The Hottest Fire Ch. 01

Chapter 1.Sanctuary

He hunched his shoulders and pulled his collar up against the cold wind as he stepped out of the tube station and into the suburban street. He walked down the street of row houses in what used to be an industrial neighbourhood. Before all the factories shut down and the concerns moved to Taiwan or Korea the street would have been full of children playing, fathers coming home from work, wives chatting over backyard fences. Now it was simply another down and out suburb of London, awaiting eventual discovery and rejuvenation into loft apartments by the new class of young moneyed professionals.

He was not a particularly short nor small man, but not a large man, either. He walked slowly, hunched over only to make him appear small and insignificant. ‘Smith’; that was not his name nor even the name he was going by, that was simply how he regarded himself. A Smith or a Jones; anonymous and grey. Along with costumes and disguises, gait, mannerism and speech, it was all a part of projecting an outer appearance that cloaked his true persona. By mentally assuming this non-identity he sought to further blend into the masses of the work-a-day population.

The sky was overcast, grey. He passed an Indian restaurant, a tobacconist’s and newsvendor’s, a fish and chips shop, an ancient drycleaners. Rusted grills protected dusty panes of glass. Starlings pecking at the pavement scattered and flew away as he approached. The pavement was grimy; it matched the buildings and the complexions of the people who dwelt there. The cold wind blew pages of last weeks newspapers down the street, blew through his thin coat and chilled him to the bone. His feet hurt in the heavy boots he wore, the muscles in his thighs were sore from the many miles he’d covered in the past two days and his back was stiff from sleeping on benches, in the tube. The street went uphill. He leaned into the grade as he made his way.

He thought over the events of the past two weeks that led him to seek out the Organization’s safehouse and shuddered at the recollection of death and destruction he’d left in his wake, the three men he’d killed. It wasn’t supposed to end that way, but things went pear-shaped and so he had to fight his way out. There you have it.

The last one was a particularly unpleasant business; the poor sod cried like a baby, begging for his life. ‘Smith’ let him have it all the same, just like his two mates.Sorry, Bob, it’s just a job, nothing personal. You’d have killed me if you’d had half the chance. Heaven knows you tried. Bleedin’ amateur. ‘Smith’ had lured the poor buggers down dark East End alleys one by one - the unsuspecting rotters thought they were moving in on an easy target. ‘Smith’ would simply find an alcove, blend into the scenery as it were, and then waited ‘till his prey was close enough to touch. Then he jumped out and let ‘em have it and finished ‘em off with his knifea la Jack the Ripper. Just like a gamekeeper cleaning a rabbit; it was too easy.

He stopped before the stone steps leading up to the address given him in a coded duress message two days ago. Number 1369. He stared at the door, the little black plastic button to the doorbell buzzer mounted in brass on the heavy wooden doorframe. It was vain to attempt keeping down any false hopes; at this stage of fatigue he was almost like a drowning man grasping at straws. He went up the steps and pressed the buzzer, then took a step or two down and waited, drawing his collar up against a particularly icy blast of cold wind as he did so.

A young woman in a French maids’ outfit, complete with black fishnet stockings and starched, frilly white apron answered the door. She wore a cameo brooch at her neck on a choker of black velvet ribbon. Her honey-coloured hair was tied up into a tight bun, held in place with a tiny little white lace maid’s bonnet that featured a narrow black ribbon tied in a bow. He didn’t bat an eyelid; the Organization had long ago trained him to be accustomed to the unaccustomed, to expect the unexpected, although he did appreciate the black patent leather stiletto-ed heels that she was perched upon. He gave the bona fides; the memorized catch-phrase that was to identify himself.

“Pardon-mois, Mademoiselle, este-ce que ca le Chez D’Ambrosio?”

“Oui, c’est ca.” In an exaggerated gesture the French maid put her arms about herself and looked out at the weather in the street. “Ooh, la la! C’est tres froid ajourdhui!”

As perfect as her accent was he had the distinct impression that French was not her native language, yet his trained ear discerned that neither was English.

“Oui, c’est le froid du canard,” he answered. ‘Yes, it is the weather of the duck’ - the canned reply to her comment about the cold.

“Sil-vous plais,” she gestured for him to enter, to come in; at long last he’d arrived.Sanctuary.