Kiss My Assassin

by Dave Sinclair

  The Airbus landed smoothly in a whirl of sound and fury. The rotors slowed and two men strode out, ducking low. Bishop suspected the landing skids had touched down either side of Oleg’s hiding place. But it was so far away, and the chopper had dispersed so much sand, it was impossible to know.

  Once the men were clear, one in a suit and one in a Middle-Eastern thobe, the rotors sped up and the helicopter took off, leaving a sandstorm and deafening silence in its wake.

  Bishop waited several moments. “You alive, Oleg?”

  No answer. He asked again. Silence.

  Had Oleg been crushed to death? A five-ton helicopter landing on you would put a crimp in anyone’s day.

  Bishop could carry on the mission alone, but it would be a hell of a lot tougher. He didn’t trust Oleg, but they seemed to be on the same team, at least temporarily. Bishop’s thoughts turned to how he would proceed solo. It was, after all, how he’d started this mission, and it appeared it would be how he ended it.

  There was a grunt over Bishop’s earpiece. “That was not pleasant.”

  “You alright, Oleg?”

  “I feel like a very large woman just made love to me. Without permission.”

  “So it didn’t land on you then?”

  “Almost. The skids landed each side. One metre either way and I would have been as flat as a British Eurovision entry.”

  “That would probably be amusing if I knew anything about Eurovision.” Bishop peered through his sniper scope. “Did you see who got out of the chopper?”

  “Surprisingly, no. I was too busy getting my anus sandblasted.”

  “I may be wrong, but I could have sworn the Saudi Finance Minister just flew in.”

  “Essam bin Faisal is here?”

  “I believe so.”

  The Saudi minister was infamous for whipping not one, but two servants to death. The fact that he retained his position demonstrated the power he held.

  Bishop scratched the back of his head. “And you saw who got out of the Bentley before? He had the stunning brunette on his arm.”

  “I was concentrating on the brunette.”

  “The Pakistani Minister of Defence.”

  Abas Khloro had been causing rumblings for some time, making it plain he disapproved of the popular Pakistani president. Many believed a coup d'état was in the wind.

  “What is this, Oleg? The Legion of Doom?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Bishop watched the screen showing the interior of the tent. There were around twenty-five guests in total, forming a melange of headdresses, skin colours, formal dress and uniforms. Booze flowed, waiters and waitresses carried silver plates of hors d'oeuvres. It seemed pleasant enough, like a congenial get-together, except people had died to keep it secret.

  New arrivals slowed to a trickle. By eight, everyone appeared to have arrived. Bishop thought it was telling. These were obviously important people, wealthy leaders in their field, yet each and every one of them was afraid to turn up late. Very telling indeed.

  On the platform, Temple rang a tiny bell. Every head turned.

  “Ladies and gentlemen.” He spoke with a heavy French accent. “Please take your seats, we shall start the auction.”

  Temple wasn’t one for foreplay, clearly. When all the guests had taken their seats, the Frenchman took his position behind the lectern.

  “Lot one.”

  As Temple spoke the words, a young woman who could have strutted down any catwalk in Paris sashayed forward. In her hands was a red velvet cushion; on it, the two penguin-shaped salt and pepper shakers. The cheap gaudy trinkets were accorded so much reverence Bishop nearly smiled. Nearly.

  “Starting bid,” Temple lifted an expectant eyebrow, “ten million American dollars.”

  Bishop knew inflation was a problem but that was ridiculous.

  “Did he say ten million dollars?” Oleg was as stunned as he was.

  The paddles Bishop had seen on his earlier reconnoitre began flying into the air. Bidding was furious. In no time at all the price was over fifty million. Then eighty. It finally tapped out at ninety-seven million, three hundred thousand.

  “Sold!” Temple rapped his gavel on the lectern. “Compliments to Mr bin Faisal!”

  The Saudi Minister’s fellow guests patted him on the back. He had paid nearly a hundred million for a pair of penguin salt and pepper shakers that had been purchased earlier in the day for a few cents. The amazing thing was, he seemed quite pleased with himself. Bishop had to wonder why they were congratulating him. Essam bin Faisal seemed to be the worst finance minister in the history of the world.

  Soon the crowd was back at it. The second lot was the tattered doll with the missing arm. That went for three hundred million, five hundred thousand. It was purchased by the Pakistani Minister of Defence.

  “This is absurd,” Oleg spat. “Why are these people purchasing junk for these prices? I once saw comic book sell for three million dollars. I can go down shop and the buy same comic for—”

  “Oleg, shut up.”

  “What did you—”

  “You’ve got company. Three o’clock.”

  Through his scope, Bishop saw two figures approaching Oleg’s position in the dark. They weren’t performing a routine patrol; they stalked towards him in a direct line, as if they knew he was there. Had the pilot seen something when he landed?

  “Two figures, full webbing, earpieces. FN P90 submachine guns, multiple sidearms. They’re not here to issue parking tickets. You have thirty seconds.”

  In a low voice, Oleg growled, “Received.”

  Headlights illuminated the exterior of the tent. A heavy looking black Mercedes SUV pulled up, sitting deep on its suspension, likely armoured. Through the scope of his sniper rifle, Bishop saw two figures emerge from the vehicle. One was a bulky man with close-cropped hair who carried himself with the discipline of a soldier. A scar ran diagonally across his forehead above a red bushy beard. He spoke hurriedly into his headset. When he saw the second passenger, Bishop’s mouth dropped open.

  He knew the second figure. Well, not personally, but he certainly knew him on sight. It was the same hooded individual who had assassinated Roll-Your-Own at the railway station, who had stalked and likely killed Astrid. The same person who had assassinated Demir. And the very same son of a bitch who had nearly done the equivalent to Bishop when he was upside down and bleeding in his car. His finger caressed the trigger.

  “Status?”

  Oleg’s harsh hiss brought Bishop back to the crisis at hand. He repositioned his rifle sight.

  “Twenty metres. They’re heading straight for you, you’ve been made.”

  “Take the shot. I’ll deal with the leftovers.”

  The request was problematic for all sorts of reasons. The first was range. Oleg and Bishop had positioned themselves within reach of the tent, not each other. Oleg was roughly double the recommended range of his AXMC. Even the superior reach of the Russian’s OSV sniper rifle would have a hard time at that distance.

  The second reason was one of logistics. As soon as Bishop fired, whether his aim was true or not, they’d be made. Security would scour the landscape for any trace of them. Currently they were a potential threat. An academic idea. After the first shot they would become enemy combatants and would be hunted down.

  The third reason was simple enough. He despised and distrusted the Russian. Did he want to die for the SVR agent? No. Bishop wasn’t even sure he wanted to miss lunch for him. Then again, if the roles were reversed, Bishop would hope the big Russian, for all his misgivings, would have his back. Would he though? The MI6 agent wouldn’t bet his life on it.

  Bishop swung the scope back to the tent. Red Beard was there, standing erect at the entrance. Judging by the way he carried himself, he definitely had to be ex-military. The arrogance in his stance suggested he’d been an officer. The hooded assassin was gone. Bishop couldn’t decide what was more worrying, the fact that he’d missed his chance or that the assassin cou
ld be anywhere. Bishop decided on the latter. It was like trying to capture a spider in your bedroom at night and missing your chance, only to have it scuttle away. A missing spider was far more worrying than one right in front of you.

  “What are you waiting for, Englishman, a spatula?”

  “If you’d shut up I could concentrate, Ruskie.”

  As Bishop repositioned his rifle, the two figures slowed their approach. The lead guard aimed two fingers precisely at where Oleg was hidden.

  Drawing on his SAS experience, Bishop slowed his breathing, calculated the distance, the terrain, the wind speed and direction. At this range it was like trying to shoot an arrow between the eyes of a hummingbird. In a hurricane. While riding a horse. Even if his aim was true, they would be discovered immediately. Everything he’d done to uncover the auction would be for nothing. Was the Russian worth all that?

  Deathly still, Bishop watched the figures circle behind Oleg. He would be dead within seconds.

  Fuck it.

  Bishop took the shot. The result wasn’t instantaneous; the bullet had to travel over 2 kilometres. Around five seconds later the lead figure spun around. He fired his pistol harmlessly into the air as he tumbled backwards, sliding down the sand. Before Bishop could reposition his second shot, Oleg was up and firing. The second figure was dead before he hit the ground.

  Oleg trudged to where the first attacker had fallen. Two more pistol shots assured the kill. The big Russian sighed. “That was some shooting. I do not know many soldiers alive who could have taken that shot.”

  “A compliment?”

  “An observation.”

  Bishop sighed. “You better bug out, they’ll be on you in seconds.”

  “We better bug out. There is nothing more we can do here. Not even a fancy tuxedo will help you.”

  He was right. They were blown. The dunes would be crawling with security in minutes. As well hidden as Bishop was, there was no guarantee he would remain so. His scope zeroed in on the tent. Red Beard was screaming into a walkie-talkie and pointing into the night. Inside, people were half out of their seats, and some of the guests were pointing and shouting. Bishop unmuted the feed.

  “Ladies and gentlemen!” Temple raised his palms, trying to calm the crowd. “Everything is under control, I assure you. A mere skirmish. Please remain calm. There are four more lots to be sold tonight, and you do not want to come all this way to miss out. Do not forget the next lot is our exquisite ornamental lamp. The shipment must be picked up this week, no exceptions. You mustn’t miss out.” That seemed to quell the crowd, and they sat once more. “Believe me, ladies and gentlemen, we shall have the two troublemakers apprehended in no time.”

  Two.

  It was time to bug out.

  Ensuring all his accumulated data and footage had been uploaded to the satellite, Bishop set a timed charge to detonate in five minutes. All trace of his hideout would soon be eradicated. If Red Beard or his cohorts happened to stumble upon his hideout in around four or so minutes’ time, they would be equally eradicated.

  The last image Bishop saw of the auction was the Saudi Minister for Finance being congratulated for winning another lot. He was on a roll.

  Squeezing out of his sand-covered hiding place, Bishop strapped on his sniper rifle and ran. The plan was for Oleg to head south, Bishop north, to the highway they had turned off.

  Over the headset, Bishop asked, “Position update?”

  “Point five kilometres south of original. Making good headway. No tail that I can identify.”

  That put him roughly 2 kilometres away, on foot. He would be no help if Bishop ran into trouble.

  “Copy. Heading towards highway. ETA for rendezvous, one hour. Mark. Over. Out.”

  After clearing the first dune, no light could be seen from the tent. A quarter moon hung in the sky, the only source of illumination. Bishop was fit, some would say overly so, but he heaved at the exertion. Sprinting on sand was problematic. You expend a lot of effort while making little headway. Bishop had slogged over two sandbanks and felt like he’d run a half marathon.

  There was also something else about dunes. They made it difficult to mask your footfalls. On the dune in front of Bishop, a series of footsteps had disturbed the sand and created mini avalanches with every step. Someone had been this way, and recently. The sand was still falling.

  From all around, Bishop heard raised voices. There were at least three, possibly more. Voices carried in the cold desert air—they could be 10 metres away or a hundred. Taking down one assailant was fine. Two, doable. Three, again, doable, but prone to the other side lucking out. Bishop had no desire to offer the other side any chance of good fortune.

  Unslinging the sniper rifle from his back, Bishop tossed it on the ground and covered it in sand. Better to happen across an enemy without a plainly obvious weapon. Plus, it was good for long range, not close quarters. He had two pistols tucked into the back of his pants for that.

  The voices seemed closer now, more urgent. They spoke English, but their words were nonsensical.

  “Charlie, at the crest, copy Panda.”

  “Cross gain, Artemis covering.”

  Code. It meant something to someone. Either that or he was overhearing a Scrabble match between an illiterate and an idiot.

  “Hold it!”

  Bishop turned to see Red Beard atop a dune, aiming a pistol directly at him. Instead of going for his pistol, he threw his hands in the air in frustration.

  “Oh, thank fucking Christ! I’ve been wandering around this godforsaken place for hours.” Bishop lowered his hands and his tone, tugging at the lapels of his tux. “I’m terribly sorry, I seem to have gotten lost. I’m looking for a large white tent and an auction.”

  “It’s already started.” Red Beard’s voice was low and even, his accent American, Midwestern. He mumbled incomprehensibly into his walkie-talkie. “I thought all guests had arrived.”

  “I assure you that is far from the case. My… employer would be most upset with me if I didn’t procure some… let’s say, essential items. Now, if you could point me in the right direction, I have little time and an itchy chequebook.” Bishop’s tone dripped with arrogance. He assumed any invitee to the auction would be disinclined to speak to underlings.

  Red Beard’s eyes narrowed. “Wouldn’t happen to have an invite on you by any chance?”

  There was shuffling behind the spy. Red Beard’s backup had arrived. His posture became more upright. He was relaxed. The ex-soldier lowered his weapon and thrust it into his hip holster. Bishop was surprised he didn’t spin it first, like they did in westerns. He must be getting soft in his old age. Even with backup—Bishop assumed two—you never relinquish your weapon in front of a likely foe. It would be Red Beard’s last mistake.

  “I did, but wouldn’t you know it, I seem to have misplaced it with all this scurrying about. I believe I’ll have a word with Temple when this is all over. An auction in the desert is all very clandestine and whatnot, but parking is a bitch and frankly, the lack of a decent bar is criminal.”

  The sound of sliding footsteps meant those behind were closing in. Making their way down the hill, they approached slowly. That would be their last mistake.

  Red Beard sighed. “Let’s cut the crap, shall we? You’re no more a guest than I am. You’re at the bottom of a sand dune, surrounded. What do you expect to happen?”

  Bishop tilted his head. “Is a back rub out of the question?”

  “It is.” Red Beard folded his arms.

  “I see.” Bishop scratched the back of his neck. “How about a lift to the nearest bar? I could murder a pina colada.”

  To Bishop’s surprise, Red Beard laughed. “You’ve got balls, I’ll give you that much. Not that it matters.” He nodded to the men behind him. “Temple has ways with the likes of you.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Let me write it down for you.”

  When Bishop reached into hi
s pocket Red Beard flinched, but relaxed when he slowly pulled a pen from his jacket.

  The spy considered the pen reverently. “You see, I’ve learned there’s absolutely one thing you should never ever do when apprehending a suspect.”

  Bishop clicked the pen and tossed it high into the air. All eyes followed the white object. Pivoting one hundred and eighty degrees, Bishop threw himself backwards and extracted the two guns from his waistband. As he fell, he aimed at each guard and fired simultaneously. Both centre mass. Both direct heart shots. Clean kills.

  When he hit the ground, he didn’t roll. With his back on the sand, Bishop aimed his pistols over his head at the upside down Red Beard, who was clawing for his side-arm. Bishop’s move had given him time to react, but not enough to aim.

  Bishop fired two shots into the centre of his chest. A fraction of a second too late, Red Beard fired wildly, then collapsed forward and slid down the dune, face down and motionless.

  The excruciating pain in Bishop’s thigh told him he’d been hit. He lifted his leg and the intense pain caused him to slam his fist into the sand. It was painful, but didn’t appear to have hit bone. Probably. Then again, that could be the shock.

  Gritting his teeth, Bishop righted himself and brushed off the sand. The wound was agonising but he had to keep moving. His pistols weren’t silenced; others would arrive soon. He hobbled about, wincing as he assessed the bodies for any sign of life. There was none.

  Standing over Red Beard, he finished his lesson. “Never take your eye off them.”

  In the dull moonlight, Bishop searched the ground for the pen he’d thrown into the air. Managing to find it, he shook it clean and slipped it into his pocket. It was the Mandarin Oriental pen Astrid had presented to him with such fanfare, seemingly a lifetime ago. She had been right. It really was mightier than a sword.

  Limping up the hill, Bishop saw that he was only a short distance from the highway. Once over the next crest he’d call Zoya to come and pick him up. With any luck he would be clear in minutes, then he could pick up Oleg, get to the hotel, fix up his leg and down a bottle of scotch. But first, he had to survive the next few minutes. The noise he’d made and the injury inflicted lessened his chances significantly. Pushing through the agonising pain, he limped on.