Operation Snowdrop

by Michelle Medhat

  A man who forced attention without even trying.

  Of course, it was all an act. But as everyone around Sam was chomping at the bit to know who he was, it was working. A perky, young receptionist with dark, sultry eyes and sienna-brown hair looked up as Sam approached. She smiled broadly, falling into his immediate presence.

  “Oh, buonasera, signore. Come posso aiutarti?”

  “Good evening,” responded Sam in his Eton-drilled English. “I have a reservation. Julian Harrington-Smythe.”

  Sam always enjoyed using that moniker. It was the name of the master at his boarding school. The man made his life a misery with his pompous attitude that prefects could do no wrong, and his blatant ignorance of the terrible bullying Sam had been subjected to.

  Sam watched the receptionist run a beady eye across her computer screen.

  “Ah yes, a Meester Harreengton-Smeethee. You are with us for four days, I see. You are in our Garden Deluxe Room. Very pretty.”

  The receptionist inhaled, as if she was holding her breath, and stared at Sam. Her eyelashes dropped and then opened, staring back into his.

  He didn’t take her up on the invitation being offered.

  “Excellent,” said Sam, pretending to be distracted by something on his phone.

  “Your passport and credit card, please.”

  Sam noticed that the receptionist’s voice had taken on a clipped inflection. He pushed his passport and card across the counter and seemed to mistakenly touch the tops of the receptionist’s fingers as she collected them.

  “It’s been a long day,” said Sam.

  The receptionist brightened a little. She smiled again.

  “Maybe you feel better after a good night’s sleep.”

  She handed back his passport and card with the room key.

  “Yes, I hope so. But we never know what tomorrow may bring.”

  That was true enough.

  “For a man like you, only wonderful things,” answered the receptionist.

  Suddenly, she flushed up, realizing her interaction had gotten several degrees too personal. Sam beamed and looked into the receptionist’s eyes, his dark brown orbs penetrating and passionate.

  “We’ll see.”

  Sam’s enigmatic response wasn’t lost on the receptionist, who gripped the desk to steady her unstable body. Her breath turned ragged as Sam left the befuddled girl.

  He held down a grin. What would Ellie make of his antics? Then he cursed himself. What was wrong with him? Why the need to keep bringing her into this life?

  Compartmentalization, Sam, you fool. Use it. It’s there to keep you sane.

  He stood in front of the elevator, waiting for it to descend. As the doors opened and he stepped inside, a face turned toward him, and time stopped. As the woman lightly licked her lips, eyes of the darkest ebony drilled into him, wanton and intense. Then she dropped her head, trying to hide a half-smile, and sashayed past Sam.

  The doors shut, but Sam hadn’t moved.

  He was still caught in the moment of realization that GCHQ’s AI analyzer hadn’t got it wrong.

  Eva Morricone, also known as Sabena Sanantoni, had just passed him, and he didn’t need any fancy emerging tech to tell him that The Slayer herself had just flirted with him.

  Minutes later, inside the room, Sam placed his traveler on the luggage rack and unzipped it. He knew Sabena was going to be in the hotel. But something about the face he’d just seen was different from the photos and satellite surveillance. The glint in her dark eyes. The coldness of her stance. Seeing her in the flesh was unlike seeing her on the surveillance intel. The shock of such a sudden confrontation had a chilling effect on Sam.

  He had to find out what was happening. And where on God’s Earth was Kinley?

  Sam stripped out of his investment banker gear and pulled from the bag some black chinos and a black cashmere sweater. He clothed himself quickly and slipped into a pair of black puma runners. He took out the electric all-access key and shoved it in his back pocket. Grabbing his Glock, he checked the magazine, and pulled back the action. He thrust it into his waistband and stuffed two mags into his front pocket.

  The room was on the first floor. Sam looked out of the window. Yeah, a cakewalk.

  Opening the window fully, Sam felt that same cold breeze again, the prescient wind signaling the on-coming storm. He pushed away the chilling feeling, reached out, and gripped hold of the vines growing along the wall of the hotel. Cautiously, he gripped the plant and tested whether it would take his weight. Convinced it would hold, Sam launched himself out of the window and clung on tight. His foot moved within the vegetation, desperately trying to find a foothold. Once he’d found it, and he was stable, Sam started to ease himself down the side of the wall. As the thick vines turned into rungs, Sam climbed faster and dropped soundlessly onto the patio, then edged immediately into the shadows.

  He ran alongside the garden wall toward the Garden Suite. It was dark, and Sam sensed it was empty. He swiped the key, pulled his gun out, and entered.

  Sam walked through the rooms. No one was there. He stared out of the window, recalling the schematic of the hotel. The Royal Suite on the first floor had been the home of noblemen in the Palazzo della Gherardesca. The lights were on, but the drapes had been pulled. Sam quickly skirted to where the suite overlooked the beautiful hotel park and seventeenth-century ornate pond. Vines were hanging close by, so he pulled up again and started toward the Royal Suite.

  Sam climbed until he was level with the window. He knew it had to be the Gallery. He could see through a chink in the drapes, which were not quite pulled, a lot of activity. Typical Al Nadir thugs wandered around with submachine guns. A tall, massive guy stepped into view. Pedro Russo.

  He sat in a seventeenth-century chair, drinking and yelling at someone Sam couldn’t see, and then a woman appeared, obviously the other party in his yelling match. Sabena, still in her Morricone’s mask and clearly extremely angry, knocked the drink out of his hand and slapped his face. Pedro just took it. But his face showed he wanted to kill her.

  It seemed that her status as Al Nadir royalty made allowances for everything.

  Sam moved a little to see if Kinley was there, but his view was very limited.

  He heard a noise near the window and knew he was too close. Hurriedly, Sam scrambled down the vines and made for the Presidential Suite. Catching a sudden movement in his peripheral vision, he slipped into the shadows, holding his Glock against his chest. A man in a suit walked past, and Sam recalled his identity.

  Ilya Cain. The Summanus mastermind.

  Sam stuck his gun back in his waistband and ran across the garden, keeping to the wall. He hauled himself up the vines near his window and leapt into his room. Inside, Sam knocked off the pieces of vegetation that stuck to him and closed the window. He removed the gun and placed it on the dressing table then sat on the bed and thought about what his quick surveillance had garnered.

  Sabena Sanantoni and Pedro Russo were here. Ilya Cain was here.

  Sam stared at the floor. A sense of utter dread washed over him. Like everything else about the mission, unpredictability was the one predictable constant.

  Although all the players appeared in place, one piece was still missing.

  Kinley.

  Chapter 25

  Sam took out his lighter-cum-bug-finder and swept the bedroom and bathroom, focusing on the usual and not-so-usual suspects. It was clean. He picked up his Blackberry Passport and pressed on the number one. After several clicks and a weird buzzing noise, Maide answered.

  “Sir, all are in place except for the flower. I did a recce but still no sign.”

  Sam listened as the line went quiet.

  Then Maide asked, “When was your last contact?”

  “Sixteen thirty hundred hours today.”

  “HC?” said Maide.

  HC was short for Health Check. Maide wanted to know what state Kinley’s mind was in.

  “All good.”

 
; And then Sam remembered when Kinley had grabbed his arm asking, ‘Are you scared?’

  Had he baulked? Gone AWOL? Had the pressure got too much?

  The phone line dropped to silence again and Sam knew Maide was considering options.

  “Sir?” pressed Sam, wanting to achieve some clarity on his next move.

  “Status remains unchanged,” said Maide, and Sam detected the staunch confidence in his delivery. That resolute position didn’t align with his own intelligence. Did Maide know something he didn’t?

  “Sir, I said there is no sign of the flower.”

  “Understood. Status remains unchanged. Proceed as per operational specifics.”

  Sam knew some other game was being played. Maide had full knowledge but couldn’t or wouldn’t say.

  Were they all walking into a bloodbath tomorrow? Had British Intelligence decided all five of them were expendable? Perhaps Ashton had cut them all loose, realizing the Snowdrop Operation was more dangerous to his political career then he’d first thought. Maybe risking the lives of innocent people in the UK was something he couldn’t do despite his savage posturing.

  Sam bit back the urge to tell Maide to ‘Fuck it all’ and head to the nearest plane out of Florence. Instead, he just responded in a flat, dead tone, “Copy that, sir.”

  “Good luck. God speed,” responded Maide in an equally deadpan voice.

  Good luck? God Speed? You hypocritical fucker!

  Sam stabbed off the connection, shook his head, and tried to figure out what Maide knew. From the steadfast assurance in his voice, he’d been updated on Kinley’s whereabouts and was still confident of the mission objectives being achieved.

  Either that or tomorrow they were all going to burn in one hell of a bonfire.

  Sam realized that whichever way it was going to go, a good night’s sleep, like the pretty receptionist advised, would bolster him with the strength he’d need to face what was to come. He stripped down to his boxers, snatched his Glock from the dressing table and stuck it underneath his pillow. Then he flexed his back muscles, clicked his neck from side to side, and dropped to the floor to do forty press ups in quick succession. He stretched again and took in deep breaths. Then Sam closed his mind to all around him and focused on the core of his being. He could hear his heart beating fast, still high on the adrenaline he’d pumped out in his earlier escapade as an Italian Tarzan. He breathed rhythmically and forced his heart rate to slow. He visualized his body cleansed and pure. His core was shining. He was light.

  Every time Sam meditated in this way, it made him feel stronger. That feeling he was made of light, invincible and unbreakable, drove forward his courage, giving him the power to handle anything.

  Settled and at one with himself, Sam opened his eyes.

  He walked over to his traveler bag on the luggage rack and dug inside. He took out a small object similar to a ring box. He opened it. Inside were two roundish ball bearings with flattened bottoms, no more than five millimeters wide. He picked up his phone and pressed #LD#4H. Instantly, the ball bearings emitted a fluorescent blue glow.

  Sam placed them against the wall on either side of the archway before the steps that led into the bedroom. Sam tested the devices. Tentatively, he placed his big toe into the invisible line of the beam. An alarm sounded immediately from his phone. He brought his foot back and the squealing noise ceased.

  Satisfied that all was working as it should, Sam crawled into bed. After his meditation, he was in a good mind-space, and despite what he faced tomorrow, slumber crept upon him quickly and he slipped into a peaceful sleep.

  Chapter 26

  After the confrontation with Salim, and Sabena’s promise of an ominous test, Sabena leaves my side quickly and vanishes off the plane. Those strange cuffs are reapplied to me and I’m left in my seat. Time passes, I’m not sure how much, but then one of the heavies bundles me out of the aircraft and down the steps to a waiting Merc SUV with blacked-out windows.

  I’m shoved inside and I feel a needle being stuck into me with some force. I fall forward, and someone pulls me into the seat and slams the door. Definition drifts, but I don’t pass out. Whatever they’ve given me, it isn’t as strong as before.

  I’m aware of a gun pressing into my side. I try to drag my head up to see who is beside me. I’m now thoroughly acquainted with Sabena’s aroma and I know it’s not her. It has to be one her thugs. I try again to lift my head, but it’s just a concrete lump that won’t raise from its position drooped on my chest.

  I hear voices, but they’re garbled and without clarity. I think they’re all male voices. I can’t hear Sabena, so she’s probably not there. I know she’s pissed at me for knocking her credibility in front of Salim. I just hope I haven’t pissed her off too much.

  I want to know the time. Getting out of the plane, I saw it was dark, but what day is it?

  “Get him back and ready.”

  That sounds like Pedro Russo.

  Hands force me backwards in my seat, and my head rolls back in unison with my body. I feel a soft something applied to my face. Face cream, I think. The person applying it is very thorough, smoothing it carefully into every part of my skin and down my neck.

  “Oh, Mr. Kinley, let’s lose those pretty boy looks,” says someone who seems to be attempting a falsetto voice, but still sounds like Pedro.

  Lose my looks? What the hell have they put on my face? Is it acid? I try not to panic. It feels like ordinary skin cream, but…

  Then I feel it.

  A tingling across my skin. Oh shit! Sabena’s gone off me already and she’s given me up to Pedro and his band of thugs for torture.

  My face feels like it’s under stress, and I sense a pulling at my jawline. My chin and nose feel heavier like they’ve taken on more mass, and somehow, I feel my face changing.

  “What are you doing?” I slur.

  “Making you presentable,” says Pedro, and I hear a sinister chuckle in his reply.

  The tingling doesn’t stop and the heaviness I experienced seems to be growing in places around my neck, cheeks and chin. I swallow down a second wave of panic and try to think logically.

  Stein-Muller. His nanocream. It’s so obvious!

  I’m such an idiot for not thinking of it sooner. The way I was shoved down with no explanation forced me to follow lines of conjecture where only pain and death were the result. But I was wrong. They’re changing my face to allow my identity to be hidden. It’s all still on.

  Operation Snowdrop is in play.

  I roll my eyes to the left, and although the windows are blacked out, I can still make out lights and shapes. I see something in the distance shining brightly like a jewel in the night.

  Il Duomo.

  Thank God! I’m in Florence.

  Despite wanting to know more, I refrain from trying to ask. Instead, I steady my nerves and work on internally preparing myself for seeing a different face to my own. Psychologically, such an occurrence could shatter a person’s mind. That is if it isn’t shattered already. Sabena changes faces like shoes, but as she’s already a super-charged psychotic sadist carrying a range of personalities, swapping her face to match said personalities isn’t going to affect a mind that’s already in pieces.

  Suddenly tiredness washes over me. I’ve been running on pure adrenaline since I was snatched at the Park Plaza, and despite all Sabena’s attention, she hasn’t given me any food or drink. And somehow, I’d forgotten to ask.

  My throat’s dry and my stomach feels hollow.

  I want to close my eyes, but due to whatever is happening to my face, my lids won’t close. My lips feel stuck like someone has superglued them shut. I can only breathe through my nose and the situation is uncomfortable. I have no alternative but to let Stein-Muller’s nanocream do its worst and hope I’m not too unattractive.

  The Merc swerves to the right, and I catch sight of older buildings. We’re in the center of Florence.

  “He’s done,” calls Pedro.

  The ti
ngling feeling like an electric current has been dancing across my face suddenly stops. The stress on my lids ease and I cautiously try to close them. My lips release as the force that stuck them together is gone. I open my mouth wide and take a long breath. With my lips working, I know I can speak, and stupidly, I don’t hold back.

  “What the fuck did you do to me?” I yell, making the thug beside me jump. Maybe he was sleeping. He pokes the gun he’s had trained on me hard in my ribs.

  “Shut it, fucker!” says Pedro. “I doubt Dr. Sanantoni will jump your bones now.”

  The vindictiveness of his reply is blatant. Maybe Pedro has the hots for Little Miss Psycho?

  “Show me,” I demand, but Pedro shakes his head.

  “Not yet. Let’s keep the element of surprise a bit longer, eh?”

  I know they’ve made me ugly. All this set-up for just entering a hotel. A cap and dark glasses would have sufficed. This pompous charade is all about Pedro and whatever the hell relationship he has or hasn’t got with Sabena. Maybe he’s worried that she’ll replace him with me. So he wants to teach me a lesson, and he can’t hurt or kill me, as that would defy Sabena’s strict orders. But he can legitimately change my face.

  A face that won’t turn on Sabena.

  Even when the face comes off, when Pedro deactivates the nanocream and brings my old face back, all Sabena will see is the memory of the face Pedro has just stuck on me.

  A first-class psychological trap.

  My situation with Sabena has always been on a knife edge, but now it is much more precarious.

  The car stops, and the thug beside me pokes me with his gun to get out.

  I’m still extremely dizzy, but thankfully, my head no longer feels like a lead block. I step out tentatively and look up. From the intel, I recall the private entrance to the Royal Suite.