Life to Death

By George Piro

The hit was supposed to be another easy hit, and I would go back to
my basement and keep out of the action for a while. Now I was stuck with
a brief case full of jewels and nobody wants it.
I will fi nd somebody to sell it to and make some money. Oh why
did this Israeli Ambassador have to make it so diffi cult, why did he do
that? Now the authorities are after me, will I get to catch up with Rania?
I guess I will just take everything as it comes. What is this traffi c here, it’s
the authorities pulling over everyone for random check. I’ll leave the car
before they see me with the briefcase, make my way pass the check point
in the water.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Oct 28, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465305558

George Piro

George Piro grew up in Melbourne Australia with two brothers and a single father after immigrating from Lebanon. Always had a passion for art particularly music, singing and writing fi ction stories. Loved playing sport as a child but still had the passion for writing and music. The biggest thrill was to travel and fi nally after becoming an adult went back to Lebanon and the idea to write the book Life to Death came from spending two months in his birthplace. Life to Death is his debut Novel, and a sequel is planned for those who love this story.

Book preview

31 DECEMBER 1965

T he greatest part of life was waking up in the morning and finding myself alive. Trying to sleep with one eye open all night was not the best way to get a good night’s sleep. It has been so long since I had a real sleep, and not have to wake up countless times in the night. Even the sound of a buzzing mosquito would have me up and staring out the window, amid fear that someone or somebody had caught up with me or found where I was staying. Unfortunately, the business I chose to be in came with all unforeseen problems attached. This meant life-threatening situations at all times.

For the time being, my mother’s wine basement was the safest place that I could stay. Behind something like ten huge wooden wine barrels was the only safe place I could get some good rest. The basement was built in the late Forties, just after the Americans dropped the first nuclear bomb. It was a safe haven in case a nuclear war broke out. The basement was about thirty metres away from the house in the middle of a paddock. The doors to the basement were under mud and grass about a foot long, so a person could walk straight over it and not notice. The smell alone in this dungeon-like place would be enough to kill a rat, let alone a human being. However, it’d been my hiding place for as long as I can recall.

The dampness in this place was getting into my bones. The temperature in here is always around zero, even on the hottest summer days. I remember always hiding here even in the days when I was younger and my mother spanked me for doing something bad.

One thing about how I do my work is the fact nobody knows how I work and what I do. Nobody in their dreams would ever think that I was the highest-paid hit man in southern Europe. The little village where I live in the north of Syria, near the Turkish border, has a population of about two hundred, and everybody knows each other, yet nobody knows anything about my business. As with all businesses, important information always seems to leak out. In my case, the only way someone would know about what I do is through the people I work for. Those people’s stupidity made me worry on many an occasion. There have been occasions in the past when a person who I had finished an assignment for didn’t want to pay me; in that case, I had no choice but to kill them.

Most work that was set up for me was usually in the big cities like Rome, Athens, Beirut, and Istanbul. On one occasion, I had a hit in Amsterdam. So as you can see, travelling is part of my job; you can say it’s part of the package, so I get to see many nice places. After each hit, I always head straight back to hide in the basement in the village until the situations cool down and people forget what had happened. Thousands of dollars are involved in every hit, but I spend it just as quickly as I get it, usually gambling and on women.

Anyhow, it’s now almost 7.30 a.m., and I must do my daily workout. In my line of business, a person must be super-fit; one could say a supreme athlete. Smoking and alcohol are not part of my deal. You could imagine how disturbing it is to the system when you sit for hours upon hours playing cards with low-life scums on a poker table or around one of the many casinos around Europe; that’s where all my hard-earned money usually goes. But I always say to myself, ‘How long am I going to be around for?’ So just enjoy it as it comes and make the most of it.

‘Hadi, come on, hurry up. The breakfast will get cold.’ It feels so good to just have hot water pouring all over you. It’s not every day that hot showers come along. ‘Hadi, don’t waste the water. You’re not in Europe, remember,’ my mother said. As far as she knows, her boy is the only one in the whole village who has finished his schooling and got himself a half-decent job. To her, Hadi Yousef was her art dealer son, who had to travel around Europe, buying and selling art. I was the world to my mother, especially ever since my father died under puzzling circumstances. It’s been twenty years since my father’s death, and it is still a mystery. People had found him dead, lying in a stream about two kilometres from home. When you are six or seven years old, you barely remember when, where, and how it all happened.

‘Hadi, did you read about the famous Turkish singer in Ankara? I forget what his name is. I think it’s Ibrahim something?’

‘Chikos, Mother. His name is Ibrahim Chikos, so what about him?’

‘Yes, that’s him. They found him shot dead in a toilet in one of the cafes in Istanbul. Poor guy! He was such a nice singer, and the people really liked him.’

Many people love Ibrahim Chikos; personally, I thought he was a good talent. But when somebody pays twenty thousand American dollars, I thought it was worth it. This was such an easy hit, you see, in Ankara—it’s a city where famous people and not so famous people walk the streets alike, not like the modernised countries of the Western world. Ibrahim’s head was so big on his shoulders; he could go and do as he pleased. The story was simple. I bumped into him in a busy Ankara cafe, and I actually waited until he made his way to the toilets, which are situated outside the building at the back. I shot one straight shot to the back of his head and then walked straight back into the cafe from the front, just as if nothing had happened. It was almost twenty minutes before anybody noticed what had happened.

‘Hadi, somebody is at the door. Go see who it is.’ I always think twice before opening the door, just in case if somebody had traced me back to my mother’s house. It was Sami Sinem. Sami and I go back to the days when our mothers had just given birth to us. I am about three months older than Sami is, and he is the only person whom I would trust, and the only soul whom I would indulge in any secret with. In my line of work, everything should always be a secret, but which other way would a person bring about his downfall.

‘Hi, Hadi, how are you? It’s New Year’s Eve tonight, remember? The guys have a table set up tonight at Mousa’s. Are you going to be in?’ Mousa’s cafe is the lowest of cafes; all the local criminals and scum hang around there. Murderers, rapists, thieves, and you name it—they all come to Mousa’s. Usually, it’s either for a free feed or drink. The gambling there tends to get very heavy sometimes, but that’s just the way I like it. Mousa, the owner, makes a fair bit on commission, sometimes getting into the thousands in a night, but he is such an idiot that he ends up gambling it all back anyway. ‘How is Mrs Sami, and what is the young one up to these days?’ You see Sami was forced to marry his wife because he got her pregnant. In our village, if a man got a girl pregnant, he had no choice but to marry her or her family would kill him. Sami has a four-year-old boy, but he still sneaks around with other women. I have a feeling that one day his dick will kill him. ‘Cut the crap, Hadi. How did you go with Chikos?’ Sami has been living off me for the past six or seven years; I always give him more money than he could ever imagine. He is such an arsehole when it comes to his family, though. However, Sami is like a brother to me, so whatever he does with the money I give him I don’t really care. I have never really felt sorry for wasting money, because money has no real value to me.

It annoyed me to see Sami burn his money the way he did, on gambling and women, especially when he loses his money to scums at Mousa’s. Sami sometimes left himself broke without making allowances for his family, but he always had me to turn to when he was desperate for money, and he never would get a rejection. One thing, however, was law between Sami and me; there was no way in the world that he would gamble with me on the same table. Imagine Sami gambling against me with my own money? It would be like me gambling against everyone sitting at the table. Whatever type of person Sami was, I still loved him like a brother, and I would do anything to help him, even if it meant I had to die.

‘Well, Sami, it will be a couple of days before I receive the money. I have to meet a guy in Damascus to get it.’

‘But, Hadi, it’s New Year’s Eve, please.’

‘Listen, Sami, I only have three thousand dollars with me. I can probably spare you only two hundred? I’ll look after you next week. Besides, you know the rules. Don’t even think about sitting on the same table that I’m sitting on.’

‘Hadi, Sami, come on, the food is getting cold. Come and sit and talk as much as you want on the table, please.’

‘Come on, Sami, I’m starving. Let’s have breakfast.’

When my mother makes breakfast, you know you’re going to be in for a real treat. Mum always goes out of her way to make an extra effort, just to make sure I’m eating properly. I’m home only a handful of times a year, so I always get a feast whether it’s breakfast, lunch, or tea. As far as mother knows, her son deals in art and has to travel frequently to Europe. Whenever she sees a lot of money lying around, I just inform her that I had made a good sale this week, that it was the art owner’s money, and that I had to send it to them. That just meant more travelling. As much as I hate to lie to my mother, I really had no choice; it was all part of my job.

Sami hung around for a while, but just before he left, he warned me that the talk around the village was that Syrian soldiers had been sneaking around, looking for me. What’s been happening is that the army has been trying to catch me to do army duties; in Syria, it’s compulsory. The soldiers usually come around in a very sneaky way and catch the person they want off guard. My army duty was supposed to begin when I was eighteen, so I have managed to avoid being caught for the last ten years. This was not really a problem for me. The last time the army caught up with me, I managed to escape, but not before I broke one man’s arm. If I ever got caught, it would mean a stint in jail, and then two years in the army, if not more. Jail in the Middle East is not what you see in the American movies; over here, if a man ended up in jail, he would need balls of steel to last even one day. So many stories go around about what happens in jails, and most of these stories would make the toughest man want to throw up. So for the time being, jail is not the place I want to be.

It was almost eleven o’clock at night when I saw Sami coming. The guys at Mousa’s cafe would definitely be itching now. New Year’s Eve poker nights are the best nights to play cards; some of the guys save all their money up for just a night. Tonight being no different to any other New Year’s Eve, I knew there would be a whole heap of money gambled. Being New Year’s Eve, the streets in the village were full of people, with dancing and music happening everywhere, from the streets to people’s houses. This was good in that one could move around the village without being noticed. ‘Come on, Hadi.’ Sami just couldn’t wait to get to the cafe. My mother, who seldom hangs around after nine o’clock, was fast asleep and did not notice me getting ready to leave. Outside, the temperature is almost at freezing point, so a heavy jacket is the go, and the advantage I have of wearing the jacket is that it would conceal my handgun. Unfortunately, I have been carrying a handgun for about six years, and as harsh as it may sound, I never hesitate to use it, especially if my life was in danger. The one thing, however, that I never do is I never start trouble with anybody from the village. I’ve always been Mr Nice Guy, and I get respect from everyone in the village. Anything that I have ever done has always been away from home, and as I said, nobody knows except Sami. You see the village is so small that you would not even be able to go to the toilet without anyone noticing. This is the way I like it. ‘Come on, Hadi, if we go now, we can start the game just after the New Year.’

‘Sami, let’s just go past Rania’s house, just to wish her a Happy New Year.’

‘Hey, Hadi, what’s happening between you and Rania?’ Well, Rania and I have been seeing each other for about five years, and I feel like we are pretty much in love. But, I can’t see myself marrying her. Rania gets upset every time she asks me to get married. My excuses include, not being ready, wanting to set up house, too young, saving money. Rania then says that I don’t love her, and I am trying to use her; I am two timing because I am always off on my art trips, and that I must have someone in Europe. Marrying Rania is the worst thing I could do to her. I have no guarantee on my life or even how long I will live. Because I love her so much, I don’t want her to go through the turmoil if anything was to happen to me. ‘Hi, Rania.’

‘Hi, Hadi, where have you been hiding the past week?’

There she was, long dark hair, olive-coloured skin to match the dark eyes. I must admit Rania was a picture to look at, and sometimes, it made me wonder whether or not I was being just a total prick. I get butterflies in my stomach every time I see her. If only she knew what I did for a living and the reason why I couldn’t commit to her. ‘I really missed you, Hadi.’

‘Rania darling, I’m just on the way out with a couple of the guys, so I just came past to wish you a Happy New Year.’ In the village, or as a matter of fact in the whole country, one could not imagine a man and woman touching or kissing in public. As I looked into Rania’s eyes, I could see that they began to water, so a quick goodbye and ‘I’ll see you in a couple of days’ was in order.

‘Couple of days? Hadi, please, it’s New Years Eve, and you just came back from a trip.’ Now I was stuck for words; her beautiful eyes began tearing, if only she knew?

‘I’ll try to see you soon, be good.’

‘Bye Hadi.’

‘Well, Hadi, have you been sleeping with her?’ The only thing on Sami’s mind was his dick, and on top of that, he wanted to know what other people’s dicks were up to as well. Whether or not I sleep with Rania is my business, as much as I would love to; I couldn’t. I have so much faith in Rania; I know she will wait for me no matter what. I’m seriously contemplating giving up this dastardly business, marrying Rania, and migrating to a country like either the United States or Australia, or some country where a person can live in peace without having the whole world at our doorstep. When you have lived in a village like ours all your life, all you want to do is live in a place where it’s nice and quiet, no stress, and no interruptions from neighbours. At the same time, it would be very difficult to adjust to a quiet life after living in a noisy environment all your life.

‘No, Sami, I haven’t slept with her.’ It was almost twelve o’clock, you could see all the people in the village hugging and kissing each other in advance. There are about thirty families in the whole village and they all know each other, and have been together for a few generations. If I ever did move, I would really miss the whole atmosphere that came with this village. But, when your life is in danger, you have to give up all the good things.

1 JANUARY 1966

F rom my mother’s house to Mousa’s cafe is about sixty metres, but it took us almost about forty minutes to get there. Sami and I got hugged and kissed by about one hundred people or more. The feeling I was getting was that the guys at Mousa’s cafe were probably getting anxious. It was almost 12.30 a.m. into the New Year, and the festivities in the village were getting louder as Sami and I arrived at Mousa’s. As I expected, all sorts of characters were here, waiting. Most of the guys that hang out at Mousa’s are ex-prisoners, but tonight, one of the village big shots was here as well. The good thing however about these guys is that, whatever crime they commit, it’s never in the village or to any villagers. No matter what they were or what sort of reputation they had, we all had a lot of respect for each other; no one ever stepped out of line with other. Mousa’s was just a small room, very low ceiling with only one window apart from the door; it was somebody’s bedroom before Mond Zarbo converted it into a cafe. The window was directly opposite the front door. Below the gambling table, Zarbo had cut a trapdoor in the floor leading to a tunnel that he had dug directly, below which led to another building which was around ten metres away. Zarbo had dug the tunnel as an escape route for many of the low-lifes that came to the cafe. When soldiers or police came looking for