Sunset is often a glamorous business in the Cretan holiday harbour of Chania. Reflections of gold and red and pink splash along the hulls of the day-tripper boats, the mid-price yachts and the cabin cruisers. The historic walls of the outer harbour loom solid against the fragile sky like shadows projected on a screen, and the quaysides are languid with tourists making their leisurely way from pavement artist to jewellery stall, from restaurant to souvenir shop.
Around the harbour, buildings crowd higgledy-piggledy back into the town, some staggering up the hillside, some crammed together like Roman tenements. Holiday flats and retirement homes look down on the swarm of boats and people, streaked with the sun's last lazy rays.
At one of the outside tables, a man sits watching the tourists, his face expressionless, the remains of a large seven-star Metaxa in front of him. In his early sixties, by the looks of him. Broad-shouldered and a few kilos overweight. He's wearing dark navy shorts and a bottle green polo shirt that shows off muscular forearms tanned the colour of his drink. He's wearing tinted glasses that are noticeably more fashionable than the rest of his outfit. His silver hair is cropped close to his head and he has a heavy moustache which he wipes with the back of his hand from time to time. It's a gesture he completes more often than his drinking requires; as if perhaps the moustache is something he's self-conscious about. It's the only thing about him that betrays the appearance of absolute self-possession.
He is completely unaware that he is being watched, which is surprising because he has the air of a watchful man.
He finishes his drink, wipes his mouth one last time then gets to his feet. He walks along the quayside with a firm step. People move out of his way, but not fearfully. With respect, it looks like. Only a couple of metres behind him there's another presence. A shadow, taking advantage of the crowds to stay close on his heels.
A few streets back from the harbour, the man turns into a narrow side road. He casts a swift look around, then heads into a modern apartment building. Not too smart, not too cheap. Just the sort of place a retired history teacher would buy to enjoy the Cretan way of life. And that's exactly what his neighbours think he is.
The watcher slips into the building behind him and silently climbs the stairs in his wake. Stealth is second nature in this line of work and tonight is no exception. A blade slides from its sheath without a sound. Sits balanced in the hand, waiting. So sharp it could split a sheet of paper.
The man stops in front of the door to his apartment, key already in hand, prepared for a quick entry. He slots the key into the lock and turns it, pushing the door open. He's about to step across the threshold when a voice indecently close to him says a name he hasn't heard in years. Shocked, he begins to turn around, moving into his flat as he goes.
But he's too late. Without hesitation, the blade moves in a gleaming arc and slices the man's throat from ear to ear. Blood gushes and spurts, splashing a different red over the door and the walls and the floor.
By the time he's finished dying, his assassin is back among the tourists, heading for a bar and a well-deserved drink. A seven-star Metaxa, perhaps. And a toast to the single death that doesn't begin to atone for all those other deaths.
