next, he could see the bullet piercing her skull: fragments of her bone and brain being splattered all over the place. Blood was oozing incessantly and her blouse which was crisp and white, just like fresh snow became soggy and red as she hit the ground. There was an eerie silence for a few minutes as everyone tried to reconcile themselves to what happened.
The assassin, through his experience knew the reactions. He expertly dismantled the rifle and placed it into the rucksack. He rolled the bedding and placed it on top of the rucksack. Within seconds he was down the tree. He walked to the area where he had partially buried the bike. Retrieving the bike, he unzipped his black overalls to reveal a bright tight t-shirt and dark cycling shorts. He placed the rucksack on his back, adorned the cycling helmet and was off – a typical cyclist like scores in the village. The bike ride to an unused farm shed would take him exactly 10 minutes. He quickly put on his leather motorbike gear and inserted his gloved hands into a pair of sturdy gloves. He purposely had a bright red rucksack so that witnesses could recall having seen a cyclist with a bright red rucksack. By placing the red rucksack into a black one, he hoped that it would create a different identity to the cyclist. All that remained was to destroy the bike, which was not a problem as it was a purpose built bike, and dismantling it proved to be a piece of cake. He scattered the pieces in different parts of the farm, and as he climbed on his Yamaha motorbike, surveyed the scene one last time and flicking his helmet visor, he, manoeuvred the bike towards the farm lanes that would, 2 hours later lead him onto the motorway - a good 50 miles away from the assassination scene.