Kiss My Assassin

by Dave Sinclair

  “Da. Yours?”

  Bishop nodded. Conversation halted for several minutes, both men seemingly unwilling to engage in small talk. A flight attendant wearing far too much make-up served their first-class breakfast. Bishop hadn’t even realised it was meant to be that time of day. He ordered another scotch.

  Oleg nodded to the laptop beside him. “Our mutual friend has finally been reported missing.”

  In response, Bishop shrugged. What is there to say?

  Oleg leaned over. “You were very convincing.” His voice was low. “I almost believed you really would kill him. You are a persuasive liar.”

  With a tilt of his head, Bishop asked, “What made you think I was lying?”

  That gave Oleg pause. They lapsed into silence again.

  Essam bin Faisal would be found the following day; too late to halt their plans. An anonymous phone call would be made and a Saudi security team would be sent to one of the many seedy opium dens in the city. The minister would be high and loving life in the company of some ladies of the night. Given his track record, it wouldn’t be out of character. He would, of course, claim to have been kidnapped and tortured. But besides the initial strike to the face, Bishop had been careful to leave no physical marks. With no supporting evidence and a history of womanising, it wouldn’t be much of a stretch to believe the minister had simply spiralled out of control and succumbed to the evils the city of Marrakech provided in such abundance. At least, that was the plan.

  Abducting a senior member of government and brutalising him mentally and physically was tantamount to a declaration of war. But the minister did not know who Oleg and Bishop were, nor who they worked for. It was as clean as they could manage with limited time and no support. They had done all they could to minimise the blowback; only time would tell how successful they’d been.

  If the minister’s presence at the auction was backed by the Saudi government, they would be furious at bin Faisal’s failure to secure the delivery they’d paid millions for. If, on the other hand, he’d acted independently, he would face the wrath of Kali for divulging the location of the trade. If that was the case, there would be no place on earth he could hide from the retribution coming his way. Bishop held no sympathy for the man. While he wouldn’t be the one to pull the trigger, he knew justice was coming for bin Faisal.

  Bishop gazed out the window, but there was nothing to look at, just the North Atlantic Ocean as far as the eye could see. They would be landing in Miami soon, but that was only the first leg. They still had to catch a flight to Port-au-Prince, Haiti.

  It wasn’t a destination Bishop relished. Large swathes of the country were lawless, the government unstable and prone to corruption. It was a terrible place to run an operation, but it was perfect for an illegal arms deal.

  What better way to elude scrutiny and the authorities than by choosing a country that had little of either? Haiti was as close to anarchy as you could find. Paying off prying eyes would be cheap. The challenge as Bishop saw it wasn’t the legitimate government, it was the few dozen warlords who roamed the nearby lawless neighbourhoods. If they were to discover a major arms shipment in their midst, it would make one hell of an enticing target. The kinds of armaments the minister described would mean total dominance. It would mean taking out their rivals. Hell, it could mean taking the whole damn country.

  During the interrogation, Bishop wondered why the Saudis would need that particular shipment. High-end assault weapons, grenade launchers, RPGs, tactical webbing and communications gear. This wasn’t arming a few rebels with fourth-hand AK-47s. It was arming soldiers for a coup. And it had taken some persuasion, but that’s exactly what the minister had admitted he was doing.

  He, and possibly other senior members of the government, were playing a high-stakes game of Russian roulette. In recent years the royal family, while still loved and respected, had faced challenges from within their country. A group had sprung up, Huriya, or Freedom. They, as the name suggested, were demanding more freedom, threatening open rebellion, and challenges to authority were on the rise. Staging a mini rebellion within their borders would bring the troublemakers to the surface, like drawing poison from a wound. At the eleventh hour the leaders of the coup would be taken down from within—crisis averted. It was unbelievably risky. The intention was to bolster public opinion and have the masses rally around their sovereign and their government.

  Towards the end of the interrogation the minister had become delirious, and it had been increasingly difficult to understand his pained ramblings. It was unclear if he was working alone or under the direction of his government.

  Bishop thumped the armrest. He had to stop with the speculation. The role of the spy wasn’t to understand the machinations of history, it was to be the silent weapon of their country, used to maintain the status quo or break it apart. Theirs was not to reason why, theirs was to do or die. Although Bishop preferred Minogue over Tennyson.

  Whatever the minister’s motivation, tens of thousands would have died for the man’s manipulation of public opinion. Again, Bishop cared little that bin Faisal’s time on the planet was limited.

  At the very least, Bishop and Oleg had averted an international crisis. Now they were aiming to take down those who had fanned it. Kali would be trading the shipment for cash—US dollars, to be precise. MI6 reported that an unscheduled flight from Saudi Arabia had landed hours before. The deal was going down; they had to be in position to capture as many as possible. This was their one chance to catch Kali in the act.

  The location of the trade was the Port International de Port-au-Prince, the seaport of the Haitian capital. Part government run, part private, it was large enough for a major shipment of arms, small enough to elude scrutiny. Interpol had decided it best to make the arrests at the Haitian end. It was deemed the Haitian authorities were less likely to kick up an international stink than if they’d tried to make an arrest on royal Saudi soil.

  The two men currently in first class were mere observers, their work officially done. At least, that was what Bishop’s superiors believed. Interpol, MI6, SVR and the Haitian police would have more than enough resources to intercept the trade and arrest those responsible.

  Running his fingers down the fresh scar on his side, Bishop closed his eyes and forced himself to rest. He needed all the energy his battered body could generate. Only one target interested him. If that target was in Haiti, all the forces combined wouldn’t prevent Bishop from extracting his revenge.

  Oleg put down his binoculars in frustration. “This is going to end very badly.”

  They sat in the cramped cabin of a crane high above the Port International. They were slowly roasting in the stifling conditions. The earlier humidity had given way to an uncomfortable dry heat. The window was open, but did little to prevent them baking in their own sweat. The cabin gently swayed in the warm wind. Far below, half a dozen MI6 and SVR agents, three Interpol representatives straight from Buenos Aires and twenty members of paramilitary units of the Haitian National Police were moving into final positions.

  “You think?”

  Oleg gave him a sideways glance. “Yes… that is why I said it.”

  “No, it’s a saying for… yes, it’s going to end badly. This is what happens when you organise tactical assaults by committee, you get a camel.”

  “There’s a camel?” Oleg picked up the binoculars and examined the landscape below. “Why do they need a camel?”

  “No… we need to work on your idioms. A camel is a horse designed by committee. It’s a saying.”

  “It’s not a very good saying.” Oleg put the binoculars down. “Why do they always have animals? A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. Why do you want a bird in your hands? They flap and shit everywhere. Stay in the bush, what do I care?”

  “You’re rather literal.”

  “I am Russian. We are a practical people. We have no time for trivialities.”

  Bishop decided to leave the conversation there. On the ground,
whatever committee had organised the operation had botched it. The deployment throughout the port facility was too haphazard. There were too many gaps, while other areas had overlaps of personnel, which would cause problems of their own.

  Both Oleg and Bishop had headsets to coordinate their own countrymen. They were the link between the two spy agencies. There was no way to contact Interpol or the Haitians. That concerned Bishop. Without proper comms, groups could be caught in friendly crossfire or backed into kill zones. He was glad he was far above the firefight because it could descend into a shitshow in no time at all. It would take a minor miracle for the operation not to end in a bloodbath.

  The Cambodian-registered ship Aurora was anchored at the second berth. It was a flag-of-convenience ship of vague ownership. A Saudi tanker returning from the Port of New York and New Jersey had conveniently reported mechanical problems and was en route, scheduled to arrive in a day’s time. A port facilities storage shed had been hired by an untraceable Cayman Islands firm, coincidentally for two days. It was all rather neat, with submissible evidence. If they wanted witnesses, their forces on the ground should do their best to avoid a massacre.

  Worse, if a single one of the targets got away they would alert the Saudi ship and the case could easily fall apart, leaving nothing to tie the deal to the Saudis. Interpol believed the best chance of success was to intercept the deal as it was being done. Bishop was cynical, but the decision had been made before he arrived.

  Oleg and Bishop waited. Sweated and waited. There was nothing left for them to coordinate. Half an hour passed with no major movement on the ground. The tedium wore down Bishop’s focus like a nail file.

  Oleg broke the silence. “Are Hall & Oates English?”

  “Who?” Bishop didn’t recall any operatives by those names.

  “The musical group.” Oleg’s eyes were still focused on the ground far below. “Are they English?”

  Thinking he was being wound up, Bishop replied, “No, they’re American. Why on earth did you ask me that?”

  “Oh. They're very good.”

  “I'm waiting for the joke.”

  “No joke.” Oleg turned to him. “I like them very much, I was just wondering.”

  They lapsed into silence again. Beneath them, nothing moved bar the occasional forklift. The sun continued to beat down.

  Five minutes later, Bishop sighed loudly. “Now I bloody have ‘Maneater’ in my head.”

  “Oh, that’s a great one! Ooh here she comes, watch out boys she’ll chew you up! Excellent.”

  Bishop smirked and shook his head. “You’re a weird unit, Oleg.”

  Are we friends now? Bishop wondered to himself. Did he trust the Russian? The answer was probably still no, though he had saved Bishop on more than one occasion. They worked well as a team. But friends? There were few people Bishop held in that category. Calling Oleg a friend was a stretch. Begrudging associates would be more accurate. It was unlikely they would be exchanging Christmas cards and holidaying by the Black Sea anytime soon.

  Bringing his meandering mind back to the reason they were on the swaying crane, Oleg nudged him and nodded towards an area on the dock to the west.

  “What is this fool doing?”

  On the ground, a young Haitian officer had taken up position. He was splayed on the ground, machine gun pointed at the causeway leading to the designated exchange point. Not only was his back fully exposed to two buildings with windows facing his way, but he had chosen a spot surrounded by oil barrels and dilapidated fuel pumps. He may as well have been sitting on a stack of dynamite smoking a cigar.

  “Perhaps this crane is not as far away as it could have been?”

  Taking a closer look through the binoculars, Bishop sighed. “I think you’re right.”

  It was too late to move. He checked his watch. It had taken ten minutes to climb up the crane and take their position. If they relocated themselves now it would be all over by the time they reached the ground. Bishop hoped the kid by the fuel station was a better shot than he was a tactician.

  Bishop called through the warning to his people; Oleg did the same. Their agents were better hidden. The SVR people were disguised as dock workers in grubby overalls and hats. The MI6 agents were in a tiny shed with long-range weapons. Bishop was satisfied they’d be even more cooked in their hiding place than he was.

  The Haitian police were poorly concealed throughout the docks, and would be the ones making the actual arrests. The Interpol representatives were hidden in a nearby portable office, ready to spring out after the fact and take all the credit.

  On the ground a wind sock on one of the customs buildings hardly moved. Up high, the crane felt like one of those inflatable flailing tube men. Bishop had never had a problem with heights, but the crane made him uneasy. He’d seen the rust on the long trek up.

  The port itself was small, with a handful of berths and few places to hide. The trade itself was to take place on a small island connected to the south pier. The causeway linking the island to the main port would be where the Haitians would make the intercept, cutting off the money men and the representatives of Kali from escape.

  Oleg nudged Bishop to follow his line of sight. A white Range Rover crept through the unmanned front gates of the port. From what Bishop could see, four men sat in the car, heads darting around nervously. The money had arrived.

  “Here we go.”

  Using their headsets, both men gave their teams a heads-up. The deal was going down.

  All eyes were on the SUV or on the island where the exchange was to take place. All eyes, that is, except Bishop’s. His job of informing his fellow MI6 agents done, he had a new role. An unauthorised one. He wasn’t concerned with the location of the trade. He concentrated on the periphery. The shadows. The places where spiders hid. He was searching for an assassin.

  The white SUV rolled towards the end of the causeway, double parking next to a rusted shipping container. The four men exited and glanced around nervously. Fifty metres away, six men emerged from the shadows on the island.

  One of the men who’d stepped out of the SUV carried a large suitcase. The specified $5.8 million untraceable US dollars. There would be few people in this poor nation who wouldn’t kill a loved one to get their hands on that kind of money. The man clutching it to his chest seemed to understand this. Through the binoculars Bishop saw the torrents of perspiration cascading down his face. If he wasn’t shot in the next five minutes he’d surely drown in his own sweat.

  The four stepped onto the start of the causeway cautiously. The six men they were meeting stood unmoving ahead of them, machine guns slung across their backs. Every muscle Bishop possessed was tense. Beside him, Oleg remained as still as a headstone. They needed everyone to keep their cool until the deal was done. It would take luck, but if everyone kept their heads, they’d still be breathing at the end of the day.

  As if hearing Bishop’s optimistic thoughts, a battered police van sped through the port gates and barrelled towards the causeway. It skidded to a halt and a dozen Haitian police officers bailed out, guns raised.

  Bishop’s fist slammed into the metal floor. “Too soon. Too fucking soon!”

  The deal hadn’t been made. The Haitians had blown their load too early. Everyone on the ground was about to be involved in a bloodbath.

  Oleg and Bishop screamed orders into their headsets. The moneymen spun around in circles, unsure where to run, but the six armed Kali guards knew exactly what to do. They raised their guns and fired.

  Hell was loosed upon Haiti.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Bishop’s stomach churned at the pure chaotic madness that unfolded far below. The distance from the fighting made Bishop’s assessment more clinical, but the horrifying events were no less real.

  The Kali fighters and the Haitian police exchanged frenzied gunfire. The Saudis were caught in the middle. Within seconds two white-thobed Saudis were pockmarked red and fell. The other two sprinted for the apparent safety of th
e water. Only one made it. The taller one received a barrage in the back and fell to the road, dead, while the other dove into the murky water of the port.

  The Kali and Haitian forces fired unrelenting barrages at one another, whether from bloodthirstiness or fear of not fighting hard enough, Bishop was unsure. The smart ones found cover or dropped to the ground. Others fell where they stood. Several Haitians fell backwards, bullets ripping the life from their young bodies. The Kali troops were far more trained and disciplined. Without orders, they rotated their fire, allowing their team members to reload. They were methodical, and within seconds they had whittled down the Haitian force, taking minimal casualties. In other circumstances, Bishop would have been impressed. They must be ex-Special Forces. At the end of the firefight, all six remained standing, with only two receiving minor injuries.

  It wasn’t over yet.

  The hidden Haitian police emerged, firing on the Kali forces. If they were as undisciplined as their compatriots, they would soon be joining the mounting piles of dead. It was the small number of spies who would be the ones to inflict damage. High above the melee Bishop and Oleg coordinated their forces. Attack vectors were limited, but their combined forces had a skill set the others lacked: patience, advanced weaponry and battle experience.

  Bishop ordered them to engage. They did exactly that. Poking weapons through windows, the MI6 agents fired their high-powered firearms. The first Kali fighter fell, a giant hole where his chest used to be. Another turned to run, but his head detonated in an explosion of gore.

  “Keep at least one alive, you bastards.”

  Bishop’s tone was half camaraderie, half exasperation. The deal had descended into a cluster fuck faster than anyone had feared. They needed arms dealers to tie it all to Kali. The dead made poor witnesses.

  Something was concerning Bishop. The Kali fighters backed away slowly to the island connected to the causeway. Strategically, it was suicidal. There was nothing beyond the island but water. The Haitian navy had two patrol boats closing in. They were cut off.