Steady

He cannot remember what type of gun it was, anymore. It could have been a Mauser; he remembers that name, but he's not certain if that was the standard-issue or a sniper. He'd been allowed to keep both, for a time. As well as his hip pistol and hand-to-hand combat knife. And then there was the surveillance kit. The spy kit.

Well, the innocuous looking worn brown leather case where he kept what passed in those days for a miniature recorder, the minuscule binoculars. But it had more sinister contents, too, didn't it? Some suicide pills, a few different passports, the hand-sized wooden box, lined with dark green velvet. The one that held the syringe and the two tiny bottles of clear liquid. Yes. The wooden case part is real. That really existed, he thinks. But the gun? The rifle?

It thrilled him to consider these things, for hours on end, with no interruption. No interruption for the first time in his life. Not even the TV, which, really, had been his only choice for so long. Watching endless hours, or listening endless hours to western re-runs that he had seen dozens of times before. Not really listening or watching, though, but occupying a portion of his brain to keep him from thinking. Relaxation. Distraction. He really wished he could remember the gun. The rifle?

It was this place that was doing this to him. Surely it was a hotel. But a cheap one. Shared rooms and a vague scent that he should know but couldn't place. But where was everyone? He didn't know anyone here. And all the help was foreign. Jamaicans and Filipinos. No, she put him here. She put him here to punish him. All he wanted was peace. And she put him here in this hell to punish him.

But that gun. That rifle. He could remember the feel of it resting in the socket between his shoulder and chest. Breathe in and out. In and out. In and half-out and shoot. In and out. All of life squeezed before the cross-hairs. That feeling was there. That was real. It exhilarated him, the time leading up. The pumping of the heart, the racing of the mind. The memory that held it all in.

He held it all in, in those days. A branch on a bush, slightly bent. A window cracked where none had been seconds before. The change in the wind direction. Velocity. Did he use that word then? Velocity? But what was the translation. What was the actual word?

But the moment. The moment where seconds stretched to days was the moment that he lived for. It was what he did. His purpose. To shoot and to protect.

Seconds again stretched to days, life compressed and diluted all at once. But all he felt now was tired. And angry. She put me here. She did this to me out of hatred. If only he could remember about the gun. The rifle was somehow very important. Yes, the rifle. It was a rifle, probably. How it gleamed.

Yes! He remembers the gleam. Like the shoes, like the leather case, how he polished and polished that rifle. Took it apart. Cleaned it. Put it back together. He could disassemble that weapon in seconds, have it back in its bag. And out the door. Or down the hill. Down the stairs, elevator, dirt path. Front door.

She hasn't come to see me in years. She's probably dead. I'm sure she's dead. Why won't she come see me? I want to explain about the gun. About the shooting. There isn't much time. This is very important.

But still, he wants to know about the gun. It must have been a rifle, he thinks. Maybe he can concentrate on a specific time. One single time. Maybe that will allow him to remember the gun. That shining rifle.

The girl, he thinks. Was it a cold day that day? He got a briefing, a dossier. Months in advance. In those days, officers were on their own to do the ground work, or that's what they told him. It was better if no one else knew the exact plan. There were fewer strings that way.Fewer connections to those with something to lose. Did he have something to lose?

He did it for his family, he said.

She didn't seem interested in the answer he gave, although she had asked the why and the what.

Why did she ask him if she didn't believe the answer?

It was for his family. He had something to lose, at one point. But now? Nothing was keeping him now. Why couldn't she understand? Why did she come here only to torment him, to keep him here, to punish him?

But the girl, the preparation. She could never understand about that, truly. It was to protect his family then. What had they said to him? Some implicit threat: some duty owed that could not be broken. But, really, hadn't it been the thrill of the assignment? The assignments. How many had there been? If he were as he was, he would have remembered them all: dates, names, all the details, like a filing cabinet. Everything in its place, a photo in four dimensions.

But now, only snapshots came to him. In no order. Where did they belong?

And the girl again. How old? Older than he was, at the time. At university. Horn rimmed glasses and short dark hair. The black and white photo was there, perfectly etched in his memory. And she had been wearing a dark suit. Wool herringbone. And she had been talking with someone. Some important man. But with whom? And why so important? Maybe he never understood the details. But that doesn't seem right to him, now. He must've understood.

But orders were orders. He understood that now just as he did then. As everyone did. And the setup. For him, as he remembers it, the setup was the annoyance. So much preparation. So much to put together: the timing, the locations, the surveillance to see which rooftop was the best location, the confluence of events that could change at a moment's notice. But the shot was the moment that made it all worth it: his greatest talent. For his family. For his well-being. And the perception of patriotism made it worth it.

There she is. Coming by again to wake me again.