Kiss My Assassin

by Dave Sinclair

  Bishop parked and walked slowly towards the manor. He counted three armed police officers roaming the grounds, all wearing tactical vests over their crisp uniforms. Each carried Heckler & Koch MP5SFs. They weren’t taking any chances.

  Inside, he met with the lead protection officer, an officious woman by the name of Underwood. She was a stern sergeant who seemed immune to Bishop’s charm. He liked her immediately. She led him to a delightful sun-drenched conservatory at the rear of the house.

  The ambassador sat in a lounge chair, taking in the garden view while drinking what appeared to be an espresso. He seemed cosy, sipping away in a warm scarf. In the distance, by the far garden, a uniformed officer patrolled, a black bulletproof vest over his white shirt.

  Underwood left with a curt nod.

  “Good afternoon, Ambassador.” Bishop offered his hand.

  The ambassador didn’t take his eyes off the garden panorama. “Where are you from? The department of sanitation and passive-aggressive parking signs?”

  “MI6.”

  The ambassador turned, surprised. He sat up straight. His face said, this is more like it.

  Though he was more alert, there was wariness in his eyes. He nodded for Bishop to sit. “So many people have come to ask me questions, I’m considering hiring myself out as a fortune teller.”

  Bishop gave him a friendly frown. “I’ll give you a fiver if you can tell me who wins the four o’clock at Ascot.”

  “Jezebel’s Revenge, but it’s only three to one, hardly worth your time.”

  He was smart, Bishop surmised. And funny. Good, he could work with that.

  The ambassador assessed him, from his expensive haircut to his Salvatore Ferragamo shoes. “Are you sure you’re a spy? You look more like a catwalk model.”

  “Most definitely a spy, sir. My name is Bishop. It seems you’re in a bit of a pickle.”

  Ambassador Demir raised an amused eyebrow. “You have a talent for understatement, Mr Bishop.”

  “One of many. You should see my karaoke.”

  “There’s no need to try and captivate me with your charm.” There was a hint of condescension in the ambassador’s voice. “I am an ambassador, my role is to engage people on a personal level. I know how to win their trust, to find out what we can do for one another.”

  “It seems you have a greater need for my assistance than I do yours at the moment, if you don’t mind me saying, Ambassador.”

  “Ooh, very good. Excellent. A reaffirmation of my dire situation with an offer of a lifeline. You have some experience in this, I see. It is a shame it will all be for nought, I’m afraid. But still, good going.”

  “And why would it be for nothing?”

  The ambassador leaned forward and gave a cheerless grin. “Because I will soon be dead, Mr Bishop.”

  “Look, I know the food here is not what you’re accustomed to…”

  “No.” The ambassador shook his head. “Perhaps you are less experienced than I thought. That was not the time for a humorous quip. We’ve moved past the initial amiable trust exercise, you’ve reinforced the lifeline, now this is where you offer to do your best to get me out of this mess.” He tutted. “Perhaps I would have been better off with the department of sanitation and passive-aggressive parking signs.”

  Bishop could see why the ambassador had risen to one of the most important postings his country had. He was shrewd, knew human behaviour, could negotiate unflinchingly and did it all while maintaining an affable persona. He was good. But Bishop had a counter to his years of diplomatic experience. The truth.

  “Very well, let’s speak plainly shall we, Ambassador Demir? To put it bluntly, you’re fucked. You’ve been caught transporting a dead body in your own car. Your refusal to disclose who it is or how it got there means you’ll be charged with murder. In such cases, diplomatic immunity means less than a warm cup of piss in hell. You’re screwed, and no amount of arrogance is going to change that. Right now, I’m your only ally. I suggest you talk to me before I send in the real Department of Sanitation.”

  Bishop could see the cogs in the ambassador’s brain whirling. His dire situation was not aided by his posturing. Surely he understood that? It was mere hours before he would be charged. Once that occurred, he’d be hauled into custody and humiliated before the press and his country. Perhaps his bravado was a last hurrah, the final act of a public servant before he was stripped of his status.

  Then again, perhaps not.

  There was something in Demir’s manner that seemed at odds with a man at the end of his career, a man facing disgrace. There was a Zenlike calmness to him that went beyond acceptance. It was like the serenity of a death-row inmate consuming their final meal. There was more going on than Bishop realised. Time to find out what it was.

  “Ambassador, perhaps before they clap the handcuffs on, you might want to tell me what’s going on. I may be able to help.”

  A bitter laugh escaped Demir’s lips, surprising them both. The ambassador explained. “I’m afraid no one can help me, Mr Bishop. My family, my wife, my children, they will also pay the price. But perhaps…” His eyes clouded over in contemplation. “Perhaps you could do something about those who have sealed my fate.”

  “Sealed your fate? I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

  The ambassador waved a dismissive hand. “I had a meeting. A secret meeting. Not officially sanctioned by my government, but, well, let’s just say it was encouraged, yes? This meeting, it would not strictly be against UN guidelines, but it would certainly be viewed as,” he tilted his head, “distasteful. It was with a trader, a merchant of ordnances. He was the man discovered on the bridge.”

  “He was an arms dealer?”

  “Among other things.” Demir leaned forward, as if suddenly aware that others could be listening. “We were not trading arms last night, no money was exchanged, nothing of the sort. In fact, we were celebrating.”

  “What were you celebrating, Ambassador?”

  A bitter cackle. “The highlight of my career, or so I thought. I’d successfully parleyed a seat at the table. I’d honestly thought there was every chance we would miss out, but I negotiated hard, used every trick I knew, and we got in. I was elated. We had prepared for this for months and it had paid off. I suggested we celebrate, and he agreed. I was giddy as a schoolgirl, as the saying goes.” Despite the positive words, the ambassador’s demeanour remained sour.

  “But something went wrong?”

  Demir nodded. “At my behest, we moved to a Turkish bath, to celebrate, yes? As is the way of things, we drank, we ate, but appetites were not, shall we say, sated.” His expression turned grim. “We engaged the services of a prostitute.” The ambassador’s eyes drifted to the garden in the distance. “Things became… enthusiastic, out of hand. In the commotion, the dealer slipped.” The ambassador turned to Bishop, his eyes pleading. “Please believe me, it was an accident. A tragic, unfortunate accident. I shared no hatred with this man. In fact, he had supplied the means to help my country a great deal. It was a mishap, one that ended tragically.”

  “That’s why he was naked? The arms dealer in your boot?”

  Again, Demir bobbed his head.

  “The girl, where is she?” Bishop asked.

  Confusion crinkled the ambassador’s face. “What girl?”

  “My apologies for the clichéd assumption.” Bishop cleared his throat. “The prostitute.”

  “He will remain quiet. He can be trusted. If he survives at all.”

  Ignoring that ominous statement for now, Bishop pressed on. “Why didn’t you just contact the dealer’s employer and advise of the terrible accident?”

  “You don’t know these people!” Demir bellowed, suddenly agitated. “There is no such thing as ‘accidents’. There are no mistakes. You can’t seek mercy from these people.”

  “But you’re the client. It’s you who gives them the money for goods. Why would you be afraid of that? How can they have so much power that—”


  “They hold all the power!” Taking a moment to calm himself, the ambassador went on. “We realised this long ago. These are not mere merchants, selling us a box of cheap Chinese pistols. If you say no, or do not purchase the volume they offer, they will supply the other side twice as much, and you will pay in blood and death. I represent my country, Mr Bishop. You find my dealings with these people unsavoury, I can see it in your eyes. I do not care for your condescension. But these people, you do not trifle with. They will come after your entire family, your friends. They will slice open the throats of every single person you love until they get what want. You ask how I can be afraid? I will tell you. Once you cross paths with these people you will do as they say until your death. Kuolema can snap his fingers and you are dead. That is why I am talking to you now. I will be dead within the day. My family, dead. Everyone I know, everyone I love, dead.”

  “That’s a lot of death.”

  “You mock me? You think I exaggerate, Mr Bishop? You think I revel in the fact that everyone I care most about in this world will soon be dead? I just want it over.”

  The ambassador became more agitated as he went on. The reaction seemed genuine, but for the life of him, Bishop couldn’t comprehend anyone who could instil such fear. Certainly not someone he’d never heard of.

  Bishop did his best to appear sympathetic. “If this will happen as you say, why not warn them, put them under protection?”

  “Kuolema does not care about protection. He cares not for anything that stands in his way. I represent my country. I am esteemed among my peers. I hold power, the ability to influence my government and others around the world. That is nothing. Nothing at all. Not to these people. Theirs is a world of shadow, a splinter of an idea. They are wraiths, Mr Bishop. How do you catch a wraith, a ghost? You can’t.”

  “That’s very dramatic.”

  “As is death. We have a saying in Turkey, Mr Bishop. Ne ekersen, onu bicersin. One who sows wind will reap hurricanes. With all the resources you no doubt have, I caution you not to cross these people unless you are certain. In all likelihood you will lose. Your family will lose. Those you care for most in the world will lose.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” Fortunately, there were very few people Bishop cared for, and even less who cared for him. “Who is this Kuolema?”

  “No one knows. He is the head of the organisation, or so it is thought. We sent three of our spies to find out if he really existed. None returned.”

  “What were you buying? The thing you were celebrating in the bathhouse?”

  “An invitation.”

  “To?”

  “An auction, Mr Bishop. An auction. I was to leave the day after tomorrow. The auction is only four days from now; we were cutting it fine. That is what we celebrated, my enrolment in the auction.”

  “And where is this auction?”

  “Marrakech.”

  “In Morocco?”

  “No, the Marrakech just outside Liverpool. Of course Morocco.” The ambassador scowled, but went on. “The auction is run by a Mr Temple. A Frenchman with a villa there, I believe.”

  Far in the distance, Bishop heard the distinct pop of gunfire. It was far away, but its presence was alarming. He doubted the security detail would be undergoing target practice with a subject so close. He heard shuffling in the house. Others had noticed too.

  More gunfire sounded, now accompanied by urgent shouts. It grew louder.

  “What’s that?” Bishop asked, more to himself than to Demir.

  “Consequences, Mr Bishop. Consequences. Kali is here.”

  “The goddess? I should have shaved and put on a clean shirt.”

  Demir ignored the quip. “I don’t fear god, little man. I fear them.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Kali is an organisation. Kuolema is the head of Kali.”

  “An arms-dealing organisation named after a multi-armed deity? Someone overdosed on irony.”

  More gunfire could be heard; it grew louder. Guards rushed about, confusion smacked across their faces. Bishop could read their thoughts. How had a routine babysitting assignment gone to hell so suddenly?

  Underwood rushed into the room, pistol out, face red. “The control room’s gone dead. Officers aren’t answering their hails. We’re under attack.”

  “We need to get him out of here.” Bishop nodded towards the ambassador.

  “No, we need to protect him, not take him out in the open.” Underwood’s face was calm, but a tremor in her voice betrayed the fact that she was rattled.

  Arguing wasn’t going to help, but Bishop knew he had a better chance of saving the ambassador if they moved now. Unfortunately, he wasn’t the one in charge.

  In contrast to Underwood’s quiet anxiety, Demir projected a serene pretence of being at peace with the world. He glanced at the MI6 agent and shrugged. “Consequences, Mr Bishop. I suggest you make peace with whatever divine being you choose. You shall be meeting them very soon.”

  Bishop scanned outside. As if on cue, the police officer by the far garden fell forward. He didn’t move again.

  Underwood saw it too. “Shit! We’re down to three. We need to—”

  Officer Underwood’s words were cut short by a smash of glass. A red welt appeared in the centre of her forehead as the back of her skull was blown out. She collapsed in a silent pile on the plush carpet.

  Demir’s Zenlike calm shattered as he leapt out of his chair. Grasping the back of his head, Bishop forced the diplomat unceremoniously to the floor behind the couch, where they offered no direct line of sight to wherever the sniper was positioned.

  “Stay down.” Rolling over to Underwood’s corpse, Bishop took her pistol and tucked it into the back of his pants. He figured he’d need the additional rounds. “If this is your Kali friends, Ambassador, they’re very good at what they do.” Bishop counted the rounds and checked the two exits to the room.

  “My god, man!” the ambassador cried. “That woman was just killed in front of you. Do you not care?”

  Demir had certainly broken loose from his calm acceptance of only moments before. The act had never fooled Bishop.

  “She was a professional. She would want me to perform my duty and protect her charge. And that’s what I intend to do…” Bishop yanked Demir’s head down as he moved to peer over the back of the couch. “Provided he does everything I say.”

  “It won’t make a difference, you know. Kali will kill us both.”

  “Well, see, I’ll have to disagree with you there.” Bishop pulled back the hammer of the pistol. It was purely for effect. “I’m in a god-killing kind of mood.”

  Taking a moment to close his eyes, Bishop ran through the logistics. He recalled the configuration of the manor he’d passed through, the distance to his car, which pocket contained the keys, the number of bullets in both guns, and what objects could be used as weapons when the bullets ran out. Everything else was chance.

  “Why—” The ambassador recoiled from the spy. “Why on earth are you smiling, man?”

  Not aware that he had been, Bishop ignored the question. “Stay behind me. Don’t pause, don’t dally. You do, you’re dead. Don’t get too close, I need to be able to move freely when we encounter trouble. You do, you’re dead. If I tell you to do something, either you do it that second—”

  “Or I’m dead?” the ambassador asked with disdain.

  “You’re a smart man. Let’s go.”

  Chapter Two

  Crouching low, Bishop and the ambassador made for the door that Underwood had come through. Ducking behind furniture, they avoided any clear line of sight from the garden. Their pace was careful but rapid; the longer they took, the better position their enemy would be in. And Bishop wasn’t about to supply any advantage to an adversary.

  Reaching the back of the open door, he held up a hand to halt the ambassador. Demir walked straight into his palm. Bishop shot him an irritated look and shook his head. He opened his eyes wide, as if to say, pay attenti
on.

  From the hallway came the soft patter of footsteps. Looking the ambassador up and down, Bishop leaned over and removed his scarf. Demir opened his mouth but remained silent. From a nearby coffee table Bishop picked up a pencil. The ambassador regarded him as if he were mad, but Bishop held a finger to his lips as he watched a shadow pass the crack of the open door.

  It didn’t take long. The barrel of the submachine gun came through first. Bishop waited agonising seconds until the rest of the weapon appeared, its holder cautious. Wise. But not wise enough.

  Bishop grasped the hand guard of the gun, thrusting the barrel upwards. With his other hand he shoved the pencil behind the trigger and flicked the safety on. The would-be assassin grunted and came into view. Bulky build, three-day growth and a series of scars across his face. Thug personified.

  The thug fought to gain control of the weapon, trying to wrestle it free from Bishop’s grasp. The MI6 agent released his grip, and the thug rattled the gun in frustration as it refused to fire. Bishop looped the ambassador’s scarf around his pistol until it was fully enclosed, then gripped the thug’s head and raised the pistol to his neck. He fired once.

  The muffled shot severed the thug’s spinal column and his life. He dropped to the ground limply. Bishop unfurled the scarf and offered the impromptu silencer to the ambassador, who stared wide-eyed and slowly shook his head.

  Dropping the scarf to the floor, Bishop jerked his head, indicating for Demir to follow. He had no idea how many obstacles stood between them and freedom. At a guess, there had to be at least six, given they were able to take out four unsuspecting police. Possibly more. He’d held the element of surprise over his first victim, but that wouldn’t last. They had to move.

  Carefully stepping into the hallway, Bishop swept the area with his gun. Clear. He nodded his head, and Demir followed. Both men trod carefully.