Kiss My Assassin

by Dave Sinclair

  Bishop glanced towards his companion. “I… what?”

  Oleg shrugged. “You have no time for the bourgeois. The contempt you have for the rich. You always seem to side with the proletariat. This is odd for a capitalist swine, I think.”

  “Who are you kidding?” Bishop chuckled. “You’re not from the USSR, don’t tell me you represent the great Soviet State. You buy blue jeans like the rest of us.”

  “True, true. But you do not like the wealthy. So I am thinking it has to do with your past, why you do not like them? Hmmmm? Did a rich man steal your lollipop, Englishman?”

  With a dismissive wave of his hand, Bishop rejected the notion. “I appreciate expensive things.”

  “Oh yes, just not the people who buy them.”

  Approaching the door, Bishop chose to focus on the matter at hand. Bursting in all guns blazing could easily start something; at the very least, an international incident, at worst, a war. Neither of those things would be welcome in his account of the mission, not that Bishop planned on including the next hour or so in his official MI6 report.

  Two thick-necked guards stood on either side of the huge double doors. The spies didn’t slow, theirs was purely a reconnaissance walk-by to get the lay of the land. The two guards were heavily armed. Submachine guns, sidearms, nightsticks. All designed for close quarters fighting. They were well trained, too. One kept an eye on them as they walked past, the other scanned for other threats. They were disciplined.

  According to their sources, at least two more guards were inside the rooms, and there were two more roaming the halls at all times. A frontal assault would be costly and ill-advised. Bishop had been shot enough already on this mission.

  From inside the room, there was a crash. Neither Bishop nor Oleg reacted. One of the guards flinched slightly, but remained stoic behind his aviator glasses.

  Inside the room a loud voice shouted, “How hard can it be? Red! I said red. Not fucking whatever this is!”

  Shuffling, followed by another crash. One of the huge doors swung open and a voluptuous auburn-haired beauty staggered out at speed, as if thrown. She wore an elegant sequinned gown that hugged her curves. One stiletto on her left foot, she clutched the other to her chest, along with her purse. Unsteady on her feet, she struggled to stand to put her other shoe on. Neither of the guards moved to assist her.

  “Here.” Bishop offered his arm.

  The stunning woman smiled, though her eyes were pained. “Thank you, I…”

  “No need. Let us escort you.” Bishop eyed the guards. “Rough neighbourhood.”

  The woman slipped on her shoe and the three walked down the hall in silence.

  Once out of earshot of the guards, Bishop asked, “Are you alright? Did he hurt you?”

  Now fully composed, the woman replied, “No, I’m fine.”

  “The graze on your cheek says otherwise.”

  Her hand darted to her cheek. She pulled out a compact and checked it in the mirror, then tutted. Turning to Bishop, she nodded. “It looks like you’ve been knocked about a bit yourself.”

  “Let’s say we’ve both had run-ins with undesirable sorts of late.” Bishop laid his hand over hers. “Did he touch you? In other ways?”

  “No, it didn’t get that far.” She smiled broadly, a crinkle in the centre of her forehead, seemingly pleased by Bishop’s concern. “Not his type apparently.”

  “Then the man is obviously a fool.”

  “My employer hoped he wouldn’t notice; they were wrong.” Her smile genuine now, she considered Bishop. “You’re a smooth one. Thank you for your assistance. It seems my night wasn’t totally wasted.”

  Oleg rolled his eyes and groaned.

  “I don’t believe any time with you would be wasted.” Bishop noted that the woman hadn’t relinquished hold of his arm.

  Oleg leaned over to Bishop and murmured, “What are you doing?”

  “Improvising.”

  Oleg frowned. “Is that what they call it in England?”

  Originally the plan had been to impersonate hotel staff and infiltrate the minister’s room. The clipboard was meant to signify Bishop’s instructor status. The lighter was if that didn’t work; when in doubt, burn the place down. Now the MI6 agent was formulating another plan.

  The woman rubbed Bishop’s arm. “Perhaps you could buy me a drink?”

  “I must say I’m flattered, but paying is something I usually avoid, my good lady. But I am thankful for the offer.”

  “I only meant the drink; everything else is on the house. A girl can have fun in her own time, you know.”

  Issuing another grunt, Oleg muttered, “I wonder where they keep the sick bags.”

  Choosing to ignore the enticing invitation, as they walked down the corridor Bishop took note of which rooms had their “Do Not Disturb” signs illuminated and which had lights on. When they reached the end of the hall, Oleg pressed the button for the lift. He cast a glance back towards the minister’s room.

  “Getting through that door will be a problem. If we have a big enough surprise, we should be able to—”

  “We’re not going through the front door.” Bishop wasn’t facing Oleg, but the woman on his arm. She regarded him curiously, as if wondering why he was speaking to her.

  “No?” Oleg’s face creased into confusion.

  “No.” Bishop winked at the woman. “We’re going to make him come to us.”

  “We are? And how do you plan on pulling off that miraculous feat?”

  “Because we’re going to give him exactly what he wants.”

  The room was softly lit. Red velvet walls and luxurious furnishings surrounded the central feature: an enormous four poster bed. Solid oak, intricately carved and draped in opaque silk chiffon, it dominated the room. The sweet smell of jasmine permeated the tranquil scene. The lighting was so dim it gave everything an ethereal feel.

  The door clicked open and a sliver of light from the hallway invaded the tranquil scene. Tentatively, hesitantly, the interloper stalked into the room.

  “Hello?” He closed the door behind him. “My name is Essam.”

  On the bed, a figure writhed under the covers. Essam grinned broadly and strode forward. He wore only a hotel robe and an eager expression. On the bed, the covers seductively folded open. An invitation.

  “I do hope you’re…” Essam peeked through the canopy. “You are a redhead.” His grin doubled. “I like redheads.”

  In the darkness of the room, Essam hefted himself onto the end of the massive bed and began crawling along it. “I do hope you’ve packed a toothbrush. You and I are going to be here a long time, little girl.”

  His prey writhed on the bed, flicking red curls seductively. Essam licked his lips. He stopped to untie his robe, exposing his pot belly. Waggling his eyebrows as if to say, there’s more where this came from, he continued his approach.

  With a growl, he leaned over the figure. “I’ve brought you a present.” He slid his sweaty hand up and down the lapel of his gown. “Do you want to see my surprise?”

  The redhead replied in a deep Russian accent, “I assure you, my surprise is bigger.”

  The Saudi Finance Minister scrambled backwards, flailing about on the bed, eyes wide in shock.

  Oleg raised his gun and took off the red wig. “You scream, I guarantee you it will be your last surprise, Essam.” The last word was streaked with sarcasm.

  The Saudi’s hands were clasped over his mouth in a pantomime suggesting he didn’t trust himself not to scream. His wide eyes stared at the gun. The semi-clad Essam slowly nodded his compliance.

  “Thank you for your cooperation.”

  The minister’s head whipped around to see Bishop walking towards him from the bathroom. With the gun in his hand, he motioned to the robe.

  “Dress yourself, please. It’s not that kind of night.”

  “What… what do you want?”

  There was terror in his eyes. How quickly his night had changed. Bishop found it impossi
ble to care one iota.

  It had taken little for him to convince the prostitute, whose name was Angelika, to disclose how the minister arranged his encounters. Then it was just a matter of Angelika impersonating her booking superior to arrange a replacement redhead. She told Essam that the substitute was rather shy, and asked if he would mind meeting her in another room on the same floor, quickly adding that as compensation for the earlier misunderstanding, there would be no charge for the evening. The minister eagerly accepted and it was quickly arranged.

  Having noted which rooms were unoccupied, Bishop had negotiated with the front desk to use the one furthest from the minister’s room and closest to the exits. In return for Angelika’s assistance, Bishop had promised to speed up her visa application to the UK. It was a minor price to pay for access to the man who could give them Kali.

  The Finance Minister whimpered, his gaze flicking between the two guns pointed at him.

  “Hi there, mate.” Bishop pressed the gun barrel into his forehead. “I’d recommend not moving again if you can help it. I’ve had a rough few days. To be perfectly honest, my nerves are a bit shot and I’m doped up on an amazing number of painkillers, so I’d avoid any sudden movements or impromptu noises if you can.”

  With a flop, Bishop sat on the bed, suddenly dizzy.

  Oleg growled. “Are you alright?”

  Not wanting to show weakness to either man, Bishop ignored the question. “You look good as a redhead.”

  “My mother was a redhead.” Oleg crossed his arms.

  “Did she have a three-day growth too?”

  “Sometimes.” Oleg sneered. “She did not always have time to shave because she was always out in the field lifting tractors or making goo goo eyes at pictures of Boris Yeltsin.”

  The minister sat up straight. “You will let me go. Now.” He seemed to have recovered his composure. His accent was sprinkled with a British tone, no doubt from his elite-school upbringing. His face as hard as his words, he went on. “You do not realise who I am, the wrath I can bring upon you.”

  “No.” Oleg stretched his arms. “You’ll cooperate or we’ll go down on you like a ton of bricks.”

  Bishop blinked several times. “We’ve talked about this. You leave the trash talking to me.”

  Face crinkled in confusion, Oleg shrugged. “What did I say?”

  “It’s come down on you like a ton of bricks. Come down.”

  “You told me not to use the word come.” Oleg shook his head. “English is stupid.”

  The minister was unmoved by their chatter. He got to his feet and planted his fists on his hips, his air of arrogance now a fog. “Release me now and you shall not die, but I cannot promise it will not be unpleasant. Whatever misguided—”

  He was silenced by the back of Bishop’s hand being struck across his face. When he glanced up, blood flowed from the corner of his mouth.

  Bishop leaned in. “Do you even know their names?”

  “Whose names?” The minister pushed himself away as Bishop advanced, desperately searching for an escape. “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “Those two servants you whipped to death. Do you know their names?”

  The minister sneered. “Don’t be absurd.”

  “Don’t be absurd you know, or don’t be absurd you wouldn’t lower yourself to learn the names of the unwashed underlings you’ve killed?”

  A slow veil of realisation descended over the minister’s face. This wasn’t an accident. This wasn’t a misunderstanding. The men who held the guns knew exactly who he was and what he had done.

  “What do you want?” All the arrogance had been stripped from his tone.

  “Information.” Bishop inspected the pistol in his hands. “That’s all, Finance Minister. Just information. You give us what we require and you can be on your way. You won’t be held for ransom or anything so mundane. You won’t be killed. All you need to do is tell us about the shipment you purchased at the auction.”

  He drew back. “If I tell you about the shipment you may as well kill me. I’d be as good as dead. That I can guarantee.”

  “I’ll tell you what I can guarantee, Minister.” Bishop sighed. The gun in his hand seemed heavy. “You’re alone, without your muscled henchmen. They won’t know you’re missing for hours. In those hours, you will be facing two determined armed men with an endless supply of pain-inflicting equipment and a lifetime of accumulated knowledge of every torture technique known to man. You can either die an agonising death or tell us what we want to know.”

  “You’ll never get out of Marrakech alive.”

  “What happens to us is not your concern.” Bishop pulled back the hammer of his pistol and aimed it at the minister’s head. “You should really be concerned about your own welfare.”

  “You won’t shoot me.” The words were strong, but his eyes were filled with terror.

  Bishop considered the gun in his hand. Frowning in agreement, he uncocked the pistol and tossed it on the far end of the bed. The minister watched the gun’s arc. He wasn’t looking when the first punch landed.

  This was followed by a flurry of body blows, the final punch an uppercut that launched the minister from cowering on the bed and to being sprawled across the floor. Oleg sat up straight but didn’t utter a word, watching the beating from afar but choosing not to interfere.

  Huddled in the foetal position, the petrified man gazed up at his attacker. When Bishop approached, he scrambled backwards, whimpering.

  Standing over him, Bishop sneered. “You’re right. I won’t shoot you. This is going to be far worse.”

  The blunt instrument cracked his knuckles and went to work.

  Chapter Twelve

  The seatbelt sign lit up, indicating that the plane was about to begin its descent. Bishop awoke with a start after a thoroughly restful ten-minute sleep. He was unable to recall the last good night’s sleep he’d had, or indeed, if he’d ever had one. He’d run out of pain medication somewhere near the equator.

  Across the aisle, Oleg still slumbered in his first-class seat. The pilot’s landing announcement was drowned out by the Russian’s snoring. Bishop waved down a flight attendant and asked for a scotch.

  Before boarding the plane, Bishop had contacted MI6. In the intervening few days, much had happened. The Pakistani Minister of Defence had been violently removed from office, probably due to the footage Bishop had supplied to MI6. There was no doubt the British government had traded the information, perhaps for some sort of military concession. It would have been a small price for Pakistan to pay for evidence of a traitor plotting a coup.

  Paul reported that the information about Kali was finally falling into place. Illicit arms dealers were indeed disappearing or publicly retiring. One had turned herself in to the Spanish police. Betty Jo Anne Palfrey stated it was a pre-emptive move, given the state of her “profession”. Then Paul added the kicker: on her way to the arraignment hearing, Palfrey’s transport vehicle had inexplicably accelerated and careened off the Bac de Roda Bridge in Barcelona. There were no survivors.

  While MI6 had been only mildly concerned with Kali before, that had turned into full-scale alarm. Paul mentioned that a member of cabinet had even spilt his tea—it was that serious. The tendrils of Kali spread wide, but until Bishop’s official report, no head of the organisation had ever been identified. Now Interpol had a description and a target. Astrid may have eluded authorities in New York or Abu Dhabi, but Bishop doubted her luck would last.

  The Saudi Finance Minister had been most helpful in providing the details of the third lot at the auction. The urgent collection of the Kali shipment was due to the fact that a Paraguayan rebel leader had purchased the shipment, then reneged on the deal at the last minute, unable to cough up the required five and a half million American dollars. The leader of the Paraguayan People’s Liberation Army had been found flayed alive and nailed to a church door in San Pedro. Either Kali’s debt collection was ruthless or the man had been a victim of the
most extreme shaving accident in history.

  The information gathered from bin Faisal had given them their only possible lead. The commercial airliner sped across the North Atlantic to make the rendezvous. They were cutting it fine. This was their one shot; they may never get another.

  At least this time they wouldn’t be alone. MI6 and SVR had launched a joint operation, a first in itself, to coordinate with Interpol. Everyone seemed to have forgotten the CIA’s phone number. The Americans liked to think Haiti was their turf, but they weren’t invited to this particular party.

  The number of invitees already made Bishop nervous.

  The more organisations, the more human beings aware of the operation, the greater the chance of being compromised. Temple and Astrid knew Bishop’s real name, knew who he worked for. That meant they had ways of obtaining top-secret espionage information. The number of organisations involved was a risk. Then again, the melee they were about to enter could never be pulled off by two lone spies, especially when one was already walking wounded. And hardly walking at that. Hobbling wounded.

  There couldn’t be any screw-ups. On too many occasions Bishop had had the head of Kali within his grasp and she’d escaped unscathed. Not again.

  Bishop glanced over at his snoring companion. During the long flight from Marrakech the two had hardly talked. At first they’d been preoccupied with coordinating efforts with their respective organisations, then consumed by the need for sleep. Bishop knew he was far from his prime, but it didn’t matter. All he needed was to stay focused for the next six to twelve hours and then it would be over, one way or the other. This was the end game.

  Checking coded communications from MI6, Bishop teetered from mildly confident to wholly despondent. Sensing that he was being watched, he turned to see Oleg staring at him.

  Lifting an eyebrow, Bishop asked, “Spying on me again?”

  “Again? That one time, Englishman.”

  “One’s enough. Men have died for less.” Bishop wasn’t well rested.

  “And it saved your life.”

  Bishop shrugged and swirled the ice in his glass. “Are your people in position?”