Chapter 1 1
The European Parliament Debating Chamber is vast, built to resemble an old Roman amphitheater, the difference being the spectacle now is for consent and cooperation, not gladiatorial contests, tearing and ripping an opponent limb from limb. Apart from one MEP, currently standing up, currently attacking the head of the European Council. And currently being most boring about it.

The far-right grifter’s voice drones on, his face smug atthe sound of it. He loves his own voice. He loves everything about himself. His ridiculous choice of [REDACTED], usually paired with a [REDACTED] and [REDACTED] shoes. The comedy patriot. Wrapping himself in the flag, inviting the gullible idiots back home to fall for his act, to embrace it and him, the man of the people, bravely going into battle against the enemy, the establishment, on their behalf. Of course, that’s all bullshit. The man’s establishment through and through. His populist schtick just there to hide his extremist far-right views. He’s the worst thing that can happen to any country.

How do I know all this? Because I’ve been by his side for months. I’ve watched him in action, close-up. I’ve been a faceless, nameless functionary in the employ of Toad of Toad Heil himself. One of his party’s activists, hired with next to no vetting and allowed a seat on their Euro gravy train in his entourage, comprising all the different factions of his party: the wife beaters, the child abusers, the tax dodgers, and the racist thugs. Embarrassingly easy to get next to him. Just laugh at his racist jokes, mainly. I also have to wheel him away from potential flash points, avoid meetings, both planned and accidental, with nonpartisan journalists, protesters, other MEPs, and anyone else with a working bullshit detector. As per my job, I threaten to hurt those people if they don’t desist. He likes that. He likes wielding that kind of power. He’s different with those on his side, though, which isn’t surprising for a man who chose to spend Remembrance Day with the German far right instead of in Britain. Unguarded with tame journalists, the mask slipping totally, then at the sign of a photo op with a supporter, he’s up, getting rid of his preferred large glass of expensive red and grabbing his props—a [REDACTED] in one hand and a [REDACTED] in the other—fixing his grin in place and he’s off. Disingenuously greeting them, mentally counting the money he’s making off them while laughing along with them, then once again in private grimacing and wiping his hands after any accidental contact with the great unwashed as he calls them, slagging them off and bad-mouthing them for the gullible, lumpen marks they are. Then off to spend more quality time with his paymasters, helping to facilitate their next incursion into Western democracy.

I should say I don’t normally become partisan during an assignment. I don’t get paid to do that. It’s seen, quite rightly, as unprofessional. Breaking the first rule. Allowing emotions to become involved always gets in the way of work, of executing a clean job. No pun intended. But occasionally I make an exception. As long as I don’t allow irrationality to cloud my judgment, to give in to emotionalism, to make any mistakes that could sow the slightest seeds of doubt in what I’m about to do, then I’m golden. And when it’s someone as hideous in every respect as this one is, it’s actually a pleasure knowing what’s going to happen to them. (1)

He takes a sip of water, pauses. Looks round the chamber, hoping he’s upset as many people as possible. Up close he’s smaller than you think he is, in every aspect, with the voice of a golf club bore. However, he thinks he’s the finest orator Europe has witnessed since Adolf Hitler.

And off he goes again. “[Blah blah blah drone drone drone personal attack attack attack to get his optics up up up…]” Pause for laughter—which isn’t forthcoming because the whole chamber’s ignoring him—and off he goes again. “[Smug attack smug attack smug attack…]” (2)

There’s movement behind him. I lean forward in my seat, ready to get down there on the floor. Suddenly interested in what’s going on, the rest of the suited party thugs with me do the same. We’re watching on a monitor in a private room just off the main chamber itself. It’s where entourages are parked, ready to walk into the chamber and escort our prize buffoon out when he’s finished. Ensure he’s not stopped en route to wherever. They’ve made their way through the free beer they asked for; I’ve played along, feeding the rubber plant next to me most of mine, knowing I’m going to need my wits about me when events move up a gear. Which they will do soon. But this guy standing up behind him in the chamber? Looking directly at him? This isn’t part of the plan.

In a way it doesn’t matter. If this guy’s got bad intentions toward the right-wing shithead, then that doesn’t bother me in any way. As long as he acts on those intentions and ensures the pound shop Enoch Powell’s not walking away afterward. I still get paid, whatever happens. But if, as so often happens with amateurs, he fucks it up and leaves him alive, then we’ve got trouble. And so has he. Because he’s just been added to my list.

One of my compatriots has noticed this guy as well. “What the fuck…”

The guy behind’s taking something out of his jacket, still staring at our boy.

They’re all on their feet now, ready to rush the chamber. So am I, but not for the reasons they think.

The guy gets what he wants from his jacket pocket.

They’re by the door, ready.

He unfolds a piece of paper, holds it up.

THIS MAN IS A LIAR, it says, with an arrow pointing to the right-wing populist. (3)

The thugs make their feelings known about the man. As loudly and angrily as possible. They’re disappointed they didn’t have to rush into the chamber as well. Even more disappointed there wasn’t any violence. They may wear expensive suits and ties, but they’re still football terrace hooligans at heart. And always will be, bless them.

The delegate, acknowledging the laughter in the chamber, puts that piece of paper away, gets out another one.

AND BORING AS WELL.

More laughter. He sits down, pleased with himself and the reaction.

“Reckon we stand down,” I say, trying to sound disappointed. Also, knowing they’ll be back on their feet soon.

I watch the feed on the screen. The rest of the delegates are really laughing now. He thinks it’s for him, unaware of what the man behind him has done. Never mind. He’ll see it on the news later. Oh no. Sorry. He won’t. He’ll go to his grave thinking he was hilarious. Maybe not the best orator in Europe since his hero. But at least the funniest.

And he’s still banging on. The target of his ire no longer looks angry or indignant, just bored. As do the rest of the chamber. The president is asking him to sit down, to retract those remarks. This is playing into his hands. This is what he wants. He’s now loudly proclaiming about free speech, something that only runs one way with him, of how they’re trying to take it away from him. He pauses, takes another sip. Good lad.

Yes, it’s in the water. It’s undetectable. Completely untraceable. As I said earlier, I’m a professional. I don’t do an amateur job. It won’t look like he’s been poisoned. It won’t show up at all. Heart attack, that’ll be the official verdict. He smokes way too much, drinks way too much. No one will be the slightest bit surprised. In fact, I’m sure people have money on him going sooner than later. I wish I could too. But that wouldn’t be professional.

Another sip, bigger this time, more of a gulp. He’s frowning, loosening his collar, looking like he’s getting even more thirsty. Another mouthful, draining the glass. He’s stopped talking now. Visibly sweating. Panting. He puts one hand on his desk to steady himself, looks around like the room’s spinning, like he doesn’t know where he is anymore.

One of his legs gives way. He grabs at the desk, trying desperately to hold on.

People around him are beginning to notice. So are the thugs with me. They’re on their feet again, but this time they don’t seem to know what to do. This is out of their sphere of experience. If a situation doesn’t demand violence or intimidation, they’re useless.

He collapses completely to the floor.

And the house is in an uproar.

The thugs have no choice; they leave the room. I stay where I am, keep watching the monitor. Someone rushes over to him, administers CPR. After what seems like minutes, hours, but is probably only seconds, they look up, gesture for someone else to come over. I see the look on their face, the slight shake of the head. The universal sign for: he’s gone.

I smile to myself. But the smile isn’t as big as I’d like it to be. I’m not feeling the satisfaction I thought I would. Perhaps it’ll come later. Perhaps it never will. This is why I have to detach myself from my work. Good or bad, they’re just a target. If I take any joy from this at all, it should be the joy of a job well done, and only that, and not this emptiness I’ve been increasingly experiencing after my target has been eliminated.

But I don’t have time to concern myself with that. I have an escape to make.

I leave the room. The thugs are all milling about outside, not knowing what to do. I know it’s a cliché to describe them as headless chickens, but that really is what they look like. Headless chickens, their bloated bodies flapping about. It would be funny to watch, satisfying even, if I had time. But I have to be off.

Out of this building and as far away as possible. Shedding the skin of the person I’ve been as I go, the identity I’ve used dropping away. Disappearing with every step I take.

Job done.