assassininthemovieLéon,andtheteamleadersittinginthecaféknewitmeantdeath.
He nodded to his colleague, who immediately called the other three agents, who were sitting amongmillingtouristsatothercafés.ThefiveofthemrendezvousedjustnearthebeautifulRastoni bar and restaurant, looking for all the world like a group of affluent European holidaymakers meetingupforlunch.Thetwowomeninthesquadweretheprimaryshooters,andthat,I’mafraid,
wasmymistake.
It was just before two, the restaurant still crowded, when my so-called holidaymakers walked in.
The three men spoke to the harried manager about a table while the women moved to the bar,
ostensiblytochecktheirmake-upinitsmirrorbutinfactnotinginthereflectionthepositionofevery personinthevaultedspace.
Christosandhisposse–threeAlbanianbodyguardsandaclutchofchickshismotherhadprobably
warnedhimabout–weresittingatatablelookingstraightoutattheharbour.
‘Allset?’oneofourwomenaskedhermalecolleaguesinpassableItalian,framingitasaquestion
butmeaningitasastatement.Themennodded.
Thewomenhadtheirtotebagsopen,puttingawaytheirlipstick,reachingfortheircameracases.
Theybothpulledoutstainless-steelSIGP232sandturnedinatightarc.
Christos’s bodyguards, with their True Religion jeans, muscle-man T-shirts and Czech machine pistols,didn’thaveachanceagainstrealprofessionals.Twoofthemdidn’tevenseeitcoming–the firsttheyheardwasthesoundofbonebreakingasbulletsslammedintotheirheadsandchests.
Thethirdbodyguardmadeittohisfeet,astrategywhichsucceededonlyinpresentinghimselfasa
bigger target for the team leader. Shows how much he knew. The agent hit him with three bullets, whichwasunnecessary,asthefirstoneprettymuchblastedhisheartoutthebackofhischest.
Asisusualinthesesituations,alotofpeoplestartedyelling,toabsolutelynoeffect.Oneofthem was Christos, trying to take command, I guess, scrambling to his feet, reaching under his flapping linenshirtfortheBerettahekeptinthewaistbandofhispants.
Like a lot of tough guys who don’t do any real training, he thought he was well prepared by keeping the safety catch off. In the panic of a genuine firefight, he pulled the weapon out, put his finger on the trigger and shot himself through the leg. Fighting the pain and humiliation, he kept turningtofacehisattackers.Whathesawweretwomiddle-agedwomen,feetplantedwide,who–had
therebeenaband–lookedliketheywereabouttostartastrangedance.
Instead, they both opened up at seven yards, two rounds each. Most of Christos’s vital organs –
includinghisbrain–werefinishedbeforehedropped.
Immediately,thefiveagentssprayedtheirweaponsacrossthemirrors,creatingalotofimpressive
noiseandmaximumpanic.Terrifieddinerssprintedforthedoors,aJapanesetouristtriedtofilmit onhisphoneandaricochetingbullethitafemalememberofChristos’spartyinthebutt.Asoneof ourwomenagentstoldmelater–giventhewaythechickwasdressed,thelasttimeshehadthatmuch painupherassshewasprobablygettingpaidforit.
The flesh wound was the only collateral damage – no small achievement given the number of peopleintherestaurantandtheunpredictablenatureofanyassassination.
Theagentspocketedtheirweapons,burstoutofthefrontdooramidtheexplodingpanicandyelled
forsomeonetocallthecops.Ataprearrangedlocation–atinycobblestonesquare–theyregrouped and boarded four Vespa scooters, permitted for residents only but secured earlier in the day by a largepaymenttoalocalrepairshop.Theteamspedintothetown’snarrowalleysandtheleaderused hiscellphonetocallintwofastboatswaitinginthenextbay.
Inthreeminutes,theassassinsreachedasceniccablecarthatoffersanalternative–andfarquicker
–descentthanthedonkeys.Ittakeslessthantwominutestotakethe1,200-footdrop,andalreadythe boats were pulling into the wharf. The team was halfway to the next island, hurtling across the sparklingbluewaterinaplumeofwhitespray,bythetimethefirstcopsarrivedatRastoni.
To the Greek cops’ ribald amusement, they quickly learned that Christos, the first-born and best-loved son of Patros Nikolaides, had been gunned
He nodded to his colleague, who immediately called the other three agents, who were sitting amongmillingtouristsatothercafés.ThefiveofthemrendezvousedjustnearthebeautifulRastoni bar and restaurant, looking for all the world like a group of affluent European holidaymakers meetingupforlunch.Thetwowomeninthesquadweretheprimaryshooters,andthat,I’mafraid,
wasmymistake.
It was just before two, the restaurant still crowded, when my so-called holidaymakers walked in.
The three men spoke to the harried manager about a table while the women moved to the bar,
ostensiblytochecktheirmake-upinitsmirrorbutinfactnotinginthereflectionthepositionofevery personinthevaultedspace.
Christosandhisposse–threeAlbanianbodyguardsandaclutchofchickshismotherhadprobably
warnedhimabout–weresittingatatablelookingstraightoutattheharbour.
‘Allset?’oneofourwomenaskedhermalecolleaguesinpassableItalian,framingitasaquestion
butmeaningitasastatement.Themennodded.
Thewomenhadtheirtotebagsopen,puttingawaytheirlipstick,reachingfortheircameracases.
Theybothpulledoutstainless-steelSIGP232sandturnedinatightarc.
Christos’s bodyguards, with their True Religion jeans, muscle-man T-shirts and Czech machine pistols,didn’thaveachanceagainstrealprofessionals.Twoofthemdidn’tevenseeitcoming–the firsttheyheardwasthesoundofbonebreakingasbulletsslammedintotheirheadsandchests.
Thethirdbodyguardmadeittohisfeet,astrategywhichsucceededonlyinpresentinghimselfasa
bigger target for the team leader. Shows how much he knew. The agent hit him with three bullets, whichwasunnecessary,asthefirstoneprettymuchblastedhisheartoutthebackofhischest.
Asisusualinthesesituations,alotofpeoplestartedyelling,toabsolutelynoeffect.Oneofthem was Christos, trying to take command, I guess, scrambling to his feet, reaching under his flapping linenshirtfortheBerettahekeptinthewaistbandofhispants.
Like a lot of tough guys who don’t do any real training, he thought he was well prepared by keeping the safety catch off. In the panic of a genuine firefight, he pulled the weapon out, put his finger on the trigger and shot himself through the leg. Fighting the pain and humiliation, he kept turningtofacehisattackers.Whathesawweretwomiddle-agedwomen,feetplantedwide,who–had
therebeenaband–lookedliketheywereabouttostartastrangedance.
Instead, they both opened up at seven yards, two rounds each. Most of Christos’s vital organs –
includinghisbrain–werefinishedbeforehedropped.
Immediately,thefiveagentssprayedtheirweaponsacrossthemirrors,creatingalotofimpressive
noiseandmaximumpanic.Terrifieddinerssprintedforthedoors,aJapanesetouristtriedtofilmit onhisphoneandaricochetingbullethitafemalememberofChristos’spartyinthebutt.Asoneof ourwomenagentstoldmelater–giventhewaythechickwasdressed,thelasttimeshehadthatmuch painupherassshewasprobablygettingpaidforit.
The flesh wound was the only collateral damage – no small achievement given the number of peopleintherestaurantandtheunpredictablenatureofanyassassination.
Theagentspocketedtheirweapons,burstoutofthefrontdooramidtheexplodingpanicandyelled
forsomeonetocallthecops.Ataprearrangedlocation–atinycobblestonesquare–theyregrouped and boarded four Vespa scooters, permitted for residents only but secured earlier in the day by a largepaymenttoalocalrepairshop.Theteamspedintothetown’snarrowalleysandtheleaderused hiscellphonetocallintwofastboatswaitinginthenextbay.
Inthreeminutes,theassassinsreachedasceniccablecarthatoffersanalternative–andfarquicker
–descentthanthedonkeys.Ittakeslessthantwominutestotakethe1,200-footdrop,andalreadythe boats were pulling into the wharf. The team was halfway to the next island, hurtling across the sparklingbluewaterinaplumeofwhitespray,bythetimethefirstcopsarrivedatRastoni.
To the Greek cops’ ribald amusement, they quickly learned that Christos, the first-born and best-loved son of Patros Nikolaides, had been gunned
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