Operation Snowdrop

by Michelle Medhat

  I’m pushed forward, and two thugs flank me on either side, their guns just inches from my body. The door opens and I walk through into the hotel. I know I’m probably going to die soon, but right now, I’m still alive and I can enjoy beauty, and I can’t help but stand in wonder. It feels as if I have stepped back in time or wandered onto a period drama set. The ceilings are all decorated with magnificent eighteenth-century paintings portraying Italy’s colorful history. The massive crystal chandeliers in the hallway are more than a little reminiscent of the Palace of Versailles’ hall of mirrors.

  The thugs, unimpressed by the surroundings, prod me to walk, and I’m led into a long ornate room with mirrors and frescos. It has to be the Gallery.

  I turn toward one of the mirrors, breathing slowly.

  Before I have a chance to take in the damage Pedro has done, a scream sounds behind me.

  “Pedro, you motherfucker!”

  Sabena is there at my side, staring into the mirror with me.

  My sculptured cheekbones have gone. Instead, I have round cheeks that drop down into heavy jowls. My jawline has completely vanished. My chiseled chin is double, my forehead is thicker and more prominent, my nose is a fat round blob, and my full lips are now thin and sink into pits at the side of my mouth.

  I look dreadful.

  Sabena is horrified. I watch in the mirror as she storms at Pedro.

  “Why the fuck did you do that?” she yells, pointing at my face.

  Pedro smirks, pouring himself a drink from the credenza on the side. God, I could do with a drink too, but I stay quiet and watch.

  “Disguise. Isn’t it obvious?”

  “Disguise! That isn’t a fucking disguise Pedro. That’s a fucking abomination!”

  Pedro sits in a chair, looking at Sabena, still smirking.

  “Look, we know this place is crawling with MI6. Did you really expect me to bring him here as he was?”

  “No,” says Sabena, now shaking with rage and heading toward Pedro slowly. “But I expected you to respect my wishes, and that meant giving Kinley a disguise a few degrees off his own.”

  “I have,” says Pedro.

  “No, you didn’t,” screams Sabena, now standing over Pedro. “You gave him a disguise that’s off the fucking map!”

  I watch as Sabena sends Pedro’s drink flying.

  “Don’t think I don’t know your game, Pedro, and right now, it’s a dangerous one. You and I are over!”

  Sabena’s hand whips out lightning fast and slaps Pedro. Blood drips from his cut lip. I see a look of killer rage in Pedro’s eyes, but he refrains from retaliation. He gets up and backs toward the drapes, putting a small tactical distance between himself and Sabena.

  “Change his face back immediately otherwise I’ll change your face, and there won’t be any of Stein-Muller’s cream involved in that!”

  Sabena walks away without looking back at me. I know she’s trying to obliterate the memory of what she’s seen, and the less interaction she has with me, the more chance she’ll achieve that goal.

  I stare at Pedro but don’t speak. He glares at me. We both know his plan has backfired. He takes out his Sig, pulls back the action and points it at me. He’s trembling. His eyes are big and red, and I can see he’s raging against what he really wants to do.

  “You must really hate your face,” I taunt, and I notice that the other heavies wandering around with their AK’s look toward Pedro. They’ve heard their queen give a direct order. And now it would seem that order is in danger of being disobeyed.

  The two heavies line up either side of Pedro and pull up their guns to point at him.

  I watch as Pedro clocks their posture. He looks back at me then shrugs, places his Sig on a table and takes out his phone. He stares at me. Utter hate flares in his eyes. He raises the phone, and for a second, I think he’s going to throw it at me.

  “Ah, fuck it!” he shouts, and stabs his phone angrily.

  My face tingles again with that same electrical current dancing feeling, but something is different this time. My skin pulls tight, similar to the effect of a toner my beautician puts on me after a facial.

  I feel the fake skin shedding and I see sparkly dust drop on to the lapels of my jacket. I look up into one of the ginormous mirrors and watch the fake skin fall like sparkling snowflakes and disintegrate.

  Within minutes that hideous creature that stared out at me and Sabena has vanished.

  My movie star looks are back, and I know all will be well with Sabena again.

  I look back to Pedro who is still fuming. He turns away from me without a word. Suddenly, hands grip to each of my arms and I’m led to another part of the sumptuous suite. I stand before a door. One of the thugs use that weird device again and my handcuffs unlock. The thug knocks on the door, and on hearing ‘Enter,’ pushes me forward.

  I cross the threshold into a massive bedroom with a super-king-sized bed, vaulted ceilings with incredible paintings, and walls adorned with frescos.

  “Oh, Mr. Kinley, welcome back,” purrs Sabena. She has her old ‘real Sabena’ face back again. As I say, she changes her face like her shoes. Her mad eyes shine with delight at my return to normality.

  She pats the bed. “Come here, and let’s discuss the demise of British Intelligence.”

  I smile, remove my jacket, and unbutton my shirt.

  Exhausted. Hungry. Thirsty. Hell yes! But I know the drill. My life depends on it.

  As I slip out of my trousers, another heavy enters into the room and brings in a tray of oysters and champagne. It’s not really the meal I was hoping for. Steak and chips would be more in keeping with quelling my hunger, but it’s sustenance, nevertheless.

  “Dig in baby,” coos Sabena, padding tiger-like toward me. “It’s going to be a tough day tomorrow. Get your strength.”

  I listen and try not to imagine or second guess what Sabena has planned.

  “But we can still play tonight,” she purrs, pulling my now full and deeply kissable lips onto hers.

  Chapter 27

  Across Florence, the sun filtered through windows and open doors, touching the lives of those within. Sam Noor felt the rays of the sun upon him as he slowly rose out of sleep. He squinted. After last night’s adventures, he’d forgotten to fully close the drapes and now the morning sun pelted through the gap in the drapes, waking him more efficiently than any alarm clock.

  Sam swung his legs out of the bed, picked up his phone, pressed *LD*4, and a burst of fluorescent blue at the top of the stairs registered in his peripheral vision. The alarm had been deactivated.

  He grabbed his gun and walked up to the plush bathroom complete with its sunken tub. With speedy precision, Sam undertook his daily ablutions and clothed himself in his black chinos and dove-grey zip-up sweater. He pulled on his black leather McQueen jacket, completing the casual millionaire look. Stuffing his Glock and mags in his jacket pocket, and his phone in his chinos, he headed out.

  Three hours before it all went down.

  In the elevator, Sam considered the facts. Ilya Cain, Sabena Sanantoni and Pedro Russo had arrived. Maide’s strong insistence to continue with Operation Snowdrop confirmed Kinley was also in play somewhere.

  He hadn’t seen any sign of Arjan Leka nor Jian Hui. The last sightings he’d received a day ago in his intel pack advised both were not yet in Italy. Leka was in Montenegro and Hui was in New York.

  Sam stuck his earpiece in his ear and the mic that looked like a ladybird on his leather collar lapel. Sam kept his head down, not wanting to elicit attention, and walked hurriedly through the lobby, and out under the archway in Borgo Pinti.

  Taking out his phone, he called Jim and stuck his Blackberry back in his pocket. He talked as he walked down in the direction of the square.

  “Morning. Both our star players are here with their entourages in tow.”

  “Any other activity?” asked Jim.

  Sam sensed that tone again; he didn’t like it.

  “Other activity?�
� said Sam.

  “From our Russian guests.”

  “No signs, but I’m on the lookout,” answered Sam, content that Jim was only asking about other FSB operatives and not anything else.

  “Sleep well?” asked Jim, turning convivial.

  “Like a top. You?”

  “Yeah, not bad. Dan snores like a pig though, and Greg, well, we made the mistake of having Calabrian spicy sausage pasta last night and, boy, did our Greg fly. He was the Fartmeister! Dan threatened matches!”

  Sam laughed. His team was in good spirits. He didn’t want to change that.

  “You’re all set then?” said Sam.

  “Yep! Dan and I are heading out now to meet up with Giocomo. Greg’s off to wander around the hotel, taking more photos and doing his historian thing, and generally recceing as much as he can. I’ll be in place with Greg when you give the signal. Sam?”

  Jim stopped, and he seemed to be pondering on something.

  “Yeah?”

  “Giocomo’s legit, isn’t he?”

  “Yeah. He’s a pedigree, comes from good stock. His grandfather worked against Mussolini in World War Two. The SOE was indebted to him. His father helped us on many a mission through his own intel network, often skirting the criminal underclasses.”

  “So why is he a gardener?”

  “He likes plants!”

  “Huh?”

  “Jim, don’t be a dick. He’s ours. Ok? Their actual gardener is on sick leave. It seems he ran into some rather nasty individuals who decided to do a tango on his head, and chest, and legs.”

  Jim whistled.

  “Giocomo?”

  “Who knows. Wrong time, wrong place. Anyway, you’re all good to go.”

  Sam didn’t want to pontificate with Jim on the finer points of planning their operations, least of all how many innocents got hurt in the process.

  The greater good guys. Remember that!

  Though even Sam had to agree that line was beginning to wane.

  Finishing his call with Jim, Sam slipped into a café to stock up on a hearty breakfast of ciabatta, local cheeses and salamis, olives, and fresh fruit salad, all washed down with freshly-brewed Arabica coffee and lots of water to keep him hydrated. He hadn’t eaten at the hotel last night and his appetite now pulled at him. Sam dropped forty euros and left.

  It was make or break day for Six.

  They’d either got Kinley on the inside or…

  Sam swallowed. For a fleeting moment, Ellie popped into his mind.

  Or his lifetime of secrets and lies wouldn’t matter anymore. Ellie would know it all. The one thing he hoped was that she would still love him after she knew the truth.

  He turned and headed across Palazzo Vecchio. As Sam walked down the Piazzale degli Uffizi, he noticed the statue of Machiavelli. How appropriate that their dark scheme to bring down Al Nadir would start in Florence, home to Machiavelli, the greatest schemer of them all.

  Chapter 28

  Sabena eventually releases me from her clutches. She allows me to shower and clean myself up, and I’m grateful. I’ve stank of fear and sex for too long.

  Emerging from the shower, I wrap my body in a white bathrobe that carries the Royal Suite crest in gold leaf stitching. I clothe myself quickly and dry my hair. Throughout, Sabena’s eyes never leave my body. She reminds me of a predatory animal with prey in her sights, and she’s weighing up the best time to strike.

  “Ready?” Sabena asks, and I note a touch of impatience. She grabs her gun, or rather my gun, the Sig Sauer P226 she took off me at the Park Plaza, and leads me out of the bedroom.

  Two heavies join us side by side, but I realize my cuffs haven’t been put back on. Am I slowly winning her real trust?

  I’m led into a massive room with a high-vaulted ceiling, more spectacular frescos on walls and paintings and sculptures that embody the very essence of pure luxury. Then I’m pushed to sit down on a seventeenth-century sofa that looks a lot more like a love seat. Sabena snuggles in close and takes my arm. I guess it’s the ‘happy couple in love’ game again.

  A huge plasma TV is wheeled into the room in front of us. It’s switched on and it shows a picture of a bright room with sunlight pouring into it. Arches housing French windows are on the right-hand side and various seventeenth-century furniture is dotted around the room. On one of the tables is an object: a rectangular box standing two feet high.

  “That’s Summanus,” I say, looking at Sabena.

  She flicks up an eyebrow.

  “Bravo, Mr. Kinley. Well spotted.”

  I continue to watch, but a deepening sense of unease takes over me.

  Figures come into the bright room.

  A tall man in his early forties, with well-kept short dark-blond hair, interrogative grey eyes and sharp, angular features, steps into the room. I recognize him as Professor George Cain’s son, Ilya.

  More people saunter in.

  A short, stocky guy with a frog-like face and a shock of jet-black hair enters into the frame from one of the adjoining rooms. He is Jian Hui, ex-MSS agent turned smuggling kingpin. He’s flanked by other Chinese tough guys, probably MSS too, but heavily paid to answer only to Hui.

  Another guy walks in, and he brings to mind a stick insect. He has a very long body, but small arms and head. His nose is beaky, and his mouth has a perpetual cruel sneer. He has a tattoo of an eagle in flight killing something, a bird or a mouse, I can’t see. It sits on the side of his neck, and this announces him as Arjan Leka, Albania’s most notorious drug lord. Like Hui, he’s protected by well-tooled individuals who kill first, and with them, questions are never asked later.

  Then I notice Sam. Sabena leans forward and licks her lips.

  “Wouldn’t you love more company? It’d be amazing!” she whispers, and her eyes flash with a mad passion.

  I decline to answer, knowing what she’s inferring.

  She laughs. She knows she unnerves me, and she loves it.

  I turn back to the screen and almost fall out of my seat as I see the last person arrive: a beautiful woman who has an uncanny resemblance to Sabena.

  I flick a look back at Sabena, who grins and stares at me deeply.

  “Now, Mr. Kinley, the fun really starts.”

  Chapter 29

  Sam entered.

  “Julian Harrington-Smythe, here on behalf of Mr. Aslan Avci. I will be bidding in his name.”

  The administrator checked off Sam’s name on the tablet and showed him to his seat. Sam had garbed himself in his trusty Armani money suit and all the trappings. He looked around the room, and clocked Arjan Leka and Jian Hui. All parties nodded at each other as affably as the growing tensions in the room would allow.

  Still no sign of Sabena or Kinley.

  Sam was just about believing Sabena would remain a no-show when he heard the sound of high heels clicking on the marble floor of the Garden Suite. Glancing up, he saw Sabena sans Morricone nanomask come into the room. Her air was pure arrogance. The men in the room, recognizing who she was, got up immediately in respect and admiration of the position she had achieved as terrorist royalty. Sam rose with the others in the room.

  Taking a dominant position ahead of everyone else, Sam pushed his hand out to Sabena. He could see she was initially horrified by his forthright nature; he’d invaded her personal space without gaining permission to do so.

  “Julian Harrington-Smythe. Pleased to meet you, madam.”

  Hesitantly, Sabena placed her hand out to his and shook it.

  “Dr. Sabena Sanantoni,” she said unabashed by what that name meant to Sam. He could see she knew the power she had over the security services. None would make a play to take her out for fear of reprisals at a level they just couldn’t handle.

  Looking ahead, Sabena briskly marched over to the other side of the room and sat down beside Leka.

  Sam stared at her. Apart from that brief moment by the elevator, it was the first time he’d been really close to her. He slipped out his phone, shielded by his j
acket folds, and texted ‘20 Yes’ very swiftly with one hand.

  ‘20’ for the number of hot bodies and ‘Yes’ as Sabena had now deigned to turn up. He maneuvered his phone back into his pocket, unseen, and swept a brief glance at his watch.

  Twelve noon.

  He looked around for anyone who could be Kinley, but still nothing.

  Something made Sam sneak a look back at Sabena. She was fierce, strong and determined, but something was different. Last night, her eyes had drilled him with obvious sexual desire. Today, she barely looked at him. Maybe it was a stance of supremacy in front of her peers. Or perhaps, it was all part of her psychotic behavior.

  Ilya pointed to the grey rectangular box.

  “This, ladies and gentlemen, is Summanus. Did all of you receive the video of Philippe Barnier’s demise? Yes?”

  Everyone, including Sam, responded yes.

  “I don’t need to tell you that this device will revolutionize your ability to kill your enemies before they even know what is happening. We have ten initial units like this for sale, and we retain full design rights. When you need more units, we’ll supply them under a fulfillment contract. If you attempt to breach the packaging and try to re-engineer Summanus, the unit will self-destruct. We will know about this breach immediately and we will ensure that you, your family, friends, loved ones, everyone who has a close connection to you, will be killed.”

  Sam watched Leka and Hui move around in their seat, suddenly very angry by Ilya’s announcement.

  Sabena held on tight to the arms of her chair but didn’t react.

  “Yes, it is a threat and I do not apologize for making it. But, my friends, it is something that will never occur if we all follow the rules. Now can I start the bidding at the reserve price of 100 million dollars?”

  Leka piped up instantly, “110 million dollars.”

  Followed by Hui, “115 million dollars.”

  “117 million dollars,” joined in Sam.

  Sabena remained silent. Sam eyed her. It was odd. The Slayer was not saying a word. He glanced at his watch. 12:10 a.m.