Kiss My Assassin

by Dave Sinclair

  For the next twenty minutes the three followed Temple’s every move. He drove his car at a leisurely pace, considerately allowing cars in at intersections, and appeared to be in no hurry whatsoever. Hardly the actions of an arms dealer about to host a world-shaking auction.

  In a remarkably downmarket part of town, the big car double-parked in front of an equally downmarket second-hand store. Rickety tables on the footpath overflowed with faded, broken goods. Old household appliances, cheap toys, mismatched crockery. Bishop hoped the auction wasn’t to take place here. He didn’t relish the idea of returning to MI6 and advising he’d got a really good deal on a broken toaster.

  From 40 metres away, Bishop watched Temple pick up a pair of penguin-shaped salt and pepper shakers at random, hand over a couple of dirty notes and jump back in his Humvee. Oleg and Bishop exchanged confused expressions.

  Two more stores were visited, and equally random goods were purchased. A chipped decorative bowl and child’s doll that was missing an arm. His motives weren’t any clearer. Bishop had seen Temple’s house, none of these items went with his décor. Unless he was changing his style to bohemian homeless chic.

  At the next decrepit store he stopped at, Temple headed inside. Bishop asked Zoya to follow him in and observe from afar, emphasising that under no circumstances should she engage the target. She gave a salute and practically ran in, relishing her new undercover role.

  After a few minutes their impromptu spy emerged with her regular beam, white teeth glistening. “He wandered around and bought a… there,” Zoya pointed at Temple walking towards his Humvee.

  In his hands, he carried a bedside lamp with a tatty pink lampshade.

  Zoya nodded in the man’s direction. “Five dirhams. He hardly bartered, he is not a good purchaser of goods.” When she saw the men’s blank expressions she added, “My name is Zoya.” Her face was enveloped by teeth and gums. “It means bargain, so I would know.”

  Bishop nodded, but his mind was elsewhere. That was roughly fifty pence. Why would a man who lives in a villa and drives an expensive foreign car go around buying useless lamps and other pointless crap? Was he going to sell them on eBay? Was he hard up for cash?

  Addressing Oleg, he asked, “Do you know what is going on?”

  The big man shrugged. “I do not know. This makes as much sense as why the English believe dogs bollocks is a good thing. Or your love of cricket. Or Marmite. Many things do not make sense.”

  “Thank you for your input, Oleg. Invaluable as always.”

  They continued to follow Temple’s car, but he didn’t visit any more stores. In fact, his meandering driving seemed to abate; he became more deliberate. Like he had somewhere to be.

  More time passed and the concentration of buildings lessened. He was heading out of town. Eventually high-density housing gave way to suburbs, suburbs gave way to shacks, shacks gave way to stretches of desert. Soon they needed to give Temple’s car a lot more distance, as they were the only two cars on the stretch of highway. The warm sun and the thrum of the taxi’s tyres on the bitumen lulled Bishop into a daze.

  “Will he drive all day?” Zoya asked, breaking the monotony. “I do not wish to be pulled over by the police at night.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  Zoya kept her eyes on the road. “I only have one working headlight.”

  “Will they take your taxi licence away?”

  “What makes you think I have a licence?” Zoya let loose a madwoman’s cackle and remained amused for some time, despite her companions’ silence.

  “He’s turning.”

  Zoya’s words shook Bishop from his stupor. The big black car turned, but there was no road. Amid low sand dunes, the Humvee ploughed through and over small mounds. It was as if he had suddenly become bored with driving along roads and wanted to try something different. Or discovered he had a tail.

  The road, if it could be called that, was rocky but relatively flat. They waited until Temple was out of view and drove slowly, ensuring they were well out of sight. They followed for roughly a kilometre, until they caught sight of the rear of the car behind a dune. It was a hundred metres away. Temple couldn’t have seen them, but if they proceeded further they would be spotted.

  “Pull over,” Bishop said. “Turn around and go behind that dune.” It would hide the taxi if Temple doubled back. “Be ready to floor it when needed. We’ll climb the dune and see where he’s headed.”

  “We will?” The Russian seemed unimpressed.

  Bishop rolled his eyes. “Afraid of getting sand in your panties?”

  “Quite frankly, yes.”

  In spite of the bitching, Oleg came with Bishop and the two scrambled up the nearest dune. The black car had pulled up in front of a large white domed tent. A fancy one at that. The Arabian style wouldn’t have been out of place in a Tony Curtis movie.

  The area was surprisingly flat and sand-free. You could drive from the road without much trouble if you knew where to go. As there was nothing else nearby, Bishop had the impression the tent was temporary. The surrounding high dunes gave perfect cover.

  The two spies ducked down as Temple emerged from the tent empty-handed. He slid behind the wheel of the Humvee.

  In a low voice, Bishop spoke to Oleg while keeping an eye on the approaching car. “You go with Zoya. If Temple goes back to the villa, wait until he’s settled, then come back for me.”

  “Why, what will you do?” He eyed Bishop suspiciously.

  “I’m going to find out what’s in the tent.” The gap was narrowing. In seconds Bishop would miss his chance.

  “And take all the credit for the British Empire? I do not like this plan.”

  “Hate to break it to you, but there is no Empire. Hasn’t been for a good number of years. Two choices, Oleg: we’re in this together or not at all. You have three seconds.”

  The big Russian eyed the approaching car and growled. “Fine, but if you—”

  Bishop didn’t wait for the rest of the sentence. He rounded the dune to stay out of sight. It forced Oleg to rush back to the taxi, their directives clear. The SVR agent was wary that Bishop wanted to search the tent alone. He was right to be.

  As a child, Bishop never liked to play with others, preferring to have all the toys to himself. Little had changed, although these days the toys were a little more interesting.

  Bishop watched the Russian scramble down the dune, sending cascades of sand flowing after him. The Humvee turned slowly towards the highway, going back the way they’d come. The taxi followed several seconds later, keeping its distance.

  Safe in the knowledge that Temple was far away, and Oleg too, Bishop braved the descent. The massive tent was surrounded on all sides by sand dunes; no one would know it was there unless they had explicit instructions. It was well hidden. But why?

  Approaching the tent, Bishop did his best to sound like an incompetent tourist. “Hello? I’ve broken down. Can anyone call a tow truck?”

  Bishop hoped no one would take him up on the request. He no longer had a car. Luckily enough, no one answered. The place seemed deserted.

  Opening one of the flaps, Bishop stepped inside. The interior was decked out like a luxury Bedouin tent, or at least a Hollywood version of one. With lush carpets and elegant Moroccan ceiling lights, if it was meant to create a sense of old-world elegance it only half succeeded. Two dozen folding chairs faced a podium. On the podium sat a lectern and two more folding seats, noticeably fancier than the rest.

  Sitting on the podium was a large cardboard box. Bishop flipped it open. Inside were the odds and ends Temple had collected. The penguin salt and pepper shakers, the lamp, all of it. Picking them up one by one, Bishop inspected them but found nothing of interest. No hidden compartments for microfilm—not that anyone went in for that sort of thing anymore, but still…

  What the hell is this all about?

  Next to the box was another, less weathered one. Bishop opened that too. Inside were paddles, each labelled with
a unique number.

  They’d found it. This was the auction. This was where it would take place. Finally, they would have answers. Finally, Bishop would have revenge.

  Chapter Eight

  The few devices left over from Temple’s house surveillance came in handy. In quick succession, Bishop planted visual and listening devices so they could observe and record all goings-on in the tent. He still had no idea what the auction was for, who was attending or how it was meant to work. It was unlikely that a crate of rocket launchers would be rolled out and men in wax moustaches would bid between maniacal laughs. Although right now it seemed that anything was possible.

  Demir had risked everything, his career, his life, to get a seat at the auction. Kali were ruthless, willing to murder ambassadors in police custody. They were not to be underestimated. As he silently left the tent, a feeling of relief enveloped Bishop. The sensation annoyed him. He should feel no relief. Not yet. There was much to do before he could rest. There were people to rescue.

  Astrid had disappeared due to the auction. That alone sped Bishop’s movements. Finding the auction site meant he was closer to the truth, although it didn’t feel like it.

  Oleg called to advise that Temple had returned to his villa and had remained there for half an hour. Bishop was well away from the tent, already planning the next few hours. They would regroup, arm themselves and prepare. The auction was to take place tonight, they had to be ready.

  Zoya’s taxi arrived twenty minutes later. She dropped Bishop and Oleg at the hotel, where they split off to their respective rooms. Zoya went to fuel up the taxi and catch some sleep before she was needed again.

  After filing his report, Bishop readied himself. Changing into his suit, he checked his two pistols, sniper rifle, four spare magazines and surveillance equipment. His monitoring devices showed Temple wandering around his home, doing nothing in particular, just pottering. No one had returned to the auction site, but it would only be a matter of time.

  Milling about in the lobby awaiting Oleg, Bishop eyed every passer-by. He tugged at the cuff of his slim-fitting blue tuxedo. Since the run-in with the thugs at the train station, he assessed anyone as a potential enemy. It was unknown what factions were at play, what was really going on. One thing was certain: Bishop was determined to find out.

  With the graceless cadence of a lumberjack, Oleg approached. The lumberjack comparison was apt; he seemed to be dressed as one. He wore sturdy worker boots, black jeans and a dark flannel shirt so worn it would make a third-year university student think twice.

  “What in the name of Gorbachev’s birthmark are you wearing, man? You seem dressed for wrestling bears, not espionage.”

  Oleg looked Bishop up and down and sneered. “Are we going to the opera?”

  “Well, we aren’t going to Uncle Steve’s barbecue and hoedown.” Bishop inhaled, trying to quell his astonishment. “What if you’re discovered? You going to tell them you’re on your way to a Nirvana concert?”

  “No, I will tell them I am a construction worker on leave before a construction conference. What about you, what’s your cover? You were on your way to a performance of Madame Butterfly and got lost?”

  There was no use arguing. Given the palatial surrounds of the auction tent, it seemed obvious the participants would be equally well adorned. There was no way someone who looked like a scruffy, unemployed bum would be invited to an international arms deal, or whatever the auction was. A spy was meant to blend in with their surrounds; Oleg never would. If they were attending a five-star resort, Oleg would be the turd in the swimming pool. The thought amused Bishop all the way out of town.

  Zoya dropped Oleg off first. She slowed the taxi and he hit the ground running, sniper rifle strapped to his back. He disappeared into the dunes 1 kilometre south of the tent, his mission parameters clear: he was backup. Bishop would observe the auction from afar through his video feed. Oleg would step in if things went wrong.

  When Zoya dropped Bishop off north of the tent he gave her double the agreed fee and told her not to stay close by or take risks. He or Oleg would call if needed, but Bishop made her promise she would stay far away. She was a sweet, smart young girl, and he didn’t want her to come to any harm. He waved her goodbye and trudged into the desert.

  Half an hour later, he was in position. Like Oleg, he dug a hole and set up his low-profile reinforced camouflaged tent, covered in sand to ensure it blended in perfectly with his surrounds. Next, he unpacked his rifle to view the outside of the tent, then positioned his mobile phone beside him so he could observe the goings-on inside. He checked the time. It would be a long wait until nightfall.

  Once Bishop had performed a quick comms check with Oleg there was nothing to do but wait. Thankfully, the day was cool, but that didn’t mean Bishop wasn’t sweating. He opened a ration pack and chowed down on the cardboard-like substance. He’d learned in the army to eat when you could, because you had no idea when your next meal would come.

  “You sound like a cow eating tinfoil.”

  Bishop baulked. He realised Oleg was speaking to him via his headset.

  “Sorry, forgot to switch the mic off.”

  “Just as well. I would have been angry if I thought you were deliberately eating at me.”

  It would be a long wait. Bishop decided they may as well use the time. “What are you shooting with, Oleg?

  “OSV-96.”

  An excellent sniper rifle. Amazing range. Of course, it was Russian.

  “And what are you using, Englishman?”

  “Accuracy International AXMC.”

  “Pah. My weapon has a range of two and a half kilometres. Yours is, what? Half that?”

  “A bit more, but reliable as hell.”

  “As reliable as anything from United Kingdom.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “It was not meant as a compliment.”

  “Oh, I know.”

  Oleg grunted. “Russian is better. Always better.”

  Through his scope, Bishop could barely make out the lump where Oleg was camouflaged. Someone could be standing right next to him and Bishop wouldn’t know. He peered through the scope. He could take out Oleg if he wanted, theoretically. The range was beyond the limits of his weapon, but that didn’t prevent Bishop’s finger momentarily twitching on the trigger. He had no doubt that two kilometres away, the Russian was thinking the same.

  Not knowing how to respond, Bishop chuckled. There was a piece of information he needed and the only way to find out was to keep the Russian talking. “Oleg, where are you from?”

  “Are we dating now?” The SVR agent tutted. “Next you will be asking my top five movies and what is my favourite Pokémon.”

  He was right, Bishop didn’t care. There was no need for civility. But that wasn’t why he’d asked.

  “I won’t tell you,” Oleg said matter-of-factly.

  “Tell me what?”

  “About the mole. Do not try and put butter up me.”

  “Put butter where?”

  “I will not tell you, Bishop. This is for you and the rest of your MI6 blunderers to figure out on your own.”

  At least he was smart enough to know why Bishop was even talking to him. There was no doubt MI6 would be concerned about leaked information. There would surely be investigations already underway in light of what Oleg had previously said.

  There was another option, however. Maybe there was no mole at all. The Russians could have intercepted a message, or there could be a hundred other possibilities. Oleg’s mention of a mole could have been planted so MI6 would tear itself apart. That would be a callous and unscrupulous move. If that was what Oleg had done, Bishop couldn’t help but be impressed.

  They lapsed into silence. For two hours, nothing happened, besides sweat finding new and exciting places to invade. The tent remained empty, the sun beat down, the wind refused to blow. Darkness dropped like an anvil. Finally, a van drove through the dunes, and people in crisp white uniforms climbed out. Th
e caterers had arrived. Soon after, slightly better-dressed staff appeared carrying tubs of ice. Bar staff. Then others arrived, more heavily armed. Security. About a dozen. Chatter was at a minimum, their focus absolute. They were well trained.

  Oleg and Bishop kept chatter to a minimum, preferring to keep an eye on the surrounds. That soon became a full-time operation. Temple turned up in his penis-compensating vehicle, issuing orders and generally being unpleasant. Not long after, it seemed as if every mode of transport imaginable made an appearance. Big luxury cars, more practical dune buggies, what appeared to be a snowmobile, even a hovercraft. Virtually everything but a camel train.

  The guests were dressed immaculately in tuxedos and fine dresses. No one appeared to be under fifty.

  “They’re all very well dressed, wouldn’t you say, Oleg? Not a lumberjack to be seen.”

  “You are not as amusing as you think.” Oleg let out a sigh. “I wish I could come inside the tent.”

  “What?”

  “The tent, I wish I could come in it.”

  Bishop stifled a cough. “Please don’t use ‘come’ in that context again.”

  “Why not?”

  “Look, I know you don’t understand some of the subtleties of the English language, but there are some contexts in which you just don’t use the word ‘come’. Trust me, okay?”

  “I do not understand. Why can’t I come if I want to, Bishop?”

  “You need to stop talking.”

  Before the Russian could respond, the loud whop whop whop of helicopter rotor blades filled the air. Over a distant dune, a silver Airbus H155 floated into view. A ten-million-dollar ride. These folks certainly weren’t holding out their hands for welfare. As sand flew in all directions, well-to-dos scurried for the protection of the tent and shielded their eyes from the sandstorm. Someone was making a grand entrance.

  As the helicopter slowed for landing, it looked increasingly likely that it was going to land on Oleg’s position. Right on his position. Bishop wanted to issue a warning, but it would be fruitless. First of all, Oleg wouldn’t be able to hear him, and secondly, he was probably more concerned with a helicopter landing on his head at that precise moment of time.