No Apologies and No Regrets

by Roddy Wix

The morning began perfectly. Warm sunshine added a touch of hominess to the chateau and Anya was regaining a sense of stability in her life. Though she knew this was temporary, at least she had a routine she could attach herself to if only for awhile. Plus, she had made real progress with the Rusikov’s programming. She acted on a hunch, but felt as though she was on the right track. Perhaps she’d be able to work on the computer again today.

  Todd had breakfasted early and left a note saying he walked down to the winery. Anya hoped Jean-Robert would agree to take her there later. She’d love to tour the quaint little building. Meanwhile, she prepared a brunch of baked eggs and ham in cassoulet dishes she found in the kitchen.

  Finished his own meal, Jean-Robert sat pretending to read a newspaper as he scanned the perimeter for intruders. His gun was propped against the empty chair next to him. Anya began to ask him some question or another when she heard a hissing sound that elevated her adrenalin levels. The world around moved in slow motion. The hiss ended with a muffled thud as the right side of Jean-Robert’s head exploded in a cloud of pink mist. The man’s body lurched off the chair and he landed splayed out on the stones of the terrace floor. She came from Ukraine and grew up with danger. The frightened woman automatically flung herself to the ground where she remained face down. Those few seconds became surreal and the vision of Trieste’s brutal death etched itself in her memory. Later she would mourn the loss of a man who answered her call for help and showed her kindness, but just then she feared for her own life.

  Flat on the warm stones, terrified and sobbing, she remembered the day at the Principe di Savoia when she begged her God not to let her last recollection be such a terrible one. He brought her deliverance then and she made a similar supplication now. At the end of her prayer she opened her eyes and found herself engulfed in a pool of blood flowing from Jean-Robert’s head. Once again unconsciousness delivered her from her suffering. As she drifted into darkness she became aware of someone else's presence. It was a man. She could not see him, but she heard him and she felt him. His gentle fingers touched her lightly on her neck and cheek. He calmly asked if she was alright. She would only remember being able to grunt in response to the question. Then the man floated away.

  The next sound she fully comprehended was the voice of a woman. She was kind but strong and expressed concern rather than fear. The effect calmed Anya.

  “My God, what has happened here?”

  Anya tried to move, and once again, a gentle hand put pressure on her and a disembodied voice directed her to “Please remain still. Can you tell me your name?”

  “Anya.” She began to regain consciousness. As her senses returned, the stone floor felt warm and wet and sticky. The sun was hot on her back and though she remembered what happened she was without any concept of time.

  “Please do not move, Anya. Where you are injured?”

  “No.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “No. I am not hurt.” She suddenly sat up and opened her eyes. The effect overwhelmed her and she felt herself begin to pass out again. The woman caught her before she fell back on the rough stones. This stranger whom she had yet to see cradled Anya’s head in her arms while her confident, intelligent hands and fingers examined Anya’s torso and abdomen. As Anya regained her senses she realized her upper body was drenched in blood. She looked like a shooting victim herself.

  “Very good. You don’t seem to have any wounds.”

  “Jean-Robert, he’s dead isn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh god.” Her mind raced. Jean-Robert dead? Now she was on her own. Who was this woman?” Anya was still groggy.

  “I am sorry, but he expired before I arrived.”

  Anya was fully awake and suddenly became wary. “Who are you? Why did you come here?” She sat upright. Pleased not have been overcome by dizziness.

  “My name is Elisabeth Hartwell. I own this house, but more importantly, Jean-Robert was a friend of mine and I have helped him with his work from time to time. I know about your situation. I need to get you out of here as soon as possible.”

  Anya didn’t respond. She just sat on the rough stone terrace trying to process both the events of the morning and the things this woman said.

  “You are a mess, but you are looking better. Your color is good. Are you able to stand up?”

  “Yes.” With only a little help Elisabeth, whom she could now see was a pretty blond woman, she slowly got to get to her feet. Lady Hartwell put an arm around her and directed her toward the house.

  “Do you have any idea who did this?”

  “No. The shot must have come from the vineyard.”

  Elisabeth appeared more concerned and said, “Yes, we should leave right away.”

  Anya looked down at the caked blood covering her shirt and the woman immediately said, “Don’t worry. I have some clean clothes in my car. You can change as we drive, but you need to come with me quickly.”

  Lady Hartwell’s sense of urgency seemed genuine and Anya made an immediate decision to put her trust in this woman who claimed to be a friend of Jean-Robert’s. What choice did she have?

  A dark green Renault sedan stood in the drive near the front door. Anya got in while Elisabeth opened the trunk and pulled out a small travel bag which she handed to Anya. She climbed into the driver’s seat and started the car. They drove across the draw bridge and away from the pleasant little chateau. Anya would not miss the place.

  As the Renault passed through the deepest stand of trees a man stepped from behind dense foliage and leveled an automatic rifle at departing vehicle. A red dot appeared on the back of Elisabeth’s head, but before the gunman fired his head exploded in pink froth and his corpse collapsed to the ground. Fortunately, Anya did not witness the death of Todd, the second CIA operative.

  Elisabeth pointed to the bag saying, “You will find some baby wipes in this. I always travel with them.”

  While they drove away from the chateau, Anya managed to wipe the blood and bits of gore off then put on a clean white sweat shirt. She felt a little better, but the sight of Jean-Robert’s bloody head kept coming back to her.

  “Where are we going?”

  “The airport in Bordeaux. A plane will be waiting for us.” Sensing Anya’s apprehension she added, “Jean-Robert asked me to arrange for you to travel to the US if anything happened to him.”

  “The US?”

  “Yes, he believed that would be the safest place for you, and we’ve made arrangements.”

  It was a lie, of course. Elisabeth knew Jean-Robert Trieste to be part of a rogue CIA operation. She didn’t have any details beyond what she said and wondered briefly how much Jean Robert himself had known. Either way, transporting Anya to America was not on Trieste’s agenda. No matter, the story seemed to calm her down.

  By the time they got to the airport Anya started to come down off the adrenalin rush. Beth had given her a chocolate bar to keep her energy up, but shortly after the Gulfstream 550 took off she fell into a sound sleep.

  Just as well, she has a long trip ahead of her. Elisabeth pulled a soft blanket over the sleeping woman then sat back and lost herself in her own thoughts, toying with her huge emerald pendant all the while.

  As the sun set on the chateau, Frank started to climb down from his hiding spot in the trees. He’d shot the second CIA man from that vantage point then elected to remain hidden until darkness fell. Beretta hadn’t expected any other targets and none showed up. At the same time, the little aerie had been a good a place for an aging assassin to pause and reflect. In his preferred element he had even managed to doze for a while in his perch thirty feet above the forest floor. Once on the ground he hiked back to his car and drove off into the growing darkness. His mission was far from over.

  36.