by James Quinn
The final man who entered was pushing a large laundry trolley. The exit method. Nikita watched them as the crew went to work, unshackling the man and lifting him into a body bag.
“How long will he be out?” asked one of the clean-up crew
She shrugged. “About another hour or so, I would guess. Have fun.”
The man started to say something else, ask another question, maybe. Whatever it was, she didn't hear it. She had already left the suite and was on her way down the elegant corridor to the elevator.
Two days later, Eunice Brown landed at John F. Kennedy International Airport after a direct flight from Rome. Despite the horrendous flight time, she still looked elegant, dressed in a dark trouser suit and open-necked white blouse, her high heels clicking along the concourse as she made her way to the internal flight terminal that would take her south to her home.
It would be another two hours before she touched down in Preston Glenn Field Regional Airport in Lynchburg. Then she would take the bus to the car park and pick up her red 1968 Ford Mustang Fastback with the souped-up V8 engine. In the trunk, as always, were the tools of her trade, secured in a locked box: a Remington pump action shotgun with pistol grip, a Smith & Wesson .38 revolver, a spring cosh, several boot knives and an electric stun gun. She never left home without them.
Even driving fast, it would be another hour before she reached the tiny backwater town of Bedford, Virginia and arrived at the ranch that was her home. And then, finally, she would sleep.
The telephone rang at exactly 8.30 a.m. the next morning. It was the start of her working day.
“Yes?” she said.
“Nikita?” A man's voice. She knew who it was instantly.
“Yes,” she confirmed.
“This is Gibbs.”
“Good morning, Mr Gibbs, how can I be of help today?” Her tone was businesslike, professional.
Gibbs paused. He knew that he had to get this right. He needed the skills of the contract agent Nikita. He also knew how independent she could be. That was the problem of having someone who was an expert in their chosen field, especially in a trade like Nikita's. They could accept your offer, but they could also refuse. “Something important has arisen. We have an assignment for you, if you are interested.”
“What type of assignment, Mr Gibbs?”
“It's a Track and Recovery operation, a High-Value Target. We have made all the arrangements for you.”
She frowned and her voice became curt. “Mr Gibbs. Nobody makes arrangements for me. I conduct my own planning.”
“I understand, I merely assumed…”
“Then please don't assume. That would be a mistake.”
Eunice had no time for Gibbs. He was the worst kind of shark in a suit, someone who had never been at the front line. In fact, most of his career had been spent pushing paper and climbing the greasy pole of power, but he still felt the need to tell people who did their jobs day in and day out, exactly how to do them.
Gibbs ran a company called Executive Information Services, or EXIS for short, which was housed in an anonymous office building in the centre of Washington. It portrayed itself as an independent corporate security consultancy with a range of high-end exclusive clients. In truth, it was a CIA front company that handled a range of 'dirty' off-the-books operations solely for the Agency. EXIS's mantra was 'plausible deniability'. Gibbs was its operations manager and head honcho.
“I apologise. We were just trying to stay ahead of the game. This operation is most urgent,” said Gibbs, his fingers tightening around the telephone receiver in anger. Goddamned freelance agents, he thought.
“Courier over the information that you have and I will give you an assessment by the end of the working day,” said Eunice. Her voice was that of a woman very much in control of the situation.
“Of course, I'll get right on it. And the price?”
“It will be my usual fee plus expenses. I'm not a carpetbagger, Mr Gibbs.”
“No, of course not. I'm sorry if it came across that way. I will make sure that you receive the files by lunchtime,” stuttered Gibbs.
“If it plays out and I think it is feasible, I will be on the road the next morning. Agreed?”
“Yes, of course, I –”
“Goodbye, Mr Gibbs.”
He heard the phone click dead in his hand. In his office, Gibbs replaced the receiver in the cradle and sat for a few moments in silence, trying to calm himself and waiting for his anger to subside. He hated… hated… being talked to like that by an agent, either freelance or one under control, it made no difference. It wasn't what he was used to.
The fact that Nikita was a woman, a good-looking woman to boot, made it all the more irritating. But at this point in time he needed her – or, more accurately, he needed her undisputed skills.
Chapter Seven
Gorilla Grant had flown into LaGuardia on a false Canadian passport and had stopped long enough in New York to refresh himself and to 'clear' the American ASP pistol from the safety deposit box in the bank in Manhattan.
After that, it had been a flight the following day, direct to New Orleans. He hadn't worried too much about the ASP in his checked luggage, as he had forged paperwork to prove that it was registered in his false name and that he was competing in a pistol shot tournament in Louisiana. Aside from that, as long as it was secreted safely away and out of reach during the flight, no one cared.
He had booked himself into an anonymous hotel in the French Quarter. Upon entering his room, he had immediately flung open his window and had been assaulted with a cacophony of aromas ranging from manure and fish, to diesel and jasmine. It had been a disconcerting experience for the first few hours. With the smattering of the French language, New Orleans patois and the architecture of the buildings, it was as if a little piece of a French or Spanish colony had been transported into the Deep South of America. Nevertheless, he had dumped his case and set out into the evening, determined to explore.
Gorilla could see why New Orleans was nicknamed 'The Big Easy'. There was a kind of carefree tempo to the place, a shedding of reality that was replaced with the sultriness of forbidden opportunities. It was his first time in the city and so far, he had blended into the atmosphere and the rhythm of the streets. He had taken his time getting used to the city, especially around Canal Street, with its bars and hidden corners. In another context, one not work-related, it would have been his chosen location to relax and unwind.
He'd even had a chance to watch the street people whilst sitting in the infamous Café du Monde, where he had indulged in the iconic beignets, café au lait, and a glass of straight bourbon. At this time of year, there was humidity in abundance. It was something that Gorilla had never had a problem with in the past, until he had spent a night here. Now, his skin felt saturated.
As Gorilla had walked through the French Quarter, down along Canal Street, he found that strangers kept coming up to him, wanting to talk to him. At first, he thought it was someone aiming to get 'physical'. After the third or fourth approach, when a young woman came up to him and asked him if he wanted a little hash and said there was a party going on and would he like to come and see the real “NEW-OR-LEENZ?” Gorilla reasoned that the people of New Orleans were just very friendly and liked to meet people who were new in town.
At least that seemed to be the case, which was just as well because Gorilla had his ASP hidden under his jacket and his cut-throat razor in his trouser pocket, in case the friendly ones faded away and were replaced by the type who underestimated him physically. So far, that hadn't been the case.
La Dame Rose, The Pink Lady club, was located just off the main strip of Bourbon Street and was actually three bars in one. The street level was the main bar for the tourists. The second level up was where the Latin music bands played and it was known for its rough clientele, for whom fighting in the middle of a set was the norm. The third level was the most shadowy. It was dark and sultry and was the place where the couples, hookers and th
eir clients would go for privacy and intimacy. It was the norm to see half-dressed people and hear the moans of pleasure from the dark alcoves. Its walls seeped with lust.
The Pink Lady was owned by a man with a worrying reputation in New Orleans. Armand Guillame was a fifty-year-old Creole nightclub owner, gangster and arms dealer. He had a violent past and had spent five years doing prison time in Angola. Word had it that he had done bits for the CIA in the '60s and had made a name running arms to the anti-Castroists. It was also rumoured that he was one of Caravaggio's most trusted emissaries.
Guillame was the man who could contact the Master; the man who could set up contracts, make introductions and set the terms if need be. He knew where the bodies were buried. For all that, he took a cut of the final contract fee. If anyone knew how to find Caravaggio, it would be Armand Guillame. Not that he would just roll over and spill his guts easily, but Gorilla had a way of loosening tongues from even the most reticent of informants.
As it was early afternoon, the Pink Lady was closed and while the citizens of Bourbon Street were out and about at this time of day, it was quieter than it would be when the night came. Gorilla chose the wisest and most practical option for a covert entry – a window at the rear of the building that gained him access to the men's toilets on the ground floor. There was no subtlety going on here, no tools or Government Issue 'lock pick' guns. He simply smashed the glass open with a brick and flipped the latch. It had been embarrassingly simple.
The ground floor was a normal bar that had obviously seen a heavy night – glasses still uncollected, chairs at awkward angles. But aside from the smell of stale beer and whisky, things seemed pretty normal. Gorilla moved towards the stairs, taking a quick glance around. Nothing. Silence. He moved up cautiously, pulling out the ASP and holding it close to his body in a retention position in case things started to get 'noisy'.
It was when he reached the top of the stairs that he saw the body. Gorilla scanned the dimly lit and expansive room; the tables, chairs, bar and, of course, the stage. Splayed out on the stage where the band would play, and looking for all the world like a five-pointed star, was Armand Guillame. His head was hanging back over the lip of the stage, causing his throat to be raised prominently. Gorilla approached cautiously, the ASP leading the way, and then he bent down to take a closer look at the body of the dead man.
On the left side of Guillame's neck, just below his ear, Gorilla noted that there was a perfect puncture wound the size of a small button. A bead of blood had formed there and coagulated. It looked like a red full-stop. Whatever had killed him had to be long, thin and sharp, so as to be able to penetrate to the brain and cause an embolism, Gorilla guessed. A spike, maybe? The nearest thing that Gorilla could envision was a more murderous version of an old woman's knitting needle.
He was about to turn and straighten up when he heard the distinctive click. He knew what it was without even looking. It was the sound of the hammer of a revolver being cocked. He knew that sound from experiences past. Instinctively, he froze. He had learned that from past experiences, too.
“Don't move, Jack, I'd hate to have to spoil that pretty face of yours.” It was a woman's voice, playful and teasing, and it came from behind him. The soft drawl put her birthplace as southern United States. North or South Carolina –he always got those two mixed up. Maybe Virginia.
He knew who it was immediately, without even looking. Apart from anything else, only one person in their profession called him by his Christian name, everybody else called him Gorilla. He lowered the ASP and slowly turned his head round, eager to confirm that the person who had gotten the better of him was who he thought it was.
He took in the weapon that she was holding first – a revolver, the aperture pointed directly at his forehead, one perfectly manicured, red-nailed finger curled around the trigger, ready to fire.
He looked beyond the gun and saw her clearly for the first time; the long red hair that even now she was brushing away from her face, the strong cheekbones, the bright green eyes, and the immaculate make-up. She was dressed in jeans and a black leather jacket.
She permitted herself a little smile and winked at him. He knew what she was saying – “You're good, Jack, but I'm better.” It was the game that they played.
He smiled back at her… couldn't help himself. We are well met, she and I, he thought. She's a bitch!
“Now, lower that gun and kick it out of reach,” she said. The playfulness had been replaced by a touch of steel in her tone.
Yeah, nothing has changed, thought Gorilla. She's definitely still a bitch.
They had first met over eighteen months ago in a restaurant in Asuncion, Paraguay. Gorilla had been there tracking a former Nazi counter-espionage officer who had been responsible for the executions of several French resistance leaders during the war.
It was a nothing job for him, not real intelligence work, more the fact that someone in the French government wanted revenge. The SDECE had discovered the man's new identity, traced him and now they wanted one of their freelancers to terminate him. Gorilla had received the call and had been on the next plane out.
He had checked into the Gran Hotel Paraguay and had spent the first twenty-four hours getting together everything that he would need for the 'hit' on the German the next day. That night, he had dined in the hotel restaurant alone. Then she had entered… and what a bloody entrance, a tall, slender redhead in a figure-hugging green dress. She certainly turned heads. They had locked eyes briefly, almost as if they had met before, with that recognition of uncertainty.
“I can recommend the fish,” she had said, sitting down at the adjacent table.
He had looked over and nodded. He saw her for the first time that night. The long, vibrant red hair cascading down over her bare shoulders, the aliveness of the green eyes. His gaze made it halfway down her slim body before he caught himself. She was quite the package, a film noir femme fatale come to life.
He noted the accent immediately. American. From the south, but with the softer tones of a woman who had travelled. “Thank you. I'll try it. Much appreciated,” he replied.
“Not a problem,” she said, never taking her eyes off him. And there it was, that teasing tone all wrapped up in a husky voice.
“Are you English?” she asked.
“Canadian.”
“You don't sound Canadian?”
“Oh, I've spent a lot of time in Europe, mainly in London. The accent comes back when I'm back in Ontario,” he said, trying to sound convincing.
She smiled sweetly and nodded. “I wonder if I could ask a favour? I know it's a terrible imposition, especially as we don't really know each other yet…”
Yet? he thought.
“….but could I join you for dinner? I've been getting a lot of hassle from some of our fellow guests of the male variety. Some are quite intimidating. I think it's my red hair – they seem to see it that I'm 'available'. I'm not. At least, not to them!” She giggled coyly.
And that had been it. They had dined together; the food had been good, and the company pleasant. She had done most of the talking and had introduced herself as Eunice, Eunice Gibson. She pronounced it Yeww-Neece, which Gorilla found endearing.
Eunice was in Paraguay to work with a client. Her job?
“Why, I'm an interior designer. I've been asked to consult on the foreign ministry's meeting rooms to make them more palatial,” she had said.
He had introduced himself as Jack McKenna, an oil executive for one of the big oil giants; a dealmaker out to get the best deal for the clients as well as the consumers. Paraguay was his new stomping ground in the oil business.
“I wouldn't have put you as an oil executive. I'm quite good at reading people. I would have said that you had been some kind of soldier…. security or something like that. Just the way that you carry yourself.”
“I'm afraid not,” he said, his hands clasped tightly together in front of him.
“I'm just teasing you, Jack,” she said,
brushing a lock of red hair from her eyes. “I'm here for a few days more. Maybe we could meet up tomorrow?”
“I'm working all day tomorrow, unfortunately.”
“Anywhere I know?”
“I'm not sure. I don't know which places you know in this country.”
“Try me.”
“Luque,” he said. “I have to see a man up there. Business.”
She paused for a moment. “No,” she said. “I've never been up there. Maybe tomorrow night, for drinks?”
“Again, I can't. I'm sorry. I have a direct flight out tomorrow evening.”
She ran one perfectly manicured red nail around the rim of her wine glass. “Now Jack, us Southern gals aren't used to having to work this hard to get a man to notice them. Maybe I'm losing my touch.”
He smiled. “I can assure you that you're not, believe me!”
“I understand, Jack. Well, you can't blame a girl for trying.” There was a certain shyness about her as she smiled at him, then stood and smoothed out her dress.
Gorilla placed down his napkin and stood also.
Eunice held out her hand. “Thank you for a wonderful dinner and for being a chivalrous protector this evening.”
“My pleasure.”
She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. He could smell the soft scent of her fragrance: vanilla and jasmine. It smelled of sultry sex to him. And that had been it, a nice dinner and a bit of flirting.
The next day, he had travelled to San Antonio for the hit on the Nazi war criminal. He had the man in his sights, weapon ready, just waiting for him to leave his work for the day in a pharmacy. Gorilla had watched the German close-up the small shop and had been across the street, ready to pounce on his target.
Just as Gorilla was ready to draw and fire, a van screeched to a halt and a woman jumped from the rear of the van. Whoever she was, she was agile and fit, dressed in black, with dark sunglasses and a woollen knit cap to hide her identity.