The Orsinni Contracts

by Bill Cariad

  “Ah,” cried Kimoto, clapping his hands, the glee plain to see on his face as he continued, “Now I have you, Maria Orsinni. Now I say to you, as you did to me, how could I ever explain myself to Tanaka if I had failed to help you in your time of need?”

  Maria saw his face became serious again as he added, “So tell me how I may help you, Maria Orsinni.”

  Maria made her decision in seconds. Kimoto could be trusted. He had already witnessed her taking down Forza, and had immediately helped to prevent discovery of her actions. Besides which, he was in her debt. Under the terms of his code of honour, allowing him to help her would go some way towards repaying that debt.

  “You have props here in the dojo,” said Maria, “that I can use to replicate some of the things I will need to deal with on the day. But your assistance with the timing will be very helpful.”

  “So your objective,” voiced Kimoto, “is someone who has broken the laws of this country?”

  “He has broken the laws,” replied Maria, “of practically any country you could name.”

  “So he is a common criminal?”

  “He is a scientist,” explained Maria, “and his crimes could not be described as common ones.”

  “What crimes has a scientist committed which brings him to your attention?”

  Maria took a deep breath, then told Kimoto the story. When she had finished, the martial arts master was silent for a few moments before he spoke.

  “Warui yatsu hodo te ga shiroi,” said Kimoto, seeing the curiosity before him and immediately providing the translation, “The evillest men have the whitest hands.” His eyes glittered as he continued, “Your task is honourable, and dangerous.” He paused, smiling as he resumed, “I recall now, Maria Orsinni, reading something once said by an American who died long ago. The man had a name as unforgettable to me as the words I remember. The man’s name was Ralph Waldo Emerson, and he said that when skating on thin ice, our safety is in our speed.”

  Maria gifted Kimoto a warm smile, silently admiring his style.

  “What props will you need?” asked Kimoto.

  “Your office door,” she replied, “one of your training kit baskets, and your body,” she added with a smile, “for target practice.”

  Since it was now four thirty in the afternoon, they agreed that they would begin rehearsing tomorrow. Maria used the phone in Kimoto’s office to summon Tony’s taxi.

  It was 5-30pm when Maria got back to the Waldorf and she headed straight to the Reception desk. In response to her question, she was told that her uncle was not in the hotel and was then handed a message: Sorry didn’t contact you this morning... will explain... please wear one of your wonderful dresses tonight... Signore Kennedy and I are taking you out to dine before taking you to the theatre... will meet you in the lobby at seven.

  After reading Canizzaro’s message and realizing that she had no time to waste, Maria wrestled with the emotions of panic, indecision, and exasperation, during the time spent dashing to her suite, agonizing over her selection of evening dress, stripping off clothes and showering, drying her hair whilst deciding her choice of dress needed rethinking if it were to compliment the emerald and diamond bracelet, dithering over shoes which went with the finally chosen Italian wool three-quarter-sleeved green dress designed by Yves St Laurent to show its keyhole neckline interwoven with silver thread.

  At 7pm it was Tommaso who came to her in the hotel lobby, looking elegant in his tuxedo and making her think of Sergio Bond.

  “Your uncle is hiding in the car,” said Kennedy, “You look stunning. We’re running a bit late, so shall we go?”

  For Maria, the ensuing evening was a surprising mix of pleasure, frustration, and disappointment. Pleasure because the French restaurant chosen by the men was first class and she enjoyed her meal, almost as much as she enjoyed the admiring looks her bracelet received. Frustration because at the table for three she was unable to say to Tommaso what she would have liked to say, and disappointment because Canizzaro had chosen to insult her intelligence by lying to her. His given explanation for his absence at breakfast, and for not having phoned to put her mind at rest, was so obvious a fabrication that even Tommaso had been unable to meet her eye as she had listened. Amusedly forming the opinion that Canizzaro was afraid to divulge something which might eventually reach the ears of Graziella, Maria didn’t press her uncle. To the obvious relief of both men, she noted.

  Thankfully for Maria, the unsettling restaurant episode was later eclipsed by her first visit to New York’s theatre-land and the Broadway show entitled Les Miserables. Told by Tommaso that this was a ‘hot ticket’ show written by two Frenchmen and destined to transfer To England’s city of London at the end of the year, she was entranced by the dramatic storyline, the passionate performances of the show’s cast, the costumes and scenery, and the powerfully evocative music. Nearing the climax of the show, during scenes depicting a barricade mounted by rebel peasants singing their words of defiance, Maria’s Sicilian blood surged in her veins and her hand searched for, and was gripped by, Tommaso.

  Following the emotional highs she had experienced during the memorable performance of Les Miserables, Maria’s goodnight words to her evening escorts were to prove anti-climactic. Tommaso merely brushed his lips over her fingers with his murmured ‘Goodnight, Maria’ before climbing aboard the taxi which would take him to the still un-named hotel.

  Back at the Waldorf her uncle pleaded exhaustion, and the elevator journey to their floor was made in silence. Outside his room, Maria kissed him goodnight without enthusiasm. Wishing her hormones were raging all over Tommaso instead of just herself.

  On Tuesday, August 27th, her seventh day in New York, with four days to go before she would attempt to take down Calendar and his CIA bodyguard, not yet knowing if she could produce the necessary speed to do so successfully, it was an understandably preoccupied Maria Orsinni who sat down opposite a subdued looking Canizzaro for her sixth Waldorf breakfast. Conversation at the table was polite, but minimal, and she reckoned her uncle was probably still wondering how he could persuade her not to tell Graziella about his nocturnal wanderings. More taken up by her own thoughts this morning, she was content to leave the man stewing in his guilt. Even as he made his ‘business calls’ excuse for leaving the table, she was already constructing in her mind the action template for her next three days.

  For the most part, those ensuing three days reliably followed her template. On each of them, her Plaza hotel appearances continued to cement her bona-fide early morning presence in the minds of hotel staff. The cistern ‘stash’ remained undisturbed, and, confirming their usage, chambermaids had been witnessed extracting clean linen from the stout wooden Ottomans which stood between each floor’s room doors. A twenty dollar bill and a ‘woman-to-woman’ chat about female curiosity, influenced a giggling chambermaid’s compliance which allowed Maria to scope out the interior of a fourth floor room she was assured mirrored its neighbours.

  Having explained to Kimoto her needs, and the topography involved, her rehearsals had proceeded apace. As had been expected, she had steadily reduced her times when dealing with props. And she hadn’t lost her lock-picking skills. The unknown factor was where exactly her targets would be in the room. The room’s interior layout had been chalked out on the dojo floor, and Kimoto’s ‘target practice’ body positioned in different areas had obviously resulted in different times being recorded from the point of entry to ‘strike-time’ and egress.

  Maria had three more evening meals with her uncle at the Waldorf. But on the Thursday evening she was given Canizzaro’s message saying he was Dining with the Getty people again. She was unconcerned. Another forthcoming solitary breakfast would enable her concentration to be focused entirely on tomorrow’s showdown with Shrivenham’s Evelyn Calendar.

  1 I think

  Chapter Forty-One

&nbs
p; Dressed To Kill

  Wearing plain black slacks topped by a light blue cashmere sweater, shod in her steel toe-capped boots and carrying two Macy’s shopping bags, Maria climbed into Tony’s taxi at their pre-arranged time of eight in the morning. Already briefed, fully prepared to enjoy his role, her driver wasted no time in transporting her to Harry Albright’s Upper West Side townhouse.

  Telling Maria he could be found in his study when she was ready, a smartly suited and booted Albright deposited her in a downstairs bathroom. Eventually, she emerged from the bathroom in her new persona and joined him for coffee as they talked. Given what Albright was looking at as he talked or listened, Maria thought that he concealed his reaction very well.

  Later, with Tony’s taxi following as per-plan, Albright drove her to the Plaza hotel. Inside the now comfortably familiar environment, Maria made straight for the ladies room housing her ‘stash’. Ignoring the disdainful look she received from a woman in the act of leaving the powder room, Maria locked herself inside the thankfully empty cubicle and began making the required transfer. She climbed up on the toilet seat, lifted the cistern lid and stepped down to quietly place it on the floor. She retrieved the package, the scissors, and the roll of duct tape, and stepped down again to place them on the toilet seat before unbuttoning her trench coat.

  Albright had rated as slim, the chance of her being searched as she entered the hotel this early in the morning of the day of the CIA’s unannounced arrival with Calendar, but on the basis of no chance being better than slim, Maria had opted for certainty. She unwrapped the syringe from its protective covering but left the cork in place as she taped the instrument to the outside of her left thigh and used the scissors to cut away the excess tape. She used the scissors again to produce the strip of tape she now used to rehouse them along with the remaining tape back inside the cistern. The cistern lid was quietly replaced, and she stepped down for the last time to rebutton her trench coat. Outside the cubicle she walked up and down whilst flexing and bending her left leg, and was satisfied her hidden appendage would pass its stress test. With the clock in her head telling her it was time, Maria rejoined Albright in the hotel foyer.

  They had timed it perfectly, saw Maria as she attached herself to Albright’s arm. At the reception desk was the shaven-skulled and formidable looking black man who had to be Melcher. Standing between the relaxed looking bodyguard and the weary looking man who fitted Albright’s description of Welbeck, was a medium height thin individual with cold looking eyes set in a pale-complexioned face which was making no attempt to conceal its arrogant expression. There were no other bodyguards. The check-in formalities obviously having been completed, the trio were turning away from reception when Albright made his approach with Maria in tow.

  “Hello there, Theo, got a minute?”

  Welbeck’s reaction, noted Albright with instant relief, was more or less as Maria Orsinni had predicted. The man was clearly struggling to stop himself ogling the sexy looking woman holding on to an Albright arm. The sexually provocative woman wearing a trench coat unbuttoned enough to suggest that her magnificent breasts were bare. Welbeck’s concentration wasn’t really being helped by Maria’s movement which was parting the trench coat to reveal fishnet-stockings-clad thighs and seemingly nothing else as she clutched the Albright arm and robbed Welbeck of his pretence at disinterest.

  “Well, Hi, Harry,” said Welbeck, pausing to indicate to Melcher that he and Calendar should proceed without him to the waiting elevator, “I wasn’t expecting you till later tonight.”

  “Thought I would have a private word with you now, Theo,” said Albright, guiding him towards the other elevator. Again as she had predicted, Maria’s movement revealing more breast and thigh drew the unprotesting man along with them and into the elevator.

  “A private word, Harry?” questioned Welbeck, visibly colouring now as Maria moved again to expose a complete breast before giggling and tucking it back inside the coat.

  “Don’t worry about Carlotta, Theo,” said Albright, “apart from the word fuck, she doesn’t know any English and we won’t be doing any fucking in your room. We’re on our way back from a party, Theo, so I won’t be taking you up on your offer to have a drink later. I’m too pooped. But I’ve got some good dirt on Kilpatrick which will be useful to you and I thought I could tell you about it in your room.”

  Theo Welbeck was speechless and still struggling with vision control. Who would have thought that an old fart like Harry Albright could be juicing a hot blonde hooker like Carlotta here. Even more tantalising though was the thought of having in the Welbeck survival locker, some dirt on that rule-book-bastard Kilpatrick. Harry’s gift offer was irresistible. Possession of such would prevent the London Station Chief from sending Langley a downbeat Shrivenham report which would tarnish the Welbeck reputation. A few private minutes with Harry here should be no sweat. The hooker was irrelevant, reckoned Theo, he wouldn’t be doing any talking, and the kind of weapons she had under that coat weren’t likely to cause him any more trouble than he was having right now trying to conceal his erection. Besides, thought Theo, Curtis would be right next door so he wasn’t exactly straying too far from the job in hand.

  “Sure, Harry,” said Welbeck, “A few minutes is no sweat. The rest of the team will be a while yet, and you’ve got me hooked now anyway.”

  With Maria still enticingly in tow, Albright was led past room 408 and watched Welbeck key his own room next door to it, and stand aside to usher them in.

  “I could use a drink, Harry, how about you?” said Welbeck, the door still not completely closed, his sights on the mini-bar when Harry’s hooker started flashing eye-catching glimpses of flesh as she tugged at one of her ears. He was brushed aside as she caught the still closing door and the blonde sex-bomb was exploding out of the room before he could blink.

  “What the fuck...?” he began.

  “She’s lost an earring again,” said a grinning Albright, “Second time since we got to the hotel. She’ll find it in the powder room downstairs, again. Jeez, I gotta’ tell you, Theo, she’s really something between the sheets. Makes me feel like a teenager all over again. Anyway, Theo, this gives us that few minutes alone now. So how about that drink while I fill you in on Kilpatrick?”

  Welbeck stared in admiration at the man who had brightened up his day, and who seemed set to continue doing so. “Coming right up, Harry. I’ll pour while you dish the dirt.”

  Even as the closing door was connecting with her buttocks, when she was now out of Welbeck’s sight and pulling the solitary earring off to pocket it alongside its twin, the combat clock in Maria’s head was ticking off the seconds. With no plan B to fall back on, she knew that success or failure now would be dictated by not just her skills, but her speed. A measure of speed which would defy any post-execution analysis which might consider connecting the presence of Harry Albright and his blonde hooker to what she was determined those analysts would find. So she was already doing the things she needed to do to get clear of this corridor before any unscripted witnesses appeared. She took the ski-mask from a coat pocket and pulled it over her head. Extracted from another pocket, the picklock was held between her teeth as she unbuttoned and stripped off the trench coat; lifted the Ottoman’s top; dumped the coat on top of the linen; and quietly closed the Ottoman.

  Dressed now only in steel toe-capped boots, fishnet holdup stockings, a skimpy thong and a ski-mask, the combat clock was reaching eleven seconds when she carefully began working with the picklock, and the clock had ticked past fourteen seconds when, with one hand on the door handle and listening for sound, she crouched to place the picklock hard against the corridor skirting board. The combat clock was ticking sixteen when she opened the door wide and flowed into the room to be instantly met by lady luck... Target free lounge... bathroom light on... eighteen seconds gone... voices in bedroom... nineteen seconds gone as she visually registered th
e bedroom scene... two targets... no visible weapons... she hadn’t been seen yet... Melcher, in profile to her, naked and erect... note he’s holding a drink in his left hand... twenty seconds gone... Calendar, half-dressed in women’s clothes, looking up at her, mouth agape, eyes wide with shock... twenty-one seconds gone... and Melcher was only beginning to realize something was wrong with his playmate and turn towards her when she reached him with the paralyzing palm-heel strike to the neck. Which froze his movement for all the time she needed to render him unconscious with another strike to his heart, and he crumpled and fell to the floor. Twenty-four seconds gone.

  Calendar was crouched in a corner, the shock still overpowering his senses, making soft mewing sounds as she moved towards him, and he fainted when she reached him. Which suited her just fine. With twenty-six seconds gone she dragged him over beside Melcher and draped their bodies together. Her left stocking suffered when she ripped the tape away from her thigh to free the syringe. She removed the cork, and, without any hesitation, injected two thirds of the lethal dosage straight into Calendar’s jugular vein. These last few manoeuvres had all taken longer to execute than she would have liked, and her combat clock was now telling her that ninety-eight seconds had gone as she pumped the final third of the drug into Melcher’s right arm. The bodyguard’s drink had splashed her when she had struck her first blow, so she used the corner of a bed-sheet to wipe off the alcohol from her breasts, and to carefully remove her fingerprints from the syringe. Using what she took to be Melcher’s shorts to cover her hand, she held the syringe by its tip as she pressed the fingers of Calendar’s right hand on to the instrument, and used a sleeve from Calendar’s pink blouse to grip and position the fingers of Melcher’s left hand around the syringe. She then made sure she had all the duct-tape, and the bits of torn fishnet stocking, and the cork, when she left the Shrivenham killer-paedophile and his complicit bodyguard snuggled up together in their death pose.