Kiss My Assassin

by Dave Sinclair

  While Bishop took a sip of his ghastly beer, a chubby, sunburnt gent with a garish shirt and even louder body odour flopped down two barstools away. He hefted an oversized cabin suitcase onto the seat between them.

  When Bishop eyed him struggling with the case, the large gent gave him a puckish grin. “Spent a bit too much at the bazaar, I’m afraid.” He had a South African accent.

  “Easy to do. Any haggling tips?” Bishop asked.

  “Keep your wife at home.” The man gave an uproarious laugh.

  Not finding the chauvinist remark remotely amusing, Bishop returned to his people-watching. The South African ordered a Miller Light and practically inhaled it.

  But he wasn’t South African. The two had traded the required code phrases to confirm their identities. The man was there to pass over the case containing Bishop’s weapon and surveillance pack.

  In a hushed tone, the man said, “I’m surprised they chose such a blunt instrument for this assignment.”

  Bishop maintained his disinterested expression. He was careful not to peek at the other man, staring ahead. He didn’t know this agent, nor did he know where his regular station was. He understood it wasn’t Marrakech, because there was no station chief in the entire country. Whoever this was, he had a hide to insult a fellow agent he’d just met. Worse, an agent he’d just armed.

  The trouble was, he was right. Bishop was a blunt instrument. As he’d mused back in Paul’s office, his missions were either seduction or bloody wet work. This mission was neither. Was Paul preparing him for something greater, or was the operation of so little consequence it didn’t matter who they assigned?

  “A blunt instrument is still an instrument.” Bishop sipped his beer. “It will get the job done.”

  In the reflection of the glass fridge across the bar, Bishop saw the man sneer. “A hammer sees everything as a nail.”

  “True. But you can still hammer a nail after you bludgeon a man to death with it.” Bishop risked his cover by giving the man a quick sideways glance before gazing forward again. “Or torture a man by breaking every bone in his hand until he splutters what you need to know. The hammer will get the job done.”

  The other agent grunted. “I fly out in an hour. You won’t need anything else.”

  It was a statement, not an offer.

  Bishop shrugged. “Charmed.”

  He plodded off, leaving Bishop with the tab for his drink. Bishop wasn’t sad to see him go. It appeared he had a reputation. He wasn’t entirely happy about that.

  Finishing his beer, the MI6 agent left a pile of dirham on the counter and headed towards the exit, new bag in tow. The outside heat was a pleasant sultry surprise after the chilled confines of the airport. Dodging the ride spruikers offering transport into Marrakech, Bishop headed towards the taxi rank. As a spy, he’d learned long ago that any of the non-official drivers could be an enemy. The randomness of selecting the next taxi diminished the likelihood of running into any representative of the opposite side—in this case, Kali. At least, that was the theory.

  The airport was only 10 kilometres from the centre of Marrakech, so it wouldn’t be long before he could check into his hotel. The five taxi bays were empty, the long metal barriers designed to herd queues of waiting passengers seeming overly optimistic. Two uniformed airport staff waited to shepherd the crowd—Bishop—to the next available vehicle. He was the line. With no choice but to wait, Bishop rocked on his heels.

  He’d probably have to get used to waiting. It was questionable that there was an enemy to confront at all. The only source of intelligence was the ambassador, and he was dead. It was completely possible that Demir had been deceived, or even that he had lied. If the mission turned out to be a complete waste, maybe Bishop could try and find the blonde to console him.

  “Hi.”

  Bishop turned to see a brown wide-brimmed hat. Underneath was the stunning blonde, with the bluest eyes he’d ever seen.

  “Speak of the devil.”

  Amusingly taken aback, the woman replied, “I’m sorry?” She had an upper crust English accent.

  “Forgive me.” Bishop composed himself. “I meant to say, good afternoon.” He flashed the wide grin that had served him so well in the past.

  The woman could have powered the entire continent with the intensity of the smile she gave him in return. It was spectacular. Up close she was even more striking than he would have thought possible.

  “This is a little…” She was embarrassed, which Bishop suspected was a rarity. “I was wondering if you’d like to share a cab to Marrakech. You know, single woman, travelling alone and all…”

  The use of the word cab meant she’d either spent time abroad or watched too many American TV shows.

  “What makes you think I’m remotely trustworthy?” Bishop gave her a roguish grin.

  “You dress far too well to be too much of a creep.”

  “Ah, but surely they’re the ones your mother warned you about? A well-dressed wolf is still a wolf.”

  “My mother never warned me about a man who wears a Gieves & Hawkes suit.”

  Bishop nodded, impressed. “You seem well-versed in fashion, Miss…?”

  “Astrid Spencer.” She extended a hand. “You’d be most amazed at what I’m well versed in, Mister…?”

  Bishop shook her hand. Her grip was delicate, but firm. “Langford. Tyler Langford.” He gave his mission alias. “I have a feeling I would not be at all surprised by what you are well versed in, Ms Spencer. Not at all.” He took a pleasant moment to gaze into her dazzling eyes.

  “You want taxi?” one of the uniformed airport staff asked.

  “I was actually waiting for tickets to the Cirque du Soleil,” Bishop replied, “but a taxi would be lovely, thank you.”

  Astrid laughed. It wasn’t a girly giggle, but a mature, full-throated laugh. She didn’t cover her mouth by way of apology, as some women did. She owned it. She found it amusing, responded and found it nothing she should apologise for. Bishop was smitten.

  The attendant waved his arms to flag a taxi.

  Turning his attention to Astrid, Bishop tilted his head downwards. “I would love to share a taxi, but alas, I’m not going your way. I’m heading away from the city to Essaouira for some much-needed R and R. I must say I regret my life choices at this very moment, but there you are.”

  Astrid made no attempt to conceal her disappointment, but politely nodded. “Such a shame, Mr Langford. I dare say our trip would have been a most pleasant one…”

  In a flurry of hand movements, the two unformed airport staff waved at an approaching taxi as if it would somehow drive on by if not hurriedly flagged down. It pulled to a stop before them and Bishop opened the door for Astrid.

  She handed the airport staff a few dirham and cast Bishop an impish smile. “To thoughts of what may have been, Mr Langford.”

  As the taxi drove off she gave him a wink. Bishop turned to the two airport workers, who gawped at him as if he was the stupidest man alive. He very well may have been.

  Another thing Bishop had learned as a spy was that when something seemed too good to be true, it probably was. Normally, Bishop preferred the role of the predator. In his past life, the non-spy one, he’d quite enjoyed being the prey too. But not now. The life of a spy meant he had to be wary of being approached. The lovely lady’s invitation may have been innocent, but he could never be sure. It was the doubt that made him politely decline. In espionage, the unknown got you killed.

  The drive into Marrakech was uneventful. Bishop’s driver, Amare, was a good-humoured family man who knew all about the city. He was unaware, however, of any auction or villa owned by a Frenchman called Temple. They spoke of the upcoming World Cup for the remainder of the short trip.

  Checking into the luxurious Mandarin Oriental under the name of Langford, Bishop was shown to his room. Once he’d tipped the porter for showing him where all the perfectly visible light switches were, he locked the door behind him.

  When
he opened the case he’d been slipped at the airport, he found an envelope on top of the foam-packed weapons and gear. Extracting a single piece of paper from it, Bishop saw that it held a series of squiggles and dots. He activated his mobile phone and opened the cloaked MI6 app. The meaningless scratching on the page morphed into words.

  Welcome, Bishop. We have investigated further and can confirm there is a villa owned by one Lucas Temple. Immigration has him currently out of the country, but I wouldn’t rely on that. He claims to be a geologist, but we can find no qualification to support this claim. Below are the exact coordinates. Due to lack of local agents, no surveillance has yet been conducted. We have no information on an auction, nor do Five Eyes. No unusual activity, no additional chatter on undesirable channels.

  Your report expected daily at 17:00 local time. If extraction needed, best case scenario would be six to eight hours, so I suggest not getting involved in any sticky situations. You’re basically on your own. Good luck, try not to get shot.

  PC

  Paul’s mix of stern authority and flippancy amused Bishop. So there was an actual Temple. Perhaps this mission wasn’t a wash after all. Shame, he’d been looking forward to chasing down the blonde, who could have been anywhere in the sprawling city. Alas, King and Country beckoned.

  Bishop burned the paper in the kitchen sink, then went to the bathroom to wash off the slick coating that always came from travelling. He shaved and dressed in more appropriate warm weather attire. The linen suit and patterned shirt were a pleasing mix of formal and relaxed, suiting his cover of a well-to-do tourist. Suitably refreshed, he made his way to the bank of elevators.

  After pressing the down button, Bishop went through the next few hours in his mind. Conduct surveillance on Temple’s villa, reconnoitre the surrounding area, gather intelligence where possible. Sensing someone approaching, he did his best to appear a casual holidaymaker while preparing for any eventuality.

  “You must have an absolutely terrible sense of direction.” The voice was silky smooth.

  Bishop turned to see a tall, slim figure standing beside him, sunhat in hand, a light muslin shawl over her tanned, flawless skin. Astrid had a towel under her arm, dressed for the pool.

  He hadn’t prepared for this particular eventuality.

  There was a ping, the doors opened and the pair entered the empty elevator.

  “Essaouira is that way.” She pointed to the right and raised a playful eyebrow. “About 200 kilometres.” Her face was practically saying, talk your way out of this one, chum.

  “My plans changed,” Bishop said, good-humoured.

  “You don’t say?” Astrid attempted to scowl, but soon broke into a smirk. “I’m not used to being brushed off, Mr Langford.” She took a moment, as if rolling the idea around in her head. “I must say, it’s an interesting experience.”

  “Let me make it up to you.” Bishop spoke without thinking it through, which was a rarity. What was it about this woman? “I have some errands to take care of this afternoon. Perhaps I could buy you a cocktail in the lounge, say six o’clock?”

  She pursed her lips. “Fine. But if you stand me up again I’ll hunt you down and make you pay. I paid for a whole six months’ worth of karate lessons, so you’d better watch out.”

  “How many classes did you attend?”

  “Three, so you’d better turn up or else.” She thrust a fist in his face. It was as terrifying as a bunny nibbling on a carrot.

  Bishop held up two palms. “Whatever you do, don’t hurt me. I’ll be there. Scout’s honour.”

  “Ever been in the Scouts?”

  “Not even three times.”

  The elevator doors opened on level two, where a sign advised that the pool was to the left. Astrid stepped out of the elevator and turned to Bishop. As the doors slid closed, she waggled her fist and screwed her face up adorably.

  Bishop chuckled and shook his head. She certainly had a way about her, but he was still cautious. He had to be. She was just a little too perfect. Meeting her again could be a coincidence. Then again, he could have been made.

  Yet he had invited her for a drink. If Astrid was an enemy agent, he didn’t want to arouse suspicion. If she wasn’t, then a completely different set of arousal could be in order.

  The word “villa” could account for many types of dwelling, from a humble shack to a near-mansion. Lucas Temple’s erred on the latter side, and then some. Like the others in the neighbourhood, it was surrounded by a 10-foot-high fence. The exclusive suburb of Palmeraie offered a stunning view of the high Atlas Mountains to the south. But Bishop wasn’t interested in the views. His interests were more inward looking.

  Taking his time to walk around the perimeter fence several times, Bishop didn’t notice anything unusual. There were no security cameras, no external motion detectors, floodlights or security system of any description to suggest that this was a house of great strategic importance. It seemed just like many of the others in the luxurious estate.

  Finding a local convenience store, Bishop bought a six pack of Pepsi, some brown paper, sticky tape and a pen. Outside the store, he wrapped the six pack in the brown paper and wrote Temple’s address on it.

  He approached the front gate and pressed the intercom button. No reply. He tried three more times, but each request received the same stony response. So much for Plan A.

  The gate was secured by a stock standard Yale lock. It took Bishop all of three seconds to crack it open using his bump key. The gate swung silently forward on its hinges. Bishop waited. No guard dogs.

  Aware he couldn’t stay at the gate for too long without arousing suspicion, he stepped into the grounds. If discovered, he would argue that the gate had opened all by itself, so he had assumed they wanted him to come to the front door. There was no need for subterfuge. It seemed the villa and its grounds were devoid of life. He closed the gate.

  A square swimming pool graced the front of the sand-coloured single storey mansion. Palm trees surrounded it, creating the feeling of an oasis. The villa itself was ornately decorated in the Moroccan style, but with a modern twist.

  Bishop knocked on the huge ornate front doors, for good measure. Again, there was no answer. With the use of the bump key, he was in. Inside, the mansion was much the same as outside. Spacious, opulent and dripping with excess. Not Bishop’s style, but he wasn’t here to buy the place.

  He took his time investigating, but turned up little of interest, unless he counted the well-stocked wine cellar. The Château d’Yquem was a particular highlight. Temple knew his wines, Bishop had to give him that. For all intents and purposes, Temple’s villa was simply a nice, luxurious residence.

  Except it wasn’t.

  On the verge of giving up, Bishop noticed something odd. The kitchen pantry seemed smaller than it should be. The wall it backed onto in the hall seemed too far away, given the size of the pantry. It took some time, but Bishop found the lever, and the blank wall silently slid away to reveal a thin set of steps.

  Extracting his pistol, Bishop descended the dark stairs. Below ground level was a sparse, dimly lit room. The bare brick walls and earthen floor were not as stylishly decorated as the rooms above. This room seemed to serve another purpose. A far more sinister one.

  At the centre of the room sat a wooden table. In each corner of the table, solid metal shackles dangled from chains. Carved gullies around the edge reminded Bishop of an autopsy table. The channels led to a hole in the corner of the table, which sat above a metal receptacle was stained various shades of red. On a small stand, surgical-sharp implements sat on a red velvet cloth. The dark crimson stains on the floor told the spy that the room had been used many times.

  It seemed Mr Temple was no simple geologist. This man was a sadist. A torturer. How did this relate to Demir and the dead body on Westminster Bridge? Bishop may have been a blunt instrument, but he was a blunt instrument determined to find out what the hell was going on.

  Chapter Four

  After making
his way back to the hotel, Bishop filed a quick report. He advised that he’d return to the villa tomorrow and install surveillance devices, particularly in the customised subterranean not-at-all-games room. After that he cleaned up and changed. It wouldn’t do to turn up for his drink with Astrid dressed all in black and smelling like he’d been skulking around in basements. There was an etiquette to such things.

  Heading down to the ground floor bar, he checked his watch. He was late, but only by fifteen minutes or so. As Bishop strode across the opulent lobby, he spotted Astrid instantly. She wasn’t a woman you could miss, clad in a flattering light blue sundress that was tasteful but managed to compliment all the right curves.

  She wasn’t alone.

  Beside her sat a man. Well, less a man, more a leer in human form—scruffy, dishevelled, with a three-day growth. He was rough, with a slightly ugly crooked nose, but in a way that could appeal to women. Like the ten minutes in the nineties when Gérard Depardieu had been considered handsome.

  When Bishop approached, Astrid’s mouth slanted in a half smirk. “You’re late.”

  “No I’m not.” Bishop tilted his watch at her. “I’m exactly on time, give or take.”

  “Give or take?” She failed to hide her amusement.

  Bishop gave a shrug. “I’m more of a giver.”

  “Really, because from here it seems like you’re taking the piss.”

  The scruffy man, who had been following the conversation, pointed a finger between the two of them. “Ah. Banter.”

  His accent was as thick as day-old borscht. He frowned as he listened, as if following intently, trying to translate.

  “And whom might this be?” Bishop asked as he sat. He waved to a nearby waiter.