Assignment- Adventure A SpyCo Collection 1-3

by Craig A. Hart

  Burke did a quick visual sweep of the area to make sure no other immediate threats lurked. That was when he saw the man in the sport coat lying face down across his table, the back of his head turned into a gaping, bloody cavern.

  Burke pulled on Lyndsey’s arm. “Come on, if we hurry we might catch up to him!”

  They high-stepped their way out of the scattered tangle of greenery and broken glass and ran onto the street. Burke had hoped to see a scooter rental station, but it was too out of the way for such luxuries. He did, however, see a Vespa leaning conveniently against a building. He ran toward it as its owner came from the building, whistling and swinging the scooter’s key around his index finger as he walked. The man didn’t even see Burke until the key was yanked from his finger.

  “Che due coglioni!” the man yelled.

  Burke and Lyndsey were already swinging their legs over the Vespa. Burke started it up, did an impressive and highly ill-advised whip turn, and then gunned the scooter down the street. He glanced back once to see the man shouting swear words at them in Italian and waving his arms. At least he’d stopped whistling.

  Assuming the assassin would head for higher traffic areas, Burke performed a series of breakneck turns until arriving on Lungotevere degli Alberteschi. Ahead, he saw his target swerving through traffic, heedless of the blowing horns and shouted curses.

  “When in Rome,” Burke muttered, plunging into traffic. The Vespa darted between cars, with Burke devoting every ounce of concentration on remaining upright and avoiding clipping every sideview mirror they passed. Slowly, they began closing the distance—until their quarry glanced back and realized he was being followed. The motorcycle’s engine roared and the bike surged forward as it careened onto Ponte Palatino and then left into the heavier traffic of Lungotevere Aventino.

  Lyndsey leaned forward and yelled into Burke’s ear. “We’ll never catch him—too much horsepower!”

  Burke swore, but he knew she was right. He swerved abruptly, breaking through the single-chain barrier separating the bridge’s car lanes from the pedestrian walkway. The Vespa squeaked to a halt and Burke dismounted, angrily kicking the stand into place. Lyndsey slid from the bike as well and they both stood there above the eddying water of the Tiber, listening to the fading roar of the motorcycle’s engine.

  The fleeing assassin both ended one crisis and added a layer to another. Burke still had to tell Lyndsey about the Code Grey, and some part of his mind was twitching, telling him the two events might not be unrelated. As the adrenaline began to drain from his bloodstream, a sense of dread took its place.

  “About that thing I need to tell you,” he began.

  Lyndsey held up her hand, a bemused smile crossing her face, “This may not be the best time—” Her smile faded as she saw him involuntarily cast his eyes down to the pavement. Something was wrong.

  “Just before you came to the Carlone I got a call…from Moore.”

  “Damn it! What now? We’re on vacation!”

  “Not anymore. It was a Code Grey.”

  “Never good. Never good,” she repeated, no longer concerned about the interruption it would mean to their getaway.

  “It’s worse than not good,” Burke said, still unable to meet her gaze.

  “What? Tell me Burke! Who’s the target?” Suddenly a notion dawned on her. “Oh my god. Are you supposed to kill me?”

  Burke shook his head. “You’ll probably wish I was when I tell you. It’s Perry.” He looked up in time to see the color drain from her face, and he hated himself for being the one who caused it to happen.

  For several minutes, Lyndsey was unable to speak. When she did, all she managed was, “No. No.”

  Burke tried to touch her, but she slapped his hand away. “No! No!” she said again, but this time the words had a completely different meaning.

  “Lyndsey, this is not my decision. It’s not my fault.”

  “You should have told me as soon as I sat down!”

  Burke looked around uncomfortably, but the traffic continued to zoom by; no one seemed concerned with them.

  “Don’t you think I wanted to? Don’t you think this is tearing me up too?”

  Her face had grown cold, stony. It was a look he’d seen a number of times in the past, right before she took one of her famous walks out of his life. But an instant later it softened once more, as her chin began to quiver.

  “I don’t know what to think,” she said, walking forward and burying her head into Burke’s chest.

  Burke could do nothing but hold her. “As much as I hate to admit it, neither do I.”

  5

  Perry glanced at the sheet of paper scrawled with Zeki’s abominable handwriting. There were two addresses. The first was a store where Perry could purchase a new cell phone. His old phone, now in two pieces and probably already swept up by the people who kept the streets of Istanbul clean, not only connected him to the world, but it had the picture of Flick at the Grand Bazaar. That picture was the whole reason he was in Turkey now.

  At the successful conclusion of his mission in Paris, he’d been preparing to tie up a few loose ends and head to the airport for his flight back to New York. While walking about, he’d received a call from Piet Beaumont. Piet had been listed in Perry’s contacts as “Hero,” and rightly so. It had been he, led to the scene by Perry’s dog, Fleming, who had shut down the timer on the nuke to which Perry had been handcuffed. In fact, Fleming was still in Piet’s care, shacking up with a pair of alluring French poodles.

  Piet, no longer tied to his temporary position as a bellhop at the hotel where Perry had stayed, was at SpyCo’s Paris office, monitoring a number of international intel feeds, when he spotted a still photo taken in one of Istanbul’s outdoor markets. It was of a man who looked very much like the one Perry had identified after several grueling hours spent poring over thousands of pictures of known and suspected Scorpion operatives and associates. He’d texted it to Perry, who confirmed without question it was Flick.

  For Perry’s part, he didn’t need to see the picture. It was burned into his memory. But he’d need to show it to the person Zeki was sending him to meet. Thus, he needed a new cell phone.

  The storefront corresponding with the address on the paper was not particularly reassuring. Calling it nondescript would probably be an overstated compliment. It looked abandoned, frankly, if not for the paper banner in the window which looked like it had been produced by an old dot matrix printer and bore the words “Cep telefonları.”

  “Well, they’re advertising cell phones,” Perry muttered. “Let’s see if they have them.” He pushed open the door, triggering the tinkling ring of an old-style bell that immediately made him think of Ike Godsey’s general store on The Waltons.

  The place looked even worse on the inside. A pair of shelves—empty save for a significant layer of dust—and a smudgy, badly cracked glass display case—also devoid of anything resembling phones—were the store’s only features that might possibly identify it as a place of business.

  For two full minutes no one answered the ring, and Perry was about to turn and leave when he heard a voice call out from behind a curtained door situated behind the decrepit display case.

  “Bekle, yarrak kafa!”

  Perry’s Turkish wasn’t strong, but he was pretty sure the speaker had called him a dick-head.

  A moment later a man emerged from the curtain. He was so ancient and grizzled Perry was quite sure he would never again be able to think of the term “old man” without picturing him. He was no more than four feet, six inches tall, but was so stooped he may have once stood six feet. His brown face was covered in gray stubble, and in the places where his chin doubled onto itself the skin looked irritated by the prickly beard. He took one look at Perry and said,

  “Amerikan.” It was not a question. It was a rather disgusted sounding statement.

  Perry nodded.

  “What you want?” the man asked in heavily accented English.

  “Um,
a cell phone? That’s what you sell, right?”

  The man stared at him and Perry thought perhaps his sarcasm had been insulting. Then he realized the man thought he was stupid.

  “Of course! No read sign?” Despite his declaration that he did, in fact, sell phones, he made no move to produce one for Perry to purchase.

  “Yes. I saw the sign. Which is why I came into your…store, I guess? Do you have a phone I could buy?”

  For a moment, the man continued to stare, which was made all the more disconcerting by the obvious cataract in the left eye. The milky orb was giving Perry some very Edgar Allan Poe-like bad vibes. Finally, without a word of explanation, he turned and went back through the curtain. Perry heard a series of mumbles, varying in loudness and length, but the only one he was able to make out was “Aptal Amerikalı.” Fine, the man could call him a stupid American if he wanted, as long as a workable phone was forthcoming.

  The man was out of sight long enough for Perry to once again consider seeking out another cell phone vendor. He had his hand on the shop’s doorknob when the man re-emerged holding a stack of small boxes.

  “Where you go? Don’t want phone?”

  Perry turned back around and walked to the counter. The man spread the phones out across the glass top, and Perry saw, to his amazement, the selection was quite good. He picked an iPhone 7.

  “No. Can’t have.”

  “What?”

  “Can’t have iPhone. For my nephew.”

  “Then why the hell did you bring it out?”

  The man looked at him as though he’d been asked the single dumbest question in the history of speaking. “For my nephew,” he said finally, both as an explanation and a declaration.

  “You brought me a phone that’s for your nephew. Whatever. I’ll take this one,” he said pointing to a Galaxy.

  “No. Can’t have.”

  “Again? Why can’t I have this one.”

  “Is broke.”

  Now it was Perry’s turn to stare in silence. Suddenly the comedy of his situation overwhelmed him and he started to laugh. For the first time since the man had appeared, his face did something other than frown. It may have been a smile, but Perry couldn’t be sure. Finally, he said, “I give up. Which phone can I buy?”

  The man pushed a Blackberry forward. “This one good. You buy.”

  “Not my first choice, but fine. Here.” He handed over his credit card.

  The old man took it and said, “Stolen?”

  “No, it’s not stolen. It’s mine. Now please, can I buy this phone and go? I have to meet someone.”

  “Already met someone. Me.”

  The man vanished behind the curtain once more and a moment later returned with Perry’s card and receipt. After a few more painful minutes they got the phone activated, and Perry turned to leave. The old man grabbed his arm with a boney hand.

  “Be sure tell friends about Ömer’s shop. Best phones.”

  Perry began to laugh again, eliciting another probable smile from the old man. “Oh, trust me. I will tell everyone I know,” he said, breaking away and heading out the door. Once outside he added, “But first I’m going to kill Zeki for sending me here.”

  Perry started for the second address on the paper, calling Piet as he walked. After a few rings the little Frenchman answered.

  “Allô?”

  “Piet. It’s Perry. How’s Fleming?”

  “I should be doing so well. Your pet is quite the ladies dog. Will not let the poodles alone.”

  “That’s my Fleming.

  “I am glad to hear from you. I did not recognize this number.”

  “I have a new phone.”

  “What happened to the old one?”

  “I may or may not have broken it in half and tossed it from a moving bus.”

  “A story I must hear.”

  “Another time. Listen, I need a favor. Can you resend the picture of Flick?”

  “Certainement.”

  A few seconds later, Perry’s phone dinged.

  “It is done,” Piet said.

  “Excellent, thank you.”

  “Oui. Faites attention.”

  “I’ll be careful. Give Flem a treat for me.”

  “I will leave that for you. As it happens, French dog treats are too rich for him. I am not willing to risk those fumes once more. They could be bottled and used to fight terrorism.”

  Perry chuckled and hung up. He checked the text. The picture was there. He looked at it for longer than he needed to, using it to refuel his hate. Then he set out in earnest for the second address.

  6

  The cab ride to the Leonardo da Vinci International Airport was uncomfortable. Burke’s insides were at war, half wanting to have it out with Lyndsey then and there, and half wanting to forestall further discussion indefinitely. If he were to be completely honest with himself, Burke was unsure how he was going to proceed. It seemed like a simple choice. He was a loyal soldier, always had been, and now had his orders. But this job was...Burke wrestled to find a word to describe how he felt, but his mental thesaurus failed him. How was one supposed to feel after being instructed to murder one’s best friend? And someone who held a special place in the heart of the woman he was sleeping with. It seemed crude to add sex into it, but Burke had to admit that was part of it. To put a bullet in Perry Hall’s head would almost certainly be the killing shot of his tumultuous relationship with Lyndsey. She was a tough agent, a good agent, but she was fiercely loyal to her childhood friend. From the way she had momentarily softened on Porte Palatino, Burke knew she was also experiencing an inner struggle. He could see it on her face even now, as they sat in the cab on A91, buzzing along toward the airport. He wanted desperately to speak to her, even willing to risk her wrath, to find out if they were on speaking terms. She hadn’t granted him more than monosyllabic words since the cab ride began, but that could also be because neither of them trusted cab drivers. Far too often they ended up working for someone who wanted them dead.

  The thirty-minute trip felt like hours, but at last they arrived at their destination. Once they’d checked in and were sitting in the terminal waiting for their flight to be called, Burke turned to Lyndsey.

  “Lynds, I want to—”

  Lyndsey held up one hand. “Stop. You know I only allow one person to call me that.”

  “I still haven’t earned the right?”

  “Because you got me off three times in one night?” Lyndsey granted him a small smile. “No. It’s a childhood name only spoken by childhood friends. One of whom you’re about to kill.” The smile faded.

  Burke took the initiative. “That’s what I want to talk about.”

  Lyndsey crossed her arms, a clear sign she had made up her mind and was digging into her position. “I thought about this during the entire cab ride and I can tell you my decision right now. I will not be a part of any operation with the killing of Perry Hall as its stated goal.”

  “And if I disagree?”

  “What about it?”

  “Would you try to stop me?”

  “Would that influence your decision?”

  They stared at each other like two knife fighters waiting for the other to make the next move. Lyndsey finally broke the stalemate.

  “Listen, Burke, I know what going against Moore’s orders will mean. I might be next on the list and will certainly incur some type of punishment: suspension, expulsion, you name it. And in a lot of ways, expulsion is a death sentence in itself, because you lose both your cover and access to SpyCo resources. An honorable discharge earns lifetime protection and assistance. But if you’re kicked out, well...then you’re on your own.”

  “And none of that matters to you?”

  Lyndsey uttered a hard, short laugh. “Of course, it matters. I enjoy my work; I feel as if I’m making a real difference. It would kill me to walk away from all I’ve accomplished, maybe literally. But when I think about getting up every morning and looking in the mirror at the face of a person w
ho betrayed her oldest friend...well, I can’t, Burke. I can’t do it. I recruited Perry in the first place. Even if I don’t take the shot, I’m still responsible.”

  Burke nodded slowly. “You’re a hell of a woman, Lyndsey. And a hell of an agent.”

  They sat in silence for a few minutes. Again, Lyndsey broke the lull.

  “And what about you? What are you going to do?”

  “I wish I knew,” Burke said. “The idea of putting a bullet into Perry’s head makes me want to vomit all over myself. On the other hand, I share Moore’s concerns, to some degree at least. Perry’s maverick ways have mostly benefited the organization. The man has killer instincts and a finely-honed sense of timing, even given his recent tragedies. But eventually he’s going to get it wrong. And when he does, it’s going to be a whopper that most likely won’t isolate itself to Perry Hall. If it’s bad enough, a dozen others could be involved, unmasked, their covers blown. Take Paris, for example. What if Perry hadn’t gotten so lucky? What if he hadn’t gotten it right? The city would be a smoke pile of radioactive rubble right now and the world could easily be engulfed in the flames of another world war. All because one man went off script.”

  Lyndsey’s face had paled a shade or two. “I hear what you’re saying, Burke. And I don’t disagree. But I trust Perry. He’s struggling—has been ever since Trina died—but that doesn’t mean he’s lost his instincts. He needs help, not a death sentence. He may not be functioning at one hundred percent, but even what he’s managing makes him the best agent in the field.”

  Burke grunted. “That might be taking things a little too far.”

  Lyndsey rolled her eyes and gave a light chuckle. “Okay, the second best. My god, men and their egos.”

  Burke ignored the barb. “Either way, we still have to get to Istanbul as quickly as we can and find Perry Hall, either to kill or warn him.”