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impetus to galvanize plot into action. One
afternoon, by chance, I found myself
across the street from the welfare hospital
in Beyoglu, where the few injured Claws
still clinging to life waged their silent
struggles. I decided to step inside, to see
first-hand the results of Sampras’
treachery.
There were two Claws in that hospital.
One of them couldn’t breathe without the
help of a machine. His lungs were fine,
but his head had been partially crushed.
Part of his autonomic nervous system
would never function again. Hard to
believe these oddly distorted lumps
swaddled in bandages and wires had
once been a pilot, much less a human
being, a man with a family.
His loved ones were there visiting, a
wife and young son, confident as only
religious families can be that he would
return to them one day. At least they
hadn’t been saddled with the burden of
the man’s medical care (or, more likely,
the burden of signing a death waiver —
they never could’ve paid the hire of the
life support machines) since Turkish
mercenary insurance is both expensive
and reliable.
Yes, the government would keep him
alive for exactly one year, despite the cost,
despite the fact that the man would
almost certainly be a vegetable if he ever
emerged from his coma. His family had
hope, that afternoon, that one year would
be enough for him to recover. Standing in
the darkened hallway, watching quietly, I
had a more realistic perspective, and it
was clear to me how attractive his widow
really was, and how difficult it would be
to raise a young boy all alone in a city like
Istanbul. I also realized that sooner or
later, hospital visits would grow less
frequent, and they would both come to
speak of the man, if ever at all, quietly,
and in the past tense.
An old story. Nonetheless, a sad one. I
moved on.
The other Claw I’d prefer not to speak
of at any length. He was located in the
burn ward. I think the figure was 65% of
his body. I don’t like to remember that.
The horrible knowledge in the man’s eyes,
the screams punctuating even the
slightest movements of those elsewhere in
the ward, and always, that rank and
underlying smell.
That afternoon,
when I hurried
down the hospital
steps, I was pre-
pared. Ultimately,
all bloodshed is
personal, even
when profession-
al. I accepted that
burden then, wil-
lingly, and it has
served me well
throughout the
years.
The first step in
any operation is
the gathering of intelligence, research and
surveillance. You use this information to
determine the window of opportunity that
exists for your action. Even without
intelligence, however, it is necessary to
begin with certain assumptions. I knew,
for instance, that an all-out assault on
One Sampras Square was out of the
question. Any idiot who hoped to storm
the building with AK-47 and grenades
was kidding himself. Even if I managed to
kill the president, I’d never make it back
out alive.
I would have to isolate my target
outside of his work environment; to
accomplish that, I would need infor-
mation on his personal life, his habits,
daily itineraries and haunts.
This presented a problem. There was
no publicly accessible information
regarding CEO Dillard McDonald. No
phone listings, no addresses. A birth
certificate and a set of tiny prints in a
SUDDEN DEATH •
July 2011
27
“Knowing they would never collect
their fee, the last Claws were
willing to settle for revenge on the
Chairman of the Sampras Board
of Directors.”
“This is your final
payment notice,
Mr. McDonald.
You will remit
the outstanding
balance plus
interest to the
surviving
members of the
squadron you
betrayed, or I
will kill you.”