by Roddy Wix
Frank got up early and ordered a room service breakfast then grabbed a quick shower and shave while he waited for it to be delivered. Dressed in his standard khakis and polo shirt he was checking the aviation weather when his meal arrived.
The bellman wheeled the serving cart into the room, provided setup service, and left smiling with a generous gratuity in his pocket.
Frank finished jotting down the particulars of the weather report and was pleased to note that it called for clear skies all the way to Milan. That meant he could do a little sightseeing since his route would have him flying over the eastern edge of the Alps.
Picking at his European breakfast of thinly sliced ham, boiled eggs, cheese and bread he thought back on his conversation with Karl. Times were changing to be sure, and it was fast becoming impossible to separate the good guys from the bad. Effectively, in his mind, the emergence of “spook world” had muddled them together. Good guy one day and bad the next, and worse, since 9-11 all of the clandestine agencies were in competition with one another.
Over the past week he’d killed two men who, not long ago, would have automatically been regarded as “friendly.” They were CIA field ops guys, for god’s sake, and why were they dead now? Because their masters wanted a woman named Anya Kovich to run a secret program that would, in effect, give them financial independence from the federal government. Bad enough that they felt no moral allegiance but who knew what might happen when they had no financial dependence either? To make matters worse, the Commander in Chief was dependant on a man he’d never met, handled by a counselor he rarely saw, to rectify a situation that didn’t exist, at least not officially. Pretzel logic. Then there was the Russian. Ivan Rusikov. He was dead at Frank’s hands because he was trying to sell the money making software scam to someone else and his brother was likely dead for the same reason., Beretta had his own suspicions about who blew up the Sheik’s yacht and he knew Mac was already pressing their contacts in Israel, but that was a matter for another day.
Munching on the last bits of his breakfast Frank looked out on the city with a quixotic smile knowing that he was going to kill once more, but this time it was solely to close out an old account.
The brief case containing the C4 rested gently on the bed. Twenty sticks of highly explosive material that looked like modeling clay. Its former owner had packaged soft material in airtight plastic and Frank double wrapped them to prevent detection by bomb sniffing dogs though that was not of great concern while the material remained in his bank vault. Now, with luck and the help of the crew at Legacy’s FBO at Malpensa in Milan he would deliver that case to Serge Malroff’s doorstep: very soon.
“Little pig, little pig, let me come in or I’ll blow your house down!”
Frank chuckled to himself as he gathered up his few bags and got ready to drive out to the airport. By the time he arrived, took care of the rental car, and pre-flighted the rented Pilatus single engine jet prop it would be past mid-morning and he was getting anxious to take in the sights from the air. He’d waited a long time to settle his account with Malroff and he was going to savor every minute of the experience.
As Frank guided his Audi A3 toward Cointrin, a flurry of activity erupted at The Lion’s Hill. Just before dawn an S3 security officer captured an intruder at the jagged perimeter of the estate and Mac Larsen who had arrived late the prior evening was interrogating the unfortunate in a dank cellar beneath the garage.
Unaware of the intrusion, Anya was awakened by a hairdresser and makeup expert who had been summoned by Lady Hartwell to help her make the transition from “Anya” to “Anne”. It was apparent from the beginning that disguising Anya’s natural beauty would be difficult. So, they decided to go with making her ‘different’. That meant a radical haircut and a complete change of hair and eye color, courtesy of contact lenses.
Before she’d had her morning tea her naturally blond hair was on its way to dark red with copper highlights. Then she got a break for breakfast before the stylist chopped her shoulder length hair into a much shorter and slightly spiky look that reminded Anya of a pixie. Lady Hartwell pronounced her to be “cute”, but Anya, wasn’t so sure.
As the makeup expert worked deftly on her face she could hear Lady Harwell in the background fussing over pieces of new clothing for her ‘temporary’ wardrobe. One thing was certain, however, she would be leaving Bermuda with more in hand than she’d had departing Milan, or worse, Bordeaux.
For traveling Anya dressed in worn designer jeans, a tank top, and a plain black hooded sweatshirt emblazoned with a fashion designer’s rugby inspired logo. All the better to blend in with the Palo Alto locals, she was told. She wasn’t so sure: the skull looked a little ominous to her. The stylist made a few unnecessary adjustments to her hair as she slid her feet into a pair of Italian sandals. With the addition of contact lenses that transformed her cool blue eyes to hazel Anya Kovich ceased to exist: she had become Dr. Anne Fitch, PhD and Dynamic Integrity’s newly recruited Chief Research Officer.
By the time Anne made her first appearance on the terrace Mac had returned to the house and was seated with Gabe and Elisabeth at the elegant wrought iron table. They treated her to a round of applause although, in her own best interests, Mac and Gabe both wished that somehow her looks could have been subdued. In their male opinions she was even more attractive now than she had been a few hours before. And that was pretty damned attractive. The two men exchanged glances but said nothing.
“Anne, you look marvelous,” was Elisabeth’s greeting. “You’ll blend right in with the California crowd.”
“Thank you. I hope so.” The newly self-conscious Anne Fitch fidgeted a little in her chair, but she did sincerely want to fit in.
“You certainly will.” Gabe added his reassurance. Perhaps too well.
“You have my vote,” The recently divorced Mac Larson surprised himself with his level of enthusiasm.
Then the time came depart and saying ‘goodbye’ to Elisabeth Hartwell was much more difficult than Anne would have expected. Suddenly she was overcome by visions of the terrible circumstances of their meeting and recollections of Elisabeth’s comforting voice and caring hands making sure she had not been injured. As if that were not enough, during her short time here she had grown to truly love The Lion’s Hill and all its residents, not the least of whom were Sasha and Tatiana who now stood beside her with their tails wagging. Tears formed in her eyes and she choked on her own words of gratitude.
“Anne, you will always be a welcome guest here at The Lion’s Hill. All you need do is ring me up and let me know you’re coming to visit.” Anne hugged her and Lady Hartwell an elegantly wrapped gift into Anne’s hand.
“A little remembrance of your visit here and, perhaps, a bit of good luck to go with you.”
“Thank you. Thank you for my life.”
Princess Ekaterina Yusupov choked back tears remembering the time she looked into Frank Beretta’s dark eyes and spoke those same words. She pulled herself together quickly and regally and answered with the same words Frank had spoken to her.
“It has been my privilege.”
The women embraced once more and as they separated Katya said, “I know we will meet again soon.”
As the small entourage headed toward a black Range Rover waiting by the front door, Lady Hartwell whispered into Gabe’s ear, “Take good care of her. My instincts tell me that she is a special girl and deserving of very special care.”
Gabe nodded in agreement.
Less than an hour later Anne, Mac and Gabe were comfortably nestling into the soft leather seats of Dynamic Integrity’s Gulfstream jet. They had a long flight ahead of them and many things to do once they arrived in California. The plane was well away from Bermuda when Anne remembered the gift. She opened the little box to find a small gold pendant engraved with the Hartwell family crest accompanied by a handwritten note from Elisabeth:
You will always have a safe haven at The Lion’s Hill
.
51.
