The International Assassin: A Sexy Times Crime Thriller

by Asher, Adele

  “I wouldn’t go that far.”

  “You didn’t answer the question though.”

  “We’ll cross that bridge if we ever come to it.”

  “That’s quite evasive. What am I to you Nick?”

  “Everything.”

  “So what is your mission?”

  “Everything else.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “It wasn’t supposed to.” Nick took my hand. “All you need to know is you are important to me and I’m not going to let anything bad happen to you as long as you are with me.”

  “Why do I get the feeling you know more than you are telling me.”

  “Because I do.”

  “But you can’t tell me?”

  “It’s not in your interest to know. At least not right now. I’m sorry that’s how it has to be, for your own sake.” Nick squeezed my hand gently. “I would say I wish I could tell you but it would be a lie. The honest truth is it doesn’t help you to know.”

  I nodded. Honesty wasn’t always the best policy. But I was hugely curious in any case.

  “You don’t trust me?” I asked him.

  “It’s not a question of trust,” he replied. I decided to let it drop accepting I wasn’t going to get any further elaboration on the truth, at least for now. Nick’s tone softened. “I wish I didn’t have to keep secrets from you. But if you can trust me to know I’m acting in your best interest then that’s a start.”

  “Okay,” I said. We got up and hugged. “If we get through this. Will you do something for me?”

  “Anything,” he replied.

  “Quit.” I looked him in the eye. “Would be nice to have a man that didn’t keep secrets for a living for a change.”

  “I’ll be out of a job.”

  “I guess that will mean you will have to be a kept man.” I smiled.

  “We better get your money back then,” he said before kissing me.

  Chapter 9

  I DIDN’T speak much to Nick as we drove down to catch the ferry over to France. Despite my acceptance that the nature of his work meant he probably couldn’t tell me everything I still felt he should, which was strange since during my relationship with Johnny I had never really cared about his secrecy. This made me realise I probably didn’t really care about Johnny that much either. Quite what had changed with Nick I didn’t know but he was perceptive enough to pick up on my silence.

  “It bothers you doesn’t it?” he asked me.

  “No,” I replied lying before sighing. “Yes,” I admitted reluctantly.

  He nodded sympathetically.

  “I get that.”

  “I understand why but I would just be happier if we didn’t have secrets between us. I just want to feel that you trust me with anything.”

  “And it didn’t bother you with Johnny?”

  “No. Not really. But that was different. He was different. This feels different. With you.”

  Nick looked considerate for a while before he spoke.

  “While you were packing I spoke with my people. We know who Johnny is now. I wasn’t going to tell you because…well I’m not sure if it helps or not. I don’t want you to be upset about it.”

  “Why would I be upset about it?”

  “You were with him a long time. After what he’s done…”

  “I’d like to know for my peace of mind. That’s all.”

  “Johnny Van Sant’s real name is Roy Jones.”

  “Roy? Get out of here!” I laughed. “What kind of name is Roy!”

  “The sort of name an electrician from Luton has.”

  “Are you taking the piss Nicky?” I said incredulous.

  “Unfortunately not. Roy Jones. Electrician from Luton.”

  “You are telling me Mister super-suave spy himself wasn’t an Etonian gent but an electrician from Luton? You’re taking the piss Nick.”

  “I’m afraid not. He did some contracting in Iraq for a company called Private Security Group. One of their guys Jonathan Van Sant, ex 22 Regiment SAS was found dead. Roy stole his identity and returned to the UK. He used Van Sant’s connections to hook up with a private interest group called the Harlington Club. Ex-military and finance sorts with lots of arm dealings and geo-political aspirations. At a guess your trust fund was Roy’s entry ticket to the club.”

  I just shook my head in disbelief. The notion that a manual labourer from Luton called Roy had duped me was as shocking as it was absurd. The fact I had even slept with such a character made me feel quite nauseous.

  “Are you sure? I mean your source is credible?”

  “The guy says it’s legit. He served with Van Sant in 22 regiment. He says your man Johnny is not Van Sant.”

  I just shook my head in disgust.

  “You shouldn’t feel bad. You weren’t the first, and by all accounts Charlotte is under his spell now.”

  “What a bullshit merchant. How the hell did he get away with it?”

  “He told you want you wanted to hear. Your imagination filled in the blanks for him.”

  “How could I be that stupid? Now you know who he is, that’s a good thing right?”

  “Yes and no. This Harlington Club is the problem. They’re connected both in my world and politically, which means that whoever is behind your assassinations had good reason to have those people terminated.”

  “You kind of already knew that though.”

  “It doesn’t make life much easier. If I start poking around in their business there will be consequences.”

  “So what are you trying to say? You’re going to cut and run?”

  “No. I’m just saying that what we’re doing…this will get very messy very quickly - for both of us.”

  “I understand the position you are in. I don’t want to cause you any trouble. I can deal with Roy by myself if I need to.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “But it’s what you meant?”

  “No it’s not what I meant.”

  “So what do you mean?”

  “What I’m telling you is if we start this there is probably no going back whatever happens…for either of us.”

  “I don’t have a lot of options right now Nick.”

  “I’m trying to say that you can walk away from this. I’ll take care of you no matter what. Maybe not quite as well as you are used to but still it’s a life. If we go after these people then we have to really go after them.”

  I thought about it for a moment. Trying to put aside the emotional desire for revenge against Johnny-Roy and the need to try and get back what I lost Nick had a clear point. We could turn around and go back to his place, live a happy Mister and Mrs existence on his modest state salary or we could pursue my vendetta and be embroiled in some international shadow groups evil plotting and never know if we were safe from one day to the next.

  I felt conflicted, as much as I wanted to get my life back and see Roy suffer a lengthy and humiliating death for his actions I didn’t actually want to put Nick in harms way. Despite our short time together I was already falling in love with him and the thought of him not being around made me sad.

  “I want my life back Nick. But I want you in that life.”

  Nick took my hand.

  “We go after them then.”

  It was that simple for Nick. He knew and had clearly counted the risks but he wasn’t about to shy away from a fight to stand up for me.

  “Together,” I added.

  “No more secrets,” he told me.

  I smiled and kissed him.

  We arrived at the Eurotunnel port just before eleven p.m for the late night crossing. Nick showed some official ID to the border security officer and he waved us past the customs check. Lucky since we had a boot full of small arms that would take a little bit more explaining than crates of lager and cheap cigarettes. Nick parked the car in the loading line for the train, got out of the car and leaned on the bonnet and lit a Marlboro. I got out to go and join him huddling against the cold nig
ht sea breeze. He smiled at me as he put an arm around me.

  “It feels like we are leaving for war,” I told him.

  “In truth we probably are,” he replied with a sigh dragging on the cigarette. “The one thing that doesn’t stack up for me was Sean Black. Obviously he set you up but why him?”

  “Well that was Charlotte. I’m guessing he needed him out the way so he could move on to her. But why is anyone’s guess. Charlotte doesn’t have money.”

  “Do you think they were having an affair?”

  “Before that night? No. Johnny didn’t have money either, at least not until he stole mine so she wouldn’t have been interested in him.”

  “So what’s his interest in her?”

  “I don’t kn-” I didn’t complete my sentence as I remembered the day Johnny-Roy had told me he wanted Sean dead in the hotel. “Of course!” I said. Nick looked at me quizzically. “In the hotel Johnny - well Roy, told me that it was Charlotte’s father who wanted him dead. He didn’t approve. He said it was a personal request and that Charlotte’s father would be useful to him if he owed him a favour. Well I didn’t know it was Charlotte at the time but it makes perfect sense in retrospect.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “You said this outfit, the Harrington Club is mostly politicos and ex-services? Well Charlotte’s Papa was a Brigadier General or something in the Household Cavalry. That’s where Lottie gets her delusions of grandeur. He’s got a knighthood for service to the realm. So I wouldn’t be terribly surprised if Charlotte’s Pa was a member of this Harrington outfit.”

  “Makes sense. Tells Johnny to kill Sean, rescue his daughter so to speak in return for giving him the nod to join their little club,” Nick said threading the pieces together. I smiled to myself. “What’s so funny?” he asked.

  “I was just thinking how vexed she will be when she finds out he is an electrician from Luton.”

  We returned to the car and Nick drove the Aston onto the carriage careful not to scrape the low-slung front spoiler on the loading ramp. I was glad he was driving. I probably would have used too much throttle and driven straight through the train Dukes of Hazard style. Pulling into a empty carriage he killed the engine and we waited for departure. Nick flipped through the CD’s and found some Sade to put on and reclined his seat back while we waited for the train to depart on its way to France. In retrospect taking the Aston was probably a mistake as there was no back seat and I would have been tempted to have a cheeky shag in the back of the car whilst en-route through the tunnel.

  We arrived in France without event. Since we had such a long haul down to Switzerland and it was past one a.m local time Nick foolishly let me drive so he could get some sleep in the passenger seat. I say foolishly because there is only two speeds I ever drive at - stationary and as fast as possible. Since the DBS was packing more than five hundred horsepower and was good for nearly two-hundred miles per hour it seemed only proper to let it stretch its beautiful legs as we reached the French auto-route so I put my foot to the floor and gave it some welly.

  Being France, of course it didn’t take long to attract unwanted attention and I was only some forty minutes into the drive before the blue lights of the Gendarmes lit up the blackness of the rear view mirror. It took a while for him to catch up since I was making steady progress at around one-hundred and sixty miles per hour. I thought about outrunning him but the fuel tank was down to a quarter, and at such speeds the Aston was gulping down super-unleaded at a gallon every seven miles so we would not likely get far. Reluctantly I took my foot off the fun pedal and slowed to a more acceptable pace pulling onto the hard shoulder as he finally caught up.

  Nick was still fast asleep fortunately, since he would probably be quite cross at my exuberance. Careful not to wake him up I opened the glove-box where his loaded Beretta was hiding and tucked it under my jacket just in case. The motorbike policeman walked round the wrong side of the car and bent down and was confused momentarily by the lack of steering wheel before crossing over to the right side of the car. I lowered my window.

  “English?” he said with the disdain that only the French seem to have integrated as default into their linguistic tone.

  “Yes. French?” I asked him which was returned with a scornful sneer.

  “You know how fast you were going?”

  “Not fast enough it seems.”

  “You were travelling at more than two-hundred and fifty kilometres per hour.”

  “No I wasn’t.”

  “Yes you were.”

  “No I wasn’t.”

  “Yes, YOU WERE,” he said angrily.

  “NO.I…really…was…not!” I replied slowly as if speaking to someone with learning difficulties. “I think you will find I was doing one-hundred and sixty miles per hour.”

  “That Madame is the same as two-hundred and fifty kilometres per hour.”

  “No, it’s a much lower number.”

  “This is France Madame. We are a modern society. We use metric. Not your imperialistic miles.”

  “So how do you explain air-miles? You don’t collect air kilometres do you?”

  “I’m going to impound your car. You are a danger to society,” he told me icily.

  “Well I’d agree with the danger to society part but not based on my driving.”

  “You think this is acceptable?”

  “Absolutely. For an Aston Martin I would say it was almost mandatory.”

  “You think you are better than everyone else?”

  “My dear chap I don’t think I am better than everyone else, I know I am better than everyone else!”

  “Are you going to be trouble Madame?”

  “Abso-bloody-loutely!”

  “I’m taking your car. It will be impounded. You will pay a fine and it will be crushed.”

  “No, it really won’t be.”

  “Yes, it really will.”

  “No it won’t.”

  “I promise you Madame. You will be going home on le bus.”

  “Listen you jumped up little Napoleon. Get back on your bike and fuck off! I don’t have the time or inclination to listen to your petty threats. You are symptomatic of the causes of your failed state!”

  “What failed state? France is not a Failed State!”

  “I would say it’s very obvious. You are a backwards people and have been ever since your revolution.You don’t even have proper toilets, you do some have exceptional fashion houses I will grant you that but that’s Paris and has very little to do with the rest of your horse-eating, onion-wearing, pig-farmer haw-he-haw-he-haw nation!”

  “Madame, get out of the car!” he said angrily.

  “I bloody well will not! It’s cold.”

  “I’m going to arrest you! Get out! Now!”

  “The hell you are! I’m not being arrested by a dirty little Frenchman. It’s unthinkable!”

  “You should have thought about that before you decided to do your impression of Lewis Hamilton on this road!”

  “Look Pierre, what I suggest you do is get back on your little bike and piss off back to whatever croissant-outlet you came from. I’m going to Switzerland.”

  “Non Madame! You are going to prison!”

  “Listen you filthy beggar. Bugger off! This is your last warning!”

  “My last warning? Who do you think you are to warn me!” the Gendarme told me incensed.

  “I don’t have time for this. Fuck off and don’t try and follow us, or there’ll be trouble,” I told him.

  With that I raised the window fired up the V12 and tore off down the road at full speed.

  Despite the excitement Nick surprisingly was still asleep. I got the Aston up to about one hundred and seventy on the clock and the blue lights became a small speck in the mirror. Unfortunately the rapid getaway was draining the Astons fuel tank faster than Oliver Reed at an open tab bar. With the services fast approaching and less than thirty miles showing on the Aston’s fuel computer it was unlikely I would make the n
ext fuel stop with the remnants of the tank. With a substantial eighteen or so gallon tank the Aston’s drinking requirements were too great to do some sort of formula-one ten-second splash and dash so subterfuge was the only option. I judged the diminutive Gallic copper to be at least two miles behind me at this point so decided to kill the lights. On the unlit road he wouldn’t have enough range on his motorbike headlamp to see me and I quickly cut into the exit lane for the fuel services.

  The large carbon-ceramic brakes protested slightly as I scrubbed the speed from one hundred and seventy to forty miles per hour in the length of the run off before coming to a rapid stop in the fuel station forecourt. The brake discs glowing red ticked and hissing angrily in the cold night air. Quickly I got out and grabbed the fuel hose and began the lengthy process of refuelling the large tanks with super-unleaded. I watched the entry to the forecourt intently in case I needed to make a sudden getaway. In the dark air even with the light of the forecourt the high-pitched whine of the motorbike and sirens could be heard flashing by on the nearby carriageway. Relieved my subterfuge had worked I relaxed a little.

  I finished refuelling the car. It came to around one hundred and forty-five Euros, which was a problem since I didn’t have any Euros. Luckily I had something better than that. I had a gun that worked just like shopping magic - you point it at someone and you win free stuff. Stopping to give the Aston’s windscreen a quick clean I headed into the forecourt shop, picked up a basket and filled it with snacks.

  Even with its prodigious thirst at such speeds the size of the tank meant the Aston could at least stretch another one hundred and eighty or more miles before needing to feast again, it therefore seemed wise to stock up since we were probably now fugitives in France. Nick was still asleep and oblivious to our newly found criminal status.

  Having stocked up on drinks, crisps and chocolate I headed to the counter where a fat, morose, bald, French gentleman awaited. Although I had no intention of paying I figured if was going to commit the crime I would get some cigarettes for Nick and some Euros while I was at it. Given we were already on the local Gendarmes most wanted list I might as well go all out.

  “Ten packs of Marlboro menthols,” I asked the Frenchman who obliged.