The Assassins

By Septimus H. Paul

The CEOs of several American oil companies hatched a plot to assassinate the president of the United States, to prevent him from introducing a bill to nationalize the oil companies. Frank Bellamy, a retired Mafia hit man, turns down the very lucrative contract, even though he needs the money to save his car dealerships from bankruptcy. A psychopathic European assassin, with a dark American past, accepts the contract and arrives in Washington, DC.

When the FBI gets wind of the plot, all signs point to Bellamy. But Bellamy is preoccupied with his own personal issues: saving his business, reconciling with his wife, and appeasing his stepson, who has some questions about his deceased father. Meanwhile, the Mafia leaders are becoming nervous as the FBI closes in on Bellamy, who knows too much about their organization. He has to be silenced before he takes them all down.

Bellamy must find and stop the European assassin before the president is killed, before the FBI corners him, and before the Mafia's hit men take him out.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jun 9, 2021
• ISBN: 9781662418914

Book preview

Chapter I

Santonio Detracelli was a member of the Board of Directors of La Cosa Nostra. He knew only too well that men who defied the Board had limited life expectancies. Yet he was about to do just that. He was about to take a perilous step that could cost him his life.

He stared at the peephole, deliberating the wisdom of knocking and ultimately meeting the man he had not seen for so many years, the man the other members of the Board had strongly advised him never to see again. Every instinct in his body warned him to retrace his steps out of the building.

A large man with deep-set eyes and a broken nose stood behind him.

Detracelli banged the door loudly with his fist, stepped back, and continued staring at the peephole. Every breath he took drew in the unmistakable odor of stale urine, which seemed to be trapped within the walls of the narrow corridor. He could still walk away, he thought. It was not too late. He heard the sound of movement filtering through the door.

Yes, a cautious voice whispered.

Detracelli, he answered impatiently.

A chain rattled, and a dead bolt turned. The door opened quickly. Elliot Donaldson looked the same. He stood inside the door smiling broadly. His brown eyes were set close together, looking quite disproportionate on his large face. His chin disappeared in the waves of excess flesh that billowed from his neck. He was a wide man, standing six feet and just over three hundred pounds, most of it soft, yielding fat. The brown suit looked expensive, probably tailor fitted, but the buttons still strained over his stomach.

No, his appearance hadn’t changed.

Detracelli stepped aside and motioned his head toward the door. The giant lumbered forward, and Donaldson stepped out of his way, watching him enter the room.

Is that necessary? Donaldson said, turning his head back to face Detracelli.

Detracelli did not reply. In his line of business, he knew that those who took chances never lived long enough to find out why they had woken up with a pitchfork in their hands. Besides, every precaution was necessary when a man of means selected a dilapidated motel, surrounded by drug dealers, pimps, and prostitutes, for a meeting.

The giant emerged from the room. Clean.

Wait outside, Padmore, he said to the giant. Outside the door, he clarified quickly. With Padmore, you left nothing open to interpretation. He stepped forward and embraced Donaldson briefly. Nice to see you, Don. It’s been quite a while.

Donaldson closed the door behind them and motioned Detracelli toward the worn vinyl love seat sitting at the foot of the bed. Discolored cotton stuffing showed through the cracks crisscrossing the cushion.

Not since the Mexican business.

Don’t remind me, Detracelli said.

Detracelli was a small man, slightly built. The muscles of his jaw were set tightly, further accenting the sharp features of his bony face, thin lips, high cheekbones, and small pointed nose.

The cushion yielded a puff of air as he settled in.

Donaldson pushed an ashtray out of the way and sat at the foot of the bed, facing him.

Sorry, I can’t offer you anything.

He would have declined if Donaldson had offered him anything. He glanced around the room, his eyes taking in the stains on the blanket, the solitary dressing table, the peeling plaster, and the water-marked ceiling. The stale urine had followed him into the room. He had chosen some places like this in the past, but not in quite a while.

You said it was urgent.

He took in the beads of sweat glistening on the shiny bald spot on the front of Donaldson’s head. The room did feel a bit stuffy and humid.

I need some professional advice.

Detracelli chuckled. With all the good brains you have at International?

Donaldson reached behind him and found the plastic seashell. Detracelli watched him tap the ashes from his cigar into it. Two cigar butts lay in the ashtray. He had been waiting for some time, Detracelli surmised.

It’s in your field. Detracelli’s jaw tensed perceptibly. No, no, Donaldson added quickly, only advice. I don’t need your people.

Detracelli’s jaw relaxed. He couldn’t help remembering the Mexican business. Nor could he forget the heat he had taken from New York. He almost lost his territory—and, he later learned, his life—when the Mexicans tied in their oil minister’s death with Yankee crime figures acting on behalf of the drug cartel.

What do you need?

Donaldson’s eyes locked into Detracelli’s. If you had to assassinate a world leader, he said slowly, who would you trust the job to? He has to be first class. The best.

Detracelli’s jaws tensed again. My god! What the hell are you people up to now?

It’s hypothetical, Detra. A last resort. Detracelli continued staring at him, as though not satisfied with the evasive answer. It’s one of many alternatives, Donaldson added with a sort of dismissive wave of his cigar. I can’t tell you more.

What the hell makes you think I want to hear more? I’ve heard enough.

It’s the last option. We may never get to it. But you know us. We like to be prepared.

You’re in the wrong line of work, Don. You’d be at home with us.

Donaldson smiled. The thought apparently amused him.

Well?

I don’t know, Don. I don’t know if I should become involved in this. If this meeting gets out… He left the sentence hanging.

As far as I’m concerned, this meeting never took place. That’s the whole idea. The hotel. The area. We never met.

Detracelli sighed loudly and began toying with the knot of his black silk tie. He stared thoughtfully at a small brown stain on the worn carpet. He ought to get up and walk out of the room, he told himself. That was the thing to do. He should not even remotely involve himself in another one of Donaldson’s madcap schemes. Nothing good ever came from them. Besides, he had been warned about these overseas jaunts. Domestic? Yes, New York had said, we had enough well-placed contacts to protect ourselves. His eyes found Donaldson’s face.

You could easily get this information from any one of many sources.

I trust your judgment…and… He shrugged. You’re discreet. I mean, I don’t want it getting out that I’ve been making inquiries about assassins.

I hope I don’t live to regret this.

You won’t.

I always do.

Just once. We worked well together.

Detracelli released a long sigh. Remember, this meeting never took place. He paused pensively, gazing blankly at a point somewhere over Donaldson’s head. It depends on where your target is located. Africa? The Spider of Nigeria. Very discreet. Anonymous, even to his clients. Believed to be black. No one knows for certain. Hits are accidental.

Politicians?

Doesn’t matter. In South America, it would have to be Paolo of Argentina. Highly unscrupulous. Will take out his mother if the price was right. Latin American governments and drug lords are known to have used him…simultaneously. If your man is in Europe, there is none better than Hans Klaus. A German who lives in Austria. Takes no Austrian jobs. Very efficient, no record, but extremely expensive. Is known to have killed at least one of his clients who withheld half of his fees. That’s about it.

Just three?

You asked for the best. If you want a messy job, he shrugged, blood all over the pavement, there are a couple Arabs and Israelis I can suggest.

Donaldson shook his head. No, no. It has to be clean.

There is a fourth. A faint smile formed at the corner of Detracelli’s lips. But you won’t be interested in him, nor him in you. He works only in the US. Besides, Frank Bellamy is long retired. Everyone else falls a cut below those four.

How do I make contact?

I can send you some information.

Please do. I need it immediately.

Can you still be reached at the old number?

Yes.

Is there anything else?

That’s it. Oh, yes, he said as though suddenly remembering, there is one more thing. He reached inside his jacket and came out with a folded sheet of paper. These are my associates. I would like you to bug their phones.

Detracelli glanced at his outstretched hands, then held Donaldson’s eyes. And why would I want to do that?

Donaldson chuckled and looked away. You know me. Precaution. I’m in discussion with these people. I want to know who they’re talking to.

You asked for advice, Don. I gave you that. I don’t want to be involved in whatever you’re up to.

You’re not. I just don’t have the time to make alternate arrangements.

You’re pushing it, Don…you’re pushing it. He reached for the paper and looked at the names. His eyes widened. You got to be kidding. Are these men involved…in this?

I won’t say involved. We’re having discussions.

Of course…discussions. What am I looking for?

You will know. Anything out of the ordinary.

I don’t like this, Don. I don’t like it at all.

Detracelli turned his wrist, glanced at the face of the watch, and abruptly got up, as though remembering some place else he had to be. He made for the door. I got to go. I’ll get that information to you. Good luck.

Ten minutes after Detracelli left, Donaldson was still staring at the door. He sat on the bed, arms folded, rocking his heavy shoulders back and forth in a steady motion, something he did when engaged in deep thought. There was no alternative, he told himself. It had to be done.

Like the countless other occasions before, the sobbing and sniffling finally subsided. He couldn’t remember how long he had been crying. He never could, nor did he really care. The sobbing was just another inexplicable stage that had crept into the ritual over the years.

He dabbed the back of his hands across his puffy eyes and leaned his head back against the steel bars of the headboard. His eyes stared at the naked, unlit bulb hanging from the ceiling, barely conscious of his fingers toying absentmindedly with his sweaty testicles.

He broke his thoughts momentarily and lowered his eyes. She was still there, crouched on her knees, her naked butt elevated between his fully extended legs. He wished again that, just once, reality would dissipate, as the fading images of a disconnected dream. As before, the wish remained unfulfilled.

His eyes traveled up her butt, across her back, to the nape of her neck. Her limp fingers were still clutching lightly at her neck. He was surprised that the blue silk scarf had remained neatly bowed around her neck. Men loved it, she had said. Most men didn’t like a woman completely naked. The bow itself was now perched on the back of her neck.

Her head hung off the edge of the bed, her long blond hair brushing the floor. She could have been asleep in a very uncomfortable position.

He swung his long, muscular legs over her and got off the bed. A creaking floorboard pierced the silence. Long strides took him to the lone wicker chair over which his clothes were neatly draped. He dug into his jacket pocket and came out with a small bronze-handled penknife. A fleeting smile creased the corner of his lips as he palmed the knife and ran his fingers caressingly over the bronze handle.

They had traveled many roads together, dating back to his senior year in high school when he had lifted it from Principal Flanagan’s trophy case. Everyone knew the old man’s story. He had taken it from a Russian general he had killed in hand-to-hand combat. The entire school served a week’s detention, but The Knife, as it came to be known, was never returned. He opened the three-inch blade and walked back to the bed.

She had settled into a fetal position. Kneeling on the floor, he cradled her head in one hand and gently brushed the blond hair from her face with the other. Her blue eyes stared blankly ahead. Her tongue protruded slightly from between her lips. She had those pouting lips he had come to admire in blondes. She was a beautiful young woman, couldn’t be a day over twenty.

He forced the tip of the knife into the flesh below her right ear. The crimson blood oozed out, staining the steel blade. Slowly and meticulously, he arched the incision across her cheek, around her cheekbone, and through the top of her lips. The gaping incision ended just below her nose. He surveyed his artistry for a moment, smiled, then walked gingerly to the sink.

He felt a sense of relief. His muscles were loose. His throat was moist. He also knew the nightmares and anxieties would end—for a while.

His movements were now rushed. He ran the tap water over the blade and his hands, and then got dressed hurriedly. He pulled out some bills from his wallet and tossed them on the table. He always paid for their services. Cracking the door, he checked the corridor. It was deserted. He stepped out, closing the door quietly behind him.

Elliot Donaldson was not a man who questioned a decision once it was made. His past successes had developed in him an unyielding confidence in the infallibility of his judgments. He knew that his solution was the only practical option.

He gazed through the glass window at the pencil-shaped Washington Monument piercing the skyline in the distance. A passenger jet hovered beyond, waiting for clearance from the control tower at Reagan National Airport.

The door opened, breaking into his thoughts. His assistant, Marc Graham, walked in. They’re all here.

What’s the mood? Donaldson asked, getting up and straightening his tie.

Well, there is no laughing and back slapping. Gloomy, I would say.

They both left the office and walked down the thickly carpeted corridor to the conference room. Graham opened the door and ushered him in. He closed it and made his way back up the corridor.

Donaldson took his chair at the head of the conference table. It was a small room, somewhat cozy, emitting an atmosphere of secrecy. One felt almost compelled to whisper in order to retain the serene aura the room seemed to radiate. It was Donaldson’s idea to hang a picture of the Virgin Mary over the door. He wished now he had remembered to ask Graham to remove it before the others arrived. The four other men looked at him silently from around the table.

His eyes traveled around the table trying to read their faces, gauge their minds.

Gloomy.

Gentlemen, he began, you all know why we’re here. Let’s get to it.

The president of Universal Oil couldn’t wait to begin. This is our seventh meeting, he said, directing his comments around the table, and we still aren’t anywhere. I’m beginning to wonder if these meetings are worth the time.

Daniel is right, said the chairman of Eastern Drillers. Kellman’s quick support told Donaldson that he and Daniel had been huddling. While we’re marking time, the media is tearing us apart. It seems like everyone is running exclusives, digging up former employees who are spilling their guts all over the tubes.

I won’t say we’re wasting time, said Shepherd, the chairman of Caribbean Oil. Our lobbyists are doing their part.

And getting where? Daniel cut in. Did your people get anywhere? He didn’t wait for Shepherd to respond. Mine didn’t. All the editors and congressmen have the same response, ‘Your companies have to be reigned in. The country has had it.’ And to be quite frank, I agree. Some of you guys have gone too far.

Are you pointing fingers? said Hennessey, the chairman of Global Refiners. Don’t forget, your company got us into this mess to begin with.

We’re defensive, aren’t we? Daniel said. We got caught evading taxes. But we did no more or no less than anyone around this table.

Besides the tax thing, Universal does have a reputation for extremes, said Hennessey, dismissing Daniel with a wave of his hands.

Let’s don’t go there, Hennessey. Don’t go there. You know darn well, his hands circled the table, every man around this table knows darn well we are all dirty. You want to talk about extremes? His eyes held Hennessey’s. How many Arab officials have your company taken out?

Gentlemen, said Donaldson, making a feeble attempt to regain some order. He was pleased. The pressure was beginning to show. It was eating at the edges of their nerves. He will let them go at one another a bit longer.

Daniel ignored him and continued. He propped his elbow on the table and stared across the table at Hennessey. There was no love lost between both men, dating back to their days at Global when Daniel was passed over in favor of Hennessey.

Wasn’t it you who approached us with the idea to pressure the Arabs into declaring that oil embargo? And didn’t you have us working our butts off to fuel the ‘weapons of mass destruction’ crap? ‘Let’s invade and destroy their oil fields,’ you argued. ‘Shortages would lead to higher crude prices and higher profits.’ So don’t talk to me about extremes.

Oh, give me a break, Hennessey said indignantly. You couldn’t be serious. We inherited those policies, all of us did. Our oil companies have a long history of promoting instability in that region. How often have we derailed the peace initiatives of our own presidents?

He is right, Shepherd said to Daniel. As far as that part of the world is concerned, there are no clean hands in this room. Donaldson’s company was the first to secretly arm Hezbollah. And we all kept the Palestinian-Jewish tension alive. Our companies have always accepted the premise that stability in the Middle East could lead to stability in oil prices. And we knew what that meant, that was bad for profits. Are you complaining about the profits, Dan?

No, I’m not, said Daniel. But don’t blame my people for the Senate investigation.

You got caught, Hennessey insisted, with two sets of hard drives. It was sloppy to have all your information sitting there on a hard drive, right on your bloody desk. International shenanigans are one thing. But robbing the government and getting caught at it is quite another. The Senate investigation was all your doing.

I don’t care who the hell is responsible, Kellman bellowed from the other end of the table. Are we going to sit here slinging mud at one another while the president is mobilizing his forces against us?

Silence descended.

Donaldson broke it. Thank you, Kellman. He paused reflectively as his small brown eyes wandered from one face to the other. The mood was set. I believe we all agree that lobbying is not the answer. Public opinion is definitely against us. Our lobbying machinery has been so far ineffective. Congress returns from recess in three weeks. When it does, the bill will be waiting.

That liberal son of a bitch is a traitor, said Kellman. We filled his campaign coffers, even shared insider information with his cronies. Does anyone out there really think his wife is a genius at picking stocks? I’ve been saying all along he is a communist.

He is a politician, said Donaldson. Have you seen his approval ratings? I mean, the man is in the dumps. He will do whatever it takes to improve them. Besides, he chuckled, he is a businessman. They aren’t too many businessmen in the Communist party.

The others chuckled. He had eased the tension.

He doesn’t have to sell out his friends, Kellman added.

Will Congress support him? said Donaldson. That is what I want to know.

Of course it will, said Kellman. This is a solution that the public will embrace. Congress knows that. My people conducted an informal senate poll. Of course, the question was hypothetical. The result was sixty in favor, nineteen were undecided, and twenty-one against.

Well, since the stock market crash, said Donaldson, it’s not fashionable to defend big business. The Senate investigation over this tax thing didn’t help matters. They know they have public opinion on their side.

The high gas prices haven’t helped one bit, said Shepherd.

Do they know anything about the president’s plans? asked Donaldson.

Not that we could tell, said Kellman. He kept his word.

You can rest assured, said Shepherd, that once it hits the press, that sixty will climb. I agree, the people are ready for something like this. Congressional offices will be flooded with letters and calls. None of them will have enough balls to resist.

So the consensus is, said Kellman, drumming his fingers against the top of the table, if this thing reaches the floor, we don’t stand a chance.

That’s right, said Donaldson. And every oil company in this country would be nationalized, taken over by the government.

They all stared pensively at the black granite tabletop.

Heads will roll, gentlemen, said Kellman. We’ll be held accountable for every piece of garbage they find.

And we all know what they don’t know, reminded Donaldson. Once they nationalize, the poop will hit the fan.

Do you realize, said Hennessey, as though struck for the first time with the enormity of the situation, that some of us may actually go to prison?

Precisely, said Kellman. Isn’t that the fashionable thing today, sending business executives to prison? How many of our friends are sitting in prison?

My god! said Shepherd, gently massaging his forehead.

Kellman continued, Our books and private activities, the wheeling and dealings, the briberies, foreign assassinations, all will be exposed to the world. He paused for effect. All of us can be directly implicated in political assassinations around the world. That’s my biggest concern, not the bribery stuff.

We should be concerned about everything, added Shepherd. You think they won’t make a stink about price fixing. We broke the antitrust laws. Either way you look at it, prison is prison.

Okay, said Hennessey. So what do we do? There must be something we can do to prevent the president from introducing the Nationalization Bill to Congress.

The room was heavy with silence. Heads swiveling around from face to face, eyes meeting but not locking.

We can buy him off. Daniel’s flippant suggestion had its desired effect—laugher all around. The president’s wealth was well documented.

Seriously, gentlemen. The heads turned quickly toward Donaldson. I’m afraid we have only one choice. He hoped the timing was right. He clenched both hands, his eyes examining the expectant faces. Short of a miracle, like the president dropping dead, this thing will become law. And I don’t think any man in this room will be willing to place his faith in a miracle. We got this far by making our own miracles.

What…do you have in mind? Hennessey mumbled, almost inaudibly.

I think we’ve to get rid of the president.

The faces, except Kellman’s, stared at him in total disbelief, each doubting it had heard what it had.

What! Daniel’s whisper barely broke the silence. But it demanded an answer.

We’ve to get rid of him, Donaldson responded calmly. The president must die within three weeks. Before he introduces the bill to Congress.

Are you out of your fucking mind, Donaldson? Shepherd’s voice echoed off the walls. What kind of harebrained idea is that?

Do you have a better one? Any of you? Donaldson asked, raising his voice for the first time since entering the room. We’re talking here about survival. Not oil contracts, but personal survival, he emphasized, pounding the table with his fist. I have no intention of spending my twilight years in prison with a black buck sticking it to me.

Donaldson is right, said Kellman. I’ve given thirty-seven years of my life to Eastern. I’ll be damned if I sit back and let the government move in with their bureaucratic machinery.

We all feel the same way, said Daniel, but…assassination? He shook his head from side to side. We’re not talking about some third world leader or Arab oil minister. This is our president.

Not only that, said Shepherd, but we can’t get away with it.

I think… I know we can, Donaldson said quickly. As a matter of fact, I’ve sent out some feelers. It can be done, and none of us will be implicated.

Feelers! Daniel responded incredulously. What feelers?

All the arrangements can be made by a third party. He contacts the assassin and handles the business end.

This is absurd, said Shepherd.

What if something goes wrong? asked Hennessey.

If anything goes wrong, our contact won’t know who we are. Our occupation, our identity, nothing. These things can be arranged.

I don’t like it, said Shepherd. There must be another way.

We’ve exhausted all options, said Kellman in an impatient tone. We’ve been sitting on this thing for weeks. Holding meetings, arguing, discussing options, and getting nowhere. The other choice is to resign ourselves to nationalization. Is that what you want? he asked, searching Shepherd’s face. If so, we’re wasting our time here. All we got to do is take up the bloody phone and call the president. Tell him we voluntarily accept his proposal.

Do you support this? Shepherd said.

I certainly do.

Perhaps we can cut a deal, Shepherd continued to insist.

I don’t think so, said Donaldson. In his mind, we are expendable, dinosaurs. The future lies in all that nuclear and wind crap he has been promoting.

Also, gentlemen, added Kellman, don’t forget his legacy. He doesn’t want to leave office as a failed president, which is what he is quickly becoming. He went after the banks, credit card companies, health care, and his poll numbers still plummeted. Nationalization could change all that. I don’t think he will deal either.

He did come to us first, you know, said Shepherd. He could easily have gone to the press or straight to Congress. He didn’t have to give us six weeks to think about it.

Does it really matter whether he gave us six weeks or six years? said Kellman, raising his voice angrily. The end is the same. Prison. Whether we sign our own warrant or wait for Congress to do it, it’s still the same. Prison. Do you want to spend your waning years behind bars? Can you take it? Can your wife? How the hell do you face your friends? Think straight, Shepherd. By God, think straight.

Donaldson gave them a few seconds of silent thought then said, None of us like this, but the time has come for pragmatism. We must make a cold, hard decision. We owe him nothing. He’s just another politician sticking the government’s nose where it doesn’t belong. We’ve dealt with his type before.

How do you plan to handle it? asked Daniel, fumbling with the knot of his tie, keeping his eyes lowered. He was not alone in his discomfort. Shepherd shifted in his seat, while Hennessey gazed blankly into space. Let’s get it over. I’ve a board meeting.

Do we have a consensus? Donaldson asked. None of you have to become personally involved. With your approval, I can handle everything here on in.

He knew they were suffering. Everyone in this room had, at one time or another, for one reason or another, met the president. Shepherd’s wife and the First Lady worked for the same drug rehabilitation program. It was even rumored after the election that Daniel would be appointed secretary of energy. Preservation, that was the bottom line. Self-preservation.

Shepherd made one last feeble attempt. The vice president could introduce the bill. Then what?

Kellman couldn’t help laughing out loud. That wimp doesn’t have the balls or the support to sell nationalization. No, the bill will die with the president.

You have our approval, Hennessey said, almost too quickly. The others assented.

Then that’s it, said Donaldson. Graham will contact you in a few days to make arrangements for the financial transfers. It would be costly. I also suggest we minimize all contact with each other until the job is completed.

As they filed out the conference room, Kellman leaned over Donaldson’s shoulder. Do you have a man?

I think so.

If you need any help, you know I’m here.

I know, Kelly. I know.

Kellman squeezed his shoulder and left with the others.

Donaldson was sitting in the same position when Graham entered. They had been together for fifteen years. Donaldson was head of the Persian Gulf operations of the company when Graham, fresh out of engineering school, had joined the outfit. His ambitious drive quickly caught Donaldson’s attention—the long hours, determination to get ahead, and especially his unscrupulous nature. Donaldson took him under his wings