Topless Agenda

by Lyle Christie

“Yeah, why are you up so fucking early?” John added.

  “Hello, it’s a work day you pieces of shit, and some of us actually work for a living.”

  “Is there more coffee in the pot?” Corn asked.

  “Yeah,” I said, as I poured each of them a cup.

  John and Corn took their coffee and sat down on the couch, and, a moment later, Lux appeared and proceeded to immediately scowl at them.

  “You boys should really put on some pants,” she said.

  “Why? We’re all friends here.”

  Just then, the door to my room opened and Lea walked out looking particularly glamorous in her dress from the previous evening—her unexpected appearance catching John and Corn completely by surprise.

  “Guys, I’d like to introduce you to Lea. She’s an agent with the FIS working with us on the Babineux affair. Lea, this is Lux, Corn, and John. Corn and Lux are spooks, and John, as you probably know is...”

  “The vice president of the United States,” Lea said, finishing my sentence for me.

  “I was going to say scumbag politician, but if you want to keep it more formal, that’s fine.”

  John and Corn looked embarrassed, and it only took a moment before each of them grabbed a couch pillow and placed it over their lap in an inadequate attempt to maintain some dignity.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” John said.

  “Yeah, it’s nice to meet you,” Corn added.

  “And it’s nice to meet you as well.”

  “What brings you—here?” John asked uncomfortably.

  “Tag was nice enough to let me come up to his room after we had a little trouble in the bar.”

  “What kind of trouble?” Corn asked.

  “What kind of trouble does Finn usually get into?” Lux interjected.

  “Girl trouble, apparently,” John responded.

  “Not exactly. This time I got into a little tussle with our Saudi hit team.”

  “The Saudi hit team?” John asked.

  “Well, yeah—obviously. How many do you think there are running around Switzerland?”

  “And this was here—in the hotel last night?”

  “Yep.”

  “How the hell did you find them?”

  “They found me in the bar, or, more accurately, they found Lea, but it’s all good now.”

  “Why do you say that?” Lux asked.

  “Because, now, I can positively identify them if I see them again.”

  “Yeah, and they’ll know you as well, super spy,” Lux said.

  “Oh, don’t be such a pessimist. Croissant?” I asked, walking over with the tray.

  Corn and John leaned over and grabbed one, while Lux continued to frown, obviously not too pleased by my news.

  “Boys, I think it’s about time for some pants. We’re not in a trailer park for fuck’s sake,” Lux said.

  “Yeah, good idea,” Corn said, as he put down the croissant and left the room.

  John did the same, and the two were back a minute later, thankfully properly clothed in some pants.

  “Sorry about that, Lea. I usually prefer to be dressed for official meetings,” John said.

  “No problem. I liked your boxers,” she said, stifling a laugh.

  We spent the next forty-five minutes discussing the operation and planning how we were going to approach Babineux. The FIS had been keeping him under tight surveillance, and Lea gave us exacting details of the layout of his villa and daily habits. At eight-thirty, she looked at her watch and said that she had to check in with her superiors. She kissed me goodbye, smiled, and slipped out the door. I closed it behind her and turned around to find John, Corn, and Lux all staring at me.

  “What?”

  “James fucking Bond. You can’t even have a simple dinner without hooking up with a woman can you?” John asked.

  “Hooking up is a rather crass term to describe liaising with a member of a cooperating intelligence service.”

  “Liaising? I’d say it was more like getting laid.”

  “I prefer the term interpersonal diplomacy.”

  “You would,” Lux said.

  “Oh well, it’s time for a shit, shower, and a shave, so I’m afraid I must bid you all adieu.”

  “Any more women around here that we need to worry about?” John asked.

  “None that I know of, but be sure to send them my way if you find any.”

  “Like you need any more,” Lux muttered, as I turned and strolled from the room.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Family Reunion

  WE HAD A final meeting with John and Corn then loaded up the car and headed off towards the ski basin. Babineux’s chalet was right next to one of the main slopes, and Lea had said that he and Bridgette would usually head up the mountain to ski first thing in the morning then return to his place for lunch. Lux and I decided that she would wait at the villa while I rented some gear and headed up to find them on the slopes. It might have been easier to have both of us just sit and wait, but I really wanted to go skiing, and it wasn’t very often that I was in Switzerland, so why not take advantage of a world class mountain?

  It was early in the season and, therefore, not particularly crowded, so I was able to rent boots and skis, and get fitted in about a half hour before heading up the mountain. Lea had also said that Babineux would be unmistakable, as he wore a one-piece yellow ski suit. That was quite a fashion statement, even for a Frenchman, but, at least, it would make him a hell of a lot easier to spot on the slopes. Fortunately, the FIS had put together a pretty thorough report on Babineux, which even included his preferred runs. Using that information, I headed up to a lift called Hauptertali and discovered it was a great day to be on the slopes with clear blue skies overhead and six inches of fresh snow having fallen overnight. The area was well above the tree line and completely wide open, so it took all of one run to find my targets standing off to the side taking a selfie of themselves. How cute.

  I waited for them to finish with their lover’s moment then followed them down and ended up only a few people behind them in the lift line. I could hear the two lovebirds chatting away, and they sounded like typical tourists as they talked about where they would eat dinner and what they would order. There wasn’t a word mentioned about terrorists or his recent failed arms deal, so he either had ice water running through his veins or no idea that he was a hunted man, which, if true, added credence to the idea that ignorance really might be bliss. The woman next to me asked if I knew the time, and I responded without thinking, telling her it was eleven fifteen—in English. Whoops! I’d just inadvertently broken from the mission protocol, which was to maintain surveillance and wait to make contact until we were all at Babineux’s chalet—the belief being that it would be harder for them to make a run for it. Bridgette, possibly recognizing my voice, turned around to look in my direction, but I managed to duck down and pretend to adjust one of my ski boot buckles. I watched out of the upper corner of my goggles as she scrutinized the crowd before turning back around and scooting forward to line up for the next lift chair. That was a close call, and I’d have to stay a little farther back if I hoped to keep from getting made. I ended up two people behind them on the lift and had a pretty good view of Bridgette’s backside. It was quite a piece of real estate, and it was still hard to believe that I’d had my paws on that lovely posterior.

  At the top of the lift, the two of them skied off to the right, and I followed, staying back about a hundred and fifty yards, where I could maintain a proper visual of my subjects. They were carving their way down the run, and I was surprised to see that both Babineux and Bridgette were pretty damn good skiers. Anyone could slog their way down a hill, but looking good was a real art form and took time and practice. I knew this little fact because I had spent most of my formative years racing on a ski team and was, therefore, rarely impressed by typical recreational skiers. This wasn’t the case at the moment, and I had to suspect that Babineux, being European, had probably learned his chops in the
Alps while Bridgette had probably spent many a winter vacation on the snobby slopes of Aspen or Vail, likely getting expensive private ski lessons from some hunky instructor that she was most certainly boning when not on the slopes. How else would a billionaire’s daughter spend her winters when she wasn’t in Hawaii or the Caribbean?

  Up ahead, Babineux and Bridgette continued past the bottom of their favorite lift chair, which likely meant they were heading back home for their usual early lunch. Shit. I was kind of hoping they would ski a little longer, as I was just getting warmed up and enjoying carving some nice giant slalom turns. Oh well, it was probably a better idea that I didn’t go too bonzo, as I was in the middle of a fairly important operation and shouldn’t overexert myself by skiing too hard. It was common knowledge that the first day back on the slopes always felt great, but you inevitably skied past your physical limits and spent the second day crawling around your cabin on your hands and knees with an ice pack and a bottle of Ibuprofen. A lot of people didn’t understand that altitude made it harder for your body to process the buildup of lactic acid in the muscles, so moderation, therefore, was the key when it came to being able to hit the slopes the following day.

  The run eventually reached the tree line, and the two of them cut onto a wooded connecting trail and stopped to talk. I hung back out of sight and watched as a snowmobiler passed me on his way down the same path. He, obviously, worked for the resort and was some kind of ski patrol, or so I thought until I saw him stop and pull out a silenced pistol from under his parka. Whoops! I didn’t see that one coming, and neither did Babineux and Bridgette, for they now looked panicked as they regarded the gunman. Bridgette tried her best to slink back behind Babineux, but his garish yellow ski suit would offer little protection. Welcome to dating an arms dealer. It would be right about now that she’d be missing the nice private investigator who answered his door wearing a pair of Crocs. I skied off the trail and stayed in the trees, moving closer until I could hear the guy talking.

  “We had a deal, Babineux,” he said.

  “Yes, and I delivered your missiles, so it’s not my problem.”

  “The Sarsarun hadn’t even left your island when the Americans raided the yacht, so I’m afraid it is your problem. You got paid, and we got nothing.”

  “The Americans intercepted the case of jewels as well, so, we all lost out in the deal.”

  “Whether or not that is true is of no consequence anymore. The way we see it, it is time for you to pay your debt—with your life.”

  The man aimed his pistol at Babineux’s head.

  “No, I can get you more missiles.”

  “It’s too late. You have become a liability, and our business with you is concluded.”

  “No! We can still work something out!”

  The guy pulled out a radio with his other hand and said something in Arabic. He was probably calling in the rest of the team, so they could help dispose of the bodies.

  “Goodbye, Babineux,” the gunman said, as he cocked his pistol and smiled.

  “Wait!” Babineux exclaimed, loudly.

  The shooter wasn’t listening anymore. He had a job to do, but, fortunately for the lovebirds, so did I. My silenced Glock 19 pistol was already aimed, and all I had to do was squeeze off two quick rounds. I chose the harder shot and aimed for the head. Center mass was always the safer shot, but winter clothes could be thick and had been known to stop hollow point bullets. Also, I wanted to make sure the asshole didn’t pull the trigger, and that meant taking his brain out of the equation. His head jerked forward as the bullets impacted, causing the unlucky snowmobiling terrorist to collapse and hit the slopes—for the last time. I left the tree line then skied up and stopped beside Babineux and Bridgette to see the shock of the moment still evident on both of their faces.

  “Bonjour Bridgette et Dugland,” I said.

  My last word translated as fuckface, and I had learned it, coincidentally, from Babineux himself.

  “Bonjour trou du cul. What the fuck are you doing here?” Babineux asked, still looking surprised.

  “Skiing, obviously, and, more importantly, saving your asses.”

  “Yeah, and I might have thanked you for your little intervention had you not been the reason that the man was here to kill me in the first place.”

  “Who could say for sure? You must have plenty of enemies out there, so why bicker? The important thing is that you’re still alive, and, hopefully, you have some of your delicious rum back at your chalet.”

  “Yes, I do but it’s also available in most retail stores across Europe and America, so perhaps you should buy some for a change.”

  “Hey, we’re practically extended family.”

  “Practically and extended doesn’t count.”

  “Well, they count enough for free rum.”

  The radio on the dead guy crackled, and we heard some frantic Arabic followed by several terse responses.

  “Either of you speak Arabic?” I asked.

  “Yes. His friends are closing in on our location.”

  “Wonderful. There should be at least five left.”

  “How would you know that?”

  “Long story, so, right now, it’s probably a good idea to hold off on the chitchat until we get back to your chalet. Bridgette, would you mind leading the way?”

  She was still in shock but pulled it together and pointed her skis down the mountain. We had gone only twenty feet when a bullet struck the tree just behind me, its impact sending a cloud of splintered bark fragments into the air. I turned to look for the shooter and caught a glimpse of him about thirty yards away up in the tree line. He had a Glock 18 submachine gun, which was a bit more accurate and deadly than my pistol at this range, but I took steady aim and fired off two shots in his direction. Neither hit, but they were close enough to send him ducking for cover, thereby buying us a little time to gain some distance. The three of us continued down the path towards the main run, and it seemed as though we had a decent chance of escape until two guys came out of the trees up ahead of us. I recognized one of them right away, as it was my favorite cologne-soaked terrorist—Stinky. He looked oddly surprised to see me, though his expression quickly transformed into a kind of manic looking happiness, likely because he was relishing the thought that he was about to try and shoot me.

  “Cut to your right through the trees!” I yelled.

  Stinky and his fellow terrorist fired at that moment, but thankfully Babineux and Bridgette were already safely off the trail, and I had taken cover behind a tree. I waited for a break in the shooting then leaned out and fired off two rounds—the second one hitting Stinky’s right forearm. It wasn’t a fatal hit, but it would at least slow him down and make him about half as effective. He cried out and put his hand over his wound as he and his fellow terrorist retreated into the trees. One and half down, four still out there, and who knew if there were any other late arrivals to the party.

  I headed down the hill and caught up to Babineux and Bridgette, and we made our way through the maze of trees and rocks, zigzagging our way along until finally seeing the open space of a run. Together, we merged into the middle, where we’d hopefully blend into the other skiers—or at least make less appealing targets with so many innocents on the slope. Suddenly, a shot rang out behind me, and I looked back and saw that it was the guy from the tree line, and he was skiing along without ski poles and instead had his Glock 18 submachine gun in his hands. Shit. I guess crowds didn’t bother these assholes, which meant I needed to figure out a way to get him off our backs without putting any of the people around us in danger. There was a rise up ahead, and I realized that once we passed over it, there would be a brief moment where we’d be out of view. Perfect! If I could just sneak off to the side and hide, our terrorist would likely keep following Babineux—drawn like a moth to the flame that was the Frenchman’s Sesame Street Big Bird inspired outfit. At that point, I could sneak out and take our bad guy from behind—so to speak.

  We went over the
rise, and it gave me the perfect opportunity to ski off to the side of the run and blend in with a group of people getting a ski lesson. The guy passed right by me, completely oblivious to the fact that he was now chasing two instead of three, so it would appear that math wasn’t a prerequisite for terrorist hit teams. This, of course, made me wonder how he would know for sure that he had seventy-two virgins when he got to heaven. I headed back out onto the run and picked up speed by using my skis the way an ice skater uses his skates—pushing off with one foot onto the other and vice versa. It was the same technique every ski racer had used to get going out of the starting gate, and, soon, I was up to speed and coming up behind our rather determined terrorist. He wasn’t a great skier, but he was doing surprisingly well for someone who was from a dry, desert climate like Saudi Arabia. Unfortunately, there were too many people around to try shooting him, so I fell back on a prank my friends and I used to do to each other back during our glory days on the Squaw Valley Ski Team. I skied up almost parallel to him and used my pole to unlock his binding. He felt it open and looked down at it before turning his gaze over to me, where I could now see the small bandage on his nose. Ha! It was the guy Lea had elbowed in the face. I smiled and waved goodbye as his boot clicked out, leaving him balancing on one leg and looking a bit silly as he careened off course and smashed into a caution sign that had been strung up to slow down the ski traffic where it merged with another run. It slowed him down all right—hopefully to a dead stop. Two and a half down, two and a half to go—not including their glorious philandering leader Mr. Ahmad.

  Babineux and Bridgette were now just up ahead, and I saw Bridgette slow down to look back and see if we were still behind her. With her attention off her skis, she caught an edge and fell onto her side and slid to a stop. Babineux, who was close behind, was barely able to avoid hitting her and had to lift his right ski at the very last second in order to miss her head by mere inches before regaining his balance and coming to a stop about a hundred feet down the hill. At that moment, yet another member of the hit team skied up to Bridgette and pointed his pistol at her head. As I drew closer, I could see it was none other than fucking Jarib, and he was smiling cruelly as he regarded Babineux.