The Noble Mercenary

by Patrick John Donahoe

  Jacques wondered what he was getting into with the Count. Could he be a pompous wanna-be royal with an odd sense of humor, or a truly evil member of the Select?

  “Please have a seat. We have much to discuss.”

  Jacques sat in the chair closest to the Count’s throne-like arm chair.

  “François, bring us drinks. What would you like to drink, Jacques?”

  Jacques turned partway around and saw François standing in the doorway waiting. “I wouldn’t mind a cold beer, if it’s not too much trouble.”

  “The same for me, François. And please knock for entrance when you return.”

  “Very good, sir.” François left the room, and closed the door behind him.

  “As you have probably already surmised, I like to get to the point,” the Count paused for Jacques’ response.

  “Yes.”

  “Good, because I do. Don’t worry about your rental car. My chauffeur has already returned it for you, and will pay whatever you owe.”

  “Thank you, I suppose.”

  “You are welcome. You won’t be needing a car. I’ll be hosting you for the next few days. What has the Baron told you about your mission?”

  “Very little,” Jacques tried to maintain a cool front even though he didn’t want to be trapped in the Count’s home.

  “Good, because I want to explain it to you from Genesis to Revelation, from Alpha to Omega.”

  “I’m all yours.”

  “Your mission is to assassinate Vladimir Putin. Everyone who has ever had anything to do with him has their own opinion of the man. He has many facets from commendable to despicable. Our goal is to eliminate a dictator who runs his country with an iron hand, while improving conditions as much for his own gain as anyone’s. His elimination will create chaos in Russia, since he has eliminated any competition, and therefore any other strong leadership to take his place when he’s gone. We’re methodically going to eliminate all quote, unquote, good leadership around the world, and fill in the vacuums with Select leadership. Do you have any questions so far?”

  “No sir. I was aware of some of this before I arrived here.”

  “The Baron briefed you?”

  “Not in any detail.”

  “No disrespect to the Baron, but he does not fully understand the difficulty, and the gravity, of my pillar of our organization. He wants our efforts to be accomplished with as little fanfare as possible. He thinks whenever we have a political action all we have to do is hand out a few bribes, or task an operative, and it gets done. I’m going to partner you with two of my best people. They are competent in their jobs and will pardon no fools. If you are not cut out for this mission, they will uncover your inability in short order. If you appear to be a liability to our operation, they will not hesitate to remove the liability. Do you understand?”

  “Completely.”

  ‘Knock . . . knock.’

  “François, please enter,” Count Jaekel shouted. “Excuse me for shouting, Jacques. He won’t hear me otherwise. The old fool won’t let me outfit him with hearing aids.”

  François entered the room, walked up to the table, and set frosty steins of beer with one inch heads in front of Jacques and the Count. He also set a full frosted bottle of beer by each glass.

  Jacques saw the name Count KJ on the bottle labels.

  “Have a taste, Jacques. The beer is my own recipe.”

  Jacques took a long swallow from his stein, and ended up with a foam mustache on his upper lip. The beer was smooth with a hint of malt. “Umm, good,” Jacques said.

  “I’m glad you approve. We operate our own little microbrewery here on the estate. A hobby of mine. I’m still tinkering with the malt content, but it’s very close to being ready for market.”

  “My compliments, sir.”

  “I’m rushing you. François will set you up with a room, and I’ll introduce you to your two partners this evening at dinner. They will conduct a few tests of your abilities over the next two days, and if you pass, they will brief you on the details of the mission. I encourage you to interact fully with your partners. If you see flaws in their plans, or want to suggest better ways to proceed, please do so. Relax, finish your beer, and take the full bottle with you. I have some more work to do before my next meeting at four o’clock.”

  Jacques gulped down the last swallow of microbrew, and took the full bottle with him. François met him outside the study and showed him to his room.

  Jacques entered the dining room and wondered what it must be like to live life as a multi-millionaire and have all your wishes granted like having a genie in a bottle. Truth be known, he and Ian, and Serena, and Desiree had accumulated their own fortunes over the centuries, but they lived on their earned incomes to prevent undesired attention.

  The Count’s dining room was cavernous. The dining table and chairs, a great swath of oaken furniture, had settings for six on each side and one at each end. The Count sat at the head of the table in another throne like chair, a woman, Jacques supposed was the Countess, sat in the nearest chair to his right, and across from the Count’s wife sat the two assassins.

  The Count nodded to Jacques as he entered, and said, “This is my wife Countess Anabelle.”

  Jacques approached her, and said, “Pleased to meet you Countess,” and kissed the back of her hand.

  Anabelle smiled and replied, “Oh, dear, I just love the way you French greet a woman.”

  The Count pretended to not hear her comment, and continued, “These are my other two guests, Charmaine Lyon and Jon Schumacher.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Jacques said, and took his seat next to Anabelle. Jacques doubted the Count’s guests used their real names.

  They replied, almost in unison, “Pleased to meet you, also.”

  Charmaine looked like an athletic super model, slim-waisted, but curvy, her hair was honey blonde done up high on her head crowning her finely chiseled face. She had a pointed nose, crisp clear hazel eyes under dark pencil eyebrows, medium full lips, dimples in her cheeks, and a small dimple in her chin. The peach colored gown, not quite an evening gown, but more elegant than a sit down dinner dress, complemented her eyes so well that Jacques at first did not notice her décolletage prominently displaying the tops of her breasts in all of their glory. They bulged out in an attempt to escape whatever she wore for support. She had no need for any weapon other than her beauty, she could seduce any red blooded man in the world with her looks.

  Jacques realized he was staring at Charmaine and looked back to the Count.

  The Count had started to tell how he had acquired his royalty, “. . . and my grandfather, although royalty, believed every man needed to work for his rewards. He started a business to make uniforms for the Austrian army. The King of Austria titled him a Count for his contributions to the country, and to the king’s coffers from his profits. When Hitler took power, he confiscated the clothing factory to make uniforms for German soldiers, and forbade my grandfather from using his title. Now, in these modern days, even though royalty is passé, the Baron and I have taken it upon ourselves to use our inherited titles, at least among friends, even though no one seems to care about heritage or titles any longer.”

  “There, there, my love. You will always be royalty to me,” replied Anabelle, patting the Count’s arm with her hand.

  François entered the dining room, and announced, “Dinner is ready, sir, if you are.”

  “Yes, François, thank you, please serve before I bore our guests completely.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Two servers brought out two platters of food, one containing a large pre-sliced ham and the other a mixture of garden vegetables. One server then filled each of the water glasses with ice water. The second server asked the dinner guests, “What would you like to drink?”

  “Red wine for me,” the Count replied. He turned to his wife, “and for you Annabelle?”

  “Red wine, also.”

  Jacques, Charmaine and Jon each indica
ted the same for them. Meanwhile, the first server filled the Count’s and his guest’s plates with hot food.

  Jacques decided to speak only when he was spoken to, at least until he garnered a little more insight into the Count, Anabelle, and the two assassins. Jacques doubted that Anabelle was party to much of the Count’s activities and was happy to remain that way, so dinner conversation was kept to the weather, and to stories the Count enjoyed telling about his heritage, his clothes manufacturing business, the political science class he taught at university, and his estate.

  Jacques noticed that the male assassin, Jon, contributed little to the small talk. Jacques also noted Jon sizing him up, whether as a potential adversary, or ally, Jacques couldn’t tell. Jon, if that was his real name, looked like he had served in the military as some sort of special operations officer, a large man with a hard body, short hair, piercing brown eyes, a rugged face with creases rather than dimples, a trace of five o’clock shadow, and the countenance of a man who took everything serious. He could be a formidable foe in hand-to-hand combat.

  Jacques had told Ian many times that he didn’t need to be competent in every style of hand-to-hand combat like Ian was; he didn’t need to be a Ninja Special Forces operative, an expert in every kind of rifle, hand gun, knife, sword, etc., weapon in the world. Standing toe-to- toe against an enemy with a sword, or an axe, and hacking them to pieces in combat wasn’t Jacques cup of tea. He would rather use his skills with aircraft and ships, and mechanized machinery, and his knowledge of warfare and tactics to defeat the enemy, but when it came to hand-to-hand combat, there were few who could beat him, in fact only two, Ian and Serena.

  How he was going to add his skills to the skills of these two assassins was not obvious to Jacques. If this was some sort of a loyalty test improvised by the Baron before Jacques would be allowed into the inner circle, then Jacques could only play along. Jacques ate his food as though he was focused on eating until he realized his plate was empty. The food had been tasty, but he didn’t remember cleaning his plate.

  Charmaine disturbed Jacques internal ramblings with, “A penny for your thoughts.”

  Jacques looked up from his plate, slightly embarrassed, and replied, “I didn’t want to interrupt the Count’s stories, but I was wondering about your stories, yours and Jon’s stories. . . Tell me about yourselves.”

  “There’s not much to tell. Jon and I served in the Russian Army. Jon was wounded in a skirmish with Chechnya rebels, and assigned to work in Army Intelligence where I worked as a cartographer. We worked side by side until our enlistments were completed, when the Count was gracious enough to hire us as his personal bodyguards and security team. What about yourself?”

  “I spent the past five years in the French Foreign Legion and was discharged about three months ago. I went to work for Hapsburg Aeronautical test flying drones for the Baron. He asked me to do a small task for the Count, and here I am.”

  “I just love the Baron,” said Anabelle. “We must invite him to visit again, soon. It has been so long since we’ve seen him and Gabrielle.”

  “Quite so. Soon, my love, soon. For now, I must meet with my security team and our new friend Mr. Armand. Would you excuse us for a few minutes?”

  “Yes, my dear. I’ll be waiting in our bedroom.” Anabelle gave the Count a sly, impish grin, laid her napkin on the table, and left the room.

  “Follow me my friends,” the Count stood. and without looking to make sure they were behind him, led the way through the house to the library. He opened the library door and held the door open while they entered. He pulled a cord near the entrance and a knock was on the door before they could all be seated near the fireplace. “Enter.”

  François entered the room, “How may I serve, sir?”

  “Grey Goose on the rocks with a twist of lime, François.”

  François looked at Jacques, anticipating his request.

  “I’ll have a Höhler Whesskey on the rocks, if you have it available.”

  “Excellent choice, sir.”

  “What kind of drink is that?” asked Charmaine.

  “It’s a German whiskey made in the style of Irish single malt. It’s written and pronounced Whesskey as a play on the combination of the word whiskey, and the state Hesse, where the distillery is located. Take my word, it’s worth trying.”

  “Whesskey for me,” said Jon. “And for me,” added Charmaine.

  François left the library.

  As the door closed, the Count said, “Let’s get down to business, shall we.” He leaned back in his chair and addressed Jacques, “The three of you are going to assassinate Putin.” He took an iPad from the leather pocket of his armchair, and input the password. “Putin will be visiting his new palace in the next few days to check on the construction progress. You and Jon will be posing as construction workers, while Charmaine will be posing as a decorator. Charmaine will lure Putin into a room to show him the proposed wallpaper and carpeting. You’ll be in the room finishing a mosaic tile design until you’re given the go ahead, at which time you’ll dispatch Putin with prejudice, and both of the guards that usually attend him. Any questions?”

  “Will we use any weapons, or just our hands?”

  “Your tool box will contain two 3D printer plastic handguns with one bullet in each chamber. Spare bullets will be provided in a plastic tube. Once the guards are disposed of, you take their weapons, shoot Putin, and escape.”

  Before Jacques could comment, the Count continued, “. . . I am well aware of the challenges and dangers associated with this mission. I put together two previous missions to assassinate Putin, and both failed. I think this one will succeed with the three of you. You three have been handpicked for this mission. You should feel complemented.”

  Jacques thought of several points of contention with the Count’s assurance, but instead asked, “I assume our entry into Russia will be without government approval. What escape support will we have?”

  “Once you’re out of the palace, you’ll find a small boat with an electric outboard tied up at the boat dock. Motor ten minutes south where a car will be hidden in the brush near the shore. Then drive to a local airport on the outskirts of Sochi where you will board a small private plane, and are airdropped over Turkey. Make your way to Ankara, fly commercially to Athens, switch planes, and fly back here to Berlin, where I will debrief you.”

  “I’m impressed. It all sounds very cloak and dagger. Iffy in concept, hazardous in execution, with multiple points of potential failure, and too many unlikely connections. The odds of us getting out of there alive are reduced with each juncture. I didn’t sign up for a suicide detail. Vladimir Putin may be a terrible dictator, but Russia could have worse.”

  “We’re planning for Russia to have our own man.”

  “Who gets the blame?”

  “We’re arranging for you to have Russian papers for the construction job. When they examine our paper trail, your false identities will trace back to the Ukraine, further antagonizing the ties between Russia and the Ukraine.”

  Jacques addressed Charmaine and Jon, “The two of you have been strangely silent throughout the Count’s description of the mission. Does that mean you already know these details?”

  Charmaine nodded her head, “We formulated the plan together.”

  “I hope the arrangements for our escape are solid. A chain is as weak as its weakest link, and there are a large number of links in your chain.”

  “We’re not in this alone. We have support from Ukrainians and Chechens who will take care of most of the logistics.”

  “And in gratitude, we’ll blame the assassination on them,” added Jacques.

  “That will only come out after you’re a long way from the scene of the crime,” the Count replied. “Your only concern is carrying out your part of the scenario with Charmaine and Jon. You have less than two weeks to prepare.”

  After a long overnight flight on a Phoenix Copper Air Force Lear Jet used for government dignitaries,
with one stop in Reykyavik, Iceland for refueling, Ian and Serena were led into Vladimir Putin’s posh office in the Kremlin by a man who did not identify himself. Apparently, Putin had multiple offices in Moscow, and used whichever one suited his activity at the time.

  “Mr. President, may I introduce you to two of the United States top counter terrorism agents. Serena Meyer and Ian McCloud,” the man introduced them, then remained standing next to them.

  President Putin got up from his chair and stepped around his desk to shake first Ian’s, then Serena’s hands. “Meyer sounds Jewish to me. Are you Jewish?”

  “Yes sir. My ancestors came from Jerusalem.”

  “Do you practice your faith?”

  “I try to live it, sir.”

  “Commendable. Are you willing to protect me from these threats?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you, McCloud, are you Irish or Scottish?”

  “Irish, sir.”

  “And are you willing to protect me from these threats?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Can you tell me of your training? You both seem so young to come with such high recommendations.”

  Serena answered first, “I served in the Israeli Army, then with Mossad before joining the CIA. I still liaison with the Mossad, on occasion.”

  “Are you in liaison with the Mossad on this occasion?” Putin gave Serena a steely eyed glare.

  “Yes, sir, the Mossad sent me to warn you about the threats being made on your life by various factions.”

  “I see. More than one threat?”

  “Yes, sir. During the Sochi games.”

  “I’m perplexed that the Mossad would be supportive of my well-being. I would think they might be pleased to find me eliminated.”

  “It is not in Israel’s best interest to have more instability in the region than we already have. It is simply quid pro quo, sir, not intending any disrespect.”

  “I see. So given this warning, and your help with countering the threat what do your masters expect in return?”

  “Nothing more than benign neglect, sir. We only ask that you do not aid, or encourage, our enemies against us.”