No Apologies and No Regrets

by Roddy Wix

Frank took a circuitous route and two different rental cars before driving into Nice at mid-morning, tired, hungry and anxious to check into his hotel. The most recent surveillance showed Ivan still in residence at the Hotel Imperator with no indication he would be leaving soon. Great! Frank needed a short respite.

  Beretta checked into an old and well regarded place less than two blocks from Ivan’s garish twelve-story hotel. Twenty minutes later he ordered a room service breakfast large enough to satisfy a lumberjack. Afterwards he stood under a much needed hot shower. He let the soothing water pelt him in a relaxing rhythm, but his brain raced on as his body struggled to shake off the stress of the past forty-eight hours.

  He closed his eyes and tried to forget the two CIA field agents lying dead by his hand. Those guys used to be on the home team, but somehow the game changed when he wasn't looking. In fact, they were part of an "off the charts" secret operation designed to get control of a computer program with the capacity to siphon money from accounts worldwide. “Siphon” being the PC word for “stealing”. Anya Kovich, they believed, had the key to the program. Their bosses at Langley wanted to create a revenue stream to support “black ops”. In other words, a source of cash untraceable by anyone, including POTUS. The sitting President was not one to tolerate renegades and he had his hands full. “Spook world” as Frank called it, continued to grow geometrically. Post 9-11 paranoia, anger, and vigilante mentality had given rise to the germ-like growth of an intelligence culture burgeoning at a cost that would enrage the average American tax payer. “Spook world” was populated by bright, exceptional people adept at finding ways to fund their projects from off the book sources. But, in Frank's mind, if they were a part of the American Republic they had to be accountable to someone. Who would that be if not POTUS?

  In his younger days he’d sworn allegiance to the Marine Corps, the United States and its Commander in Chief. Over the years circumstances created an opportunity for him to serve the President in a very direct and secret way. Now, as a result of that pledge, he'd killed two of his countrymen at a lovely little French chateau on a beautiful morning he would just as soon forget. The idea of refusing the order never entered his mind. As a soldier he’d forfeited that right the moment he accepted his first mission, but for once that did nothing to ease his conscience.

  Frank finished dressing and the room service waiter knocked on the door. The slender man, Jules by name, carried a tray laden with a large Gruyere omelet, frittes, fruit, bread and a pot of tea. Jules set the tray up near the balcony and left happy with a handsome gratuity in his pocket. Frank Beretta spent the next half hour savoring every morsel of his breakfast.

  One man remained for Beretta to kill for his country and one to kill for himself. Afterwards, perhaps he'd think about disengaging his tired ass from this crazy game. It was high time to let someone else carry the water. He smiled remembering his last birthday when Joey blurted out in fun, "Damn, Frank, you're old enough to retire." At the time he signed on for the job he’d never thought to ask about the retirement plan or even if there was one. The notion made him laugh. He sat back and enjoyed the view.

  Not far away Ivan tried to disengage himself from the libidinous Francesca and wondered how much longer he would find her appealing. Many women had shared his bed, but only one or two managed to hold his attention for long. He was usually the one to bring an end to his liaisons though there had been exceptions. Just once did he recall being used by a woman the same way he used them. The experience gave him a sort of perverse pleasure. And remembering brought a smile to his thin, pale lips.

  “So, Francesca, what do you want to do today?”

  “I thought I’d sit by the sea and rest. Perhaps read a book.”

  “I was thinking about doing a little shopping.”

  “Where?”

  “Monte Carlo. I believe I’m going to be around here for a lot longer than I’d planned, so I scheduled a tour of some real estate.”

  “Sounds like fun, but would you mind if I stay here and enjoy the sun?”

  “No, not at all. We'll have a wonderful dinner this evening."

  “I can't wait.” The pretty woman gave him a kiss, rolled off the bed and went to put on her bathing suit.

  While Francesca got herself together the phone rang.

  “Mr. Rusikov, this is the concierge, Fabrizio.”

  “Yes.”

  “A gentleman arrived with a delivery for you. I believe it is the new automobile you were expecting.”

  Ivan checked his watch. The salesman was punctual. He hadn’t told Francesca he’d bought a Lamborghini Murcielago. Why should he? But, as this would be his new home, he needed a new ride. It amazed him what could be done with a single phone call and an American Express Centurion card.

  “Please tell the gentleman I’ll be right down.”

  “Tres bien, Monsieur Rusikov.”

  With no farewell for Francesca he hurried downstairs to admire his purchase. The gleaming silver car looked like it was going a hundred before he even started it. The Murcielago was fast and would outrun a lot of things, but Habu was not one of them.

  38.

  The Lion’s Hill

  Bermuda