Political Thriller: RUSSIAN HOLIDAY, an American Assassin story

by Kenneth Eade

  When Robert arrived home, he checked his PGP mail before taking the dog for its evening walk. Lyosha was due to arrive the following week. This meant the job had to be done by Sunday. Robert arranged his tools: A Sig Sauer P226 Mosquito with noise suppressor, his backup Glock 9mm with silencer, black jeans, black sweatshirt and black ski mask. If Naifeh was true to his patterns, he would be home every day by 9 p.m. and in bed by midnight.

  ***

  The following day, Robert spot-checked Naifeh’s place to confirm he was home by the usual time. He went back home and took the dog with him to his favorite Italian restaurant in the neighborhood. The dog sat dutifully under the table. He knew whatever was left over would be his, so begging was unnecessary. Robert ordered a quatre fromage pizza for an appetizer, followed by a bloody steak with a generous bone that could also be claimed by the dog if he behaved. After the meal, he threw the “pizza bones” one-at-a time to the dog, which skillfully caught each one and swallowed them without chewing. He saved the piece de résistance for last, bagging it up for home. The dog walked along Robert’s side, sticking his big snout in the air to sniff the aromas from the bag. When they got home, Robert unwrapped the bone and put it on the floor while the dog patiently waited, with 100% of his attention focused on the mass of osseous matter until Robert gave the go-ahead, then he charged at it, took it in his mouth, and went to the corner to chew on it.

  Later that night (morning really), while Butthead was still chomping feverishly on his bone, Robert suited up, holstered up, and left the apartment. He proceeded to Ranelagh on foot, through the forest and approached it from outside the city limits. At the corner, from the cover of a clump of trees and in the shadows, he used his field glasses to check the house. Nobody was on the street and the lights were off in Naifeh’s bedroom. His time was up.

  He quietly approached the house, donned his gloves, and lifted the flowerpot. Taking the key, he unlocked the door, and opened it silently, then replaced the key where he had found it. He slipped on his surgeon’s booties and a surgical cap and went inside.

  There were sounds coming from the back of the house. Robert could see one of the posterior rooms was illuminated with light. Naifeh was still up. He ducked into a side room. It appeared to be a sitting room of sorts. The house was as lavishly furnished as Naifeh’s sanctimonious lifestyle, filled with antique Louis XIV and XV furniture with delicate golden legs and Venetian crystal chandeliers. It looked like a museum or one of the apartments in Versailles. In the twisted version of ISIS Islam, being rich was haram. This meant Naifeh was a sinner, and Robert would only be so happy to deliver him a one-way ticket straight to hell.

  The doorbell rang.

  Shit! He has a visitor! Maybe they’ll go away.

  Naifeh passed right by Robert to answer the door. He heard small talk coming from the foyer and then the clacking of a woman’s high-heeled shoes on the marble floor. As the sounds came closer, Robert realized they were heading straight for this room. He crouched behind a large Louis XIV purple velour couch and hoped they wouldn’t see him. Otherwise, things would be a lot sloppier than he had planned.

  Hopefully there won’t be any more guests.

  Naifeh invited the woman into the sitting room. Robert could see her slender bare legs and ultra-high red pumps. The room began to fill with the smell of a French perfume boutique, where it was not uncommon to take a “shower” in perfume to try it on. He seated her precisely on the couch Robert was hiding behind.

  She’s obviously a hooker. More haram.

  Naifeh withdrew and came back with a bottle of champagne and two glasses. He popped the cork and it flew over the couch, almost hitting Robert in the head. Both of them laughed at the flight of the champagne cork.

  Naifeh began to make small talk with the girl as they drank. Robert was feeling cramped behind the couch and had a right mind to deny Naifeh his last orgasm and send both of them on their way out, but he hung in there. When the conversation died away, Robert heard only the sound of her breathing heavily, mixed with masculine guttural grunts and groans. They were making out, which was making Robert disgusted.

  Finally, they stood up and walked out of the room and Robert could hear the stairs creaking as they walked up to the bedroom. Robert took a more comfortable seat in the sitting room and waited. After about forty minutes, Naifeh and the girl emerged at the bottom of the stairs and Robert heard her clacking her way out amid the sound of mutual good-byes. Naifeh went back upstairs.

  After about an hour, Robert quietly padded up the stairs to the first floor, turned right and paused outside Naifeh’s room. He could hear Naifeh snoring in post-coital bliss. Robert entered the opulent bedroom, which was completely dark. He unsheathed the Sig, walked up to Naifeh, who was calmly sleeping on his Egyptian cotton satin sheets, and cupped his hand over his mouth while he pushed his head against the goose down pillow with the gun. Naifeh’s eyes opened in terror. Robert calmly addressed him in his perfect Arabic.

  “No this is not a dream, Naifeh. Allah la yardaa. I’m here to make sure you get to Jahannam.”

  Beads of sweat popped out on Naifeh’s forehead. He shivered, tried to speak. Robert fired into the terrorist’s forehead. Then he looked around the room. Naifeh’s new Rolex was on the nightstand. He took it and a wad of cash from his wallet, also on the nightstand, to make it look like a robbery.

  Robert cracked the glass panel in the kitchen door that lead to the backyard and opened it. He slipped out the front and faded away. He dipped into the forest and walked to the edge of the pond, where he chucked the Rolex and the gun. He would anonymously donate the cash to a mosque the next day.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Lyosha’s arrival in Paris was like a moving party. Robert went to the airport ahead of time to meet him and rented a car for their escapades. Standing in the arrivals area, he could see Lyosha’s smiling face towering above the bobbing heads of the crowd. The smile remained as he greeted Robert with his “death grip” handshake.

  “So happy to see you, my American friend. Just like Gene Kelly.”

  Robert’s eyebrows raised in surprise. “Gene Kelly?”

  “An American in Paris. This is Paris, right?”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “So, you are the American. An American in Paris, just like Gene Kelly.”

  “Don’t expect me to dance around for you.”

  Lyosha’s rolling laughter almost knocked Robert off his feet. Robert knew Lyosha expected him to show him Paris like Lyosha had shown him Moscow, so they set off immediately for the center of the city. But strolling around the city was not Lyosha’s idea of a visit to Paris. After visiting some of Robert’s favorite landmarks, Lyosha asked the ten thousand dollar question.

  “What about kuritsa? Chicks?”

  “Tonight. There will be chicks tonight.”

  Robert treated him to an ample meal at Brasserie Bofinger in the heart of the Bastille – mounds of oysters, clams, shrimp, langoustine, lobster and crab heaped on a huge bowl of ice. They inhaled the oysters, between helpings of freshly baked bread smothered in fine butter, and then attacked the remaining sea jewels. By the time they were finished, two waiters stood before them with the freshly grilled carcasses of two large sea bass.

  “There is more? After all that?”

  Robert smiled. Now it was his turn to spoil Lyosha. As they feasted, the wine flowed freely and it wasn’t long before they had polished off two bottles between themselves.

  After dinner, they stepped outside to walk off their huge dinner in preparation for the night’s festivities. The night was filled with revelers leaving restaurants and the modern opera house, and hordes of students hanging out in and in front of the bars surrounding the Place de Bastille, only a few paces away. Lyosha looked at the base of the monument, which had been defaced, with curiosity.

  “Why they allow this for their monuments? It’s covered with all this graffiti and shit.”

  Lyosha pointed to the tagging all over the base of the
monument, a Corinthian column topped by Dumont’s “Génie de la Liberté” that towered over the square to mark the site of the Bastille prison, stormed by French revolutionaries on July 14, 1789. The scrawling contained phrases like “Je suis Charlie” and “Fuck terrorism.”

  “This “graffiti” and shit is all in memory of the Charlie Hebdo massacres.”

  Lyosha’s expression of disgust turned to anger. “Fucking terrorists. I would like to kill every one of them.”

  Robert nodded. It was a desire they had in common.

  ***

  Robert parked the car in an underground parking in the George V neighborhood near the Champs Élysées. It was close to Lyosha’s hotel and, if their evening tonight was anything like the ones they had in Moscow, nobody was going to be in any shape to drive home. They took a table at the legendary Crazy Horse Café and watched the girls dancing in a nude can-can show as they polished off an ice-cold bottle of Titomirov vodka in an illuminated ice bucket.

  “You ordered Titomirov!”

  “Of course. I remembered how much you like it. Nothing but the best for you!”

  Lyosha raised his glass to Robert and looked into his eyes.

  “To my American friend. May we always be on the same side, fighting those asshole terrorists together.”

  Robert clicked his full shot glass.

  “Do adna! To the end!” Lyosha declared, meaning Robert had to drink the glass in one gulp to the end. Robert nodded and they both simultaneously slammed down the icy hot liquid.

  After one bottle had been polished off, they retired to the VIP room, where they secured another private table, at an additional commitment to buy an even more outrageously expensive bottle of vodka.

  “Boab, do you realize that, in Russia, for this price, we would have each already had harem of girls, and not just to look at?”

  Robert laughed. Minutes later a cocktail waitress in a mini skirt carried a shiny chrome ice bucket to their table. A sparkler was blazing in the top of the bottle as the waitress set the illuminated monstrosity on their table. After the sparkler had burned out and they had their first drink, tall girls in scanty dresses began parading by them, showing their wares in hopes for a lap dance or two. They were in luck. Lyosha had his eye set on one of his blue-eyed, blonde haired countrywomen. As she bounced on his lap, he spoke with her in Russian and discovered her name was Anastasia (Nastya) and charmed her into coming home with him after work. After a few songs on top of Lyosha, she retreated to the stage for her performance.

  “I think I will have a good night.”

  Robert nodded. “I would say so.”

  “Boab, do you ever talk to that girl you met in Moscow – Svetlana?”

  Robert shook his head. “No.”

  “Why not? Russian girl like her would love to come to Paris.”

  Robert shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “You not like her?”

  “I do, I do.”

  “Then what is problem? We call her now.”

  Lyosha reached in his jacket pocket for his cell phone.

  “No, no, it’s much too late.”

  “Okay, tomorrow then.” He slipped the phone back.

  “Tomorrow.”

  After Robert’s wallet had taken a huge beating settling the bill, they stood up from the table. Lyosha’s arm was locked around Nastya’s waist.

  “Boab, why you no have girl?”

  Robert smiled. “It’s okay.”

  Lyosha shook his head. “No, not okay. We get you girl. He asked Nastya something in Russian. Robert put his hands out, shaking them in a stopping motion. “Really, really, it’s not necessary.”

  “Boab, you are man, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you are not gay?”

  “No.”

  “Or married?”

  “No.”

  “Then, my friend, it is absolutely necessary. It is like drinking or breathing. You don’t want to die, do you?”

  “No.”

  By then, three of Nastya’s Russian friends had lined up in front of them, and they were all smiling at Robert like mice looking at a juicy piece of cheese.

  “These girls all go home from work now. Choose.”

  Avoiding the blondes, Robert chose a brunette with green eyes, so he wouldn’t be reminded of Lana.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Rue du Ranelagh was cluttered with blue and white police cars, their red and blue lights flashing, when Inspector Soussier pulled up to the villa at No. 16 which was the center of all the commotion. He double-parked his car outside, exited and approached the two uniformed policemen at the entrance of the villa.

  “What do we have here?”

  One of the uniformed cops responded proudly. He had been the first on the scene.

  “A man has been murdered in his bed, sir. Looks like a burglary. I have secured the crime scene.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Franco, sir.”

  Soussier strapped on a pair of booties and popped on some latex gloves. He gave a set to Franco, who stared at them first, then got the idea.

  “Put these on and come with me. What makes you think this was a burglary?”

  Franco slipped the booties on and struggled to keep up with Soussier, who was on a mission.

  “Well, for one thing, sir, there was a glass door broken in the kitchen. I figure that’s how he got in.”

  Inspector Soussier humphed as he mounted the stairs with Franco in tow. “What else?”

  “We found a receipt in his wallet for a Rolex he bought last week at Galeries Lafayette, but no watch and his wallet was empty. No cash.”

  “Maybe he uses only credit cards.”

  They entered the bedroom and Soussier came up to the bed and leaned in over it to take a good look at the body.

  “Anybody touch the body?”

  “No, sir. Looks like a single shot to the head.”

  “Yes, Franco, what this looks like is a professional hit. I’d say a .22 caliber weapon at close range. I don’t suppose the neighbors heard anything?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Let’s find out if they saw anything unusual at all. Send some of your men door to door. I want names and statements.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What is this poor fellow’s name, Franco?”

  “It’s Naifeh, Fahd Naifeh. A Turkish banker.”

  Soussier’s eyebrows puckered. “Do you know who this is, Franco?”

  “Yes, sir. I just told you.”

  “I mean, this is the guy they tried to prosecute for being the main banker for the Islamic State. He was just acquitted on money laundering and terrorism financing charges.”

  Franco perked up. “I didn’t know that, sir.”

  Soussier scratched his head. “This is very similar to another case I’m working on – also an ISIS suspect by the name of Khalil. You heard of him?”

  “No, sir.”

  ***

  Robert woke up to a headache and the sound of the shower. He then remembered he had brought a house guest home last night. Yana came out of the bathroom smelling like fresh soap and perfume and refused Robert’s overtures to have breakfast at the bakery down the street.

  “Not even a coffee? I can make some here.”

  “No, I have to get back. Have work tonight.”

  She pecked him on the cheek and was out the door, leaving the apartment quiet and the dog wagging its tail with curiosity.

  Robert didn’t expect to hear from Lyosha until the afternoon, so he checked his PGP mail and found another assignment waiting. Mahmud Shamoun was a suspected ISIS terrorist who had immigrated to France about a year ago as a refugee. He had been suspected by the authorities of aiding and abetting terrorist groups, but the French, as usual, claimed they couldn’t find sufficient evidence to prosecute him. The evidence Robert was presented was on a video which had matched Shamoun’s identity card with the use of facial recognition software. It showed a young Shamoun in a
group of terrorists waving machine guns, and then gunning down an American journalist in Syria. That was all the evidence Robert required, and he began planning how to end Shamoun’s terroristic career immediately.

  ***

  Inspector Nicolas Soussier ran his fingers over the keyboard, searching on the Internet for information about a closed investigation in the States regarding a vigilante who had been killing terrorists the social media had named “Paladine.” Most of the articles he had found referred to an Arizona case investigated by a detective Joshua Maynard. Soussier stayed late in the office so he could phone Maynard about the case.

  “Detective Maynard?”

  “Yes?”

  “This is Inspector Nicolas Soussier from the Police Nationale in Paris. We have a case here that is remarkably similar to your Paladine case, and I wanted to talk to you about it.”

  Maynard’s heart jumped. He had never given up on the Paladine case, but every lead he had found seemed to have gone stale. Maybe he was in France now.

  “That case was closed.”

  “I know, Detective, but I wonder if you may be able to send over your files so we can study them for similarities.”

  “There are a lot of files.”

  “Can you send them electronically?”

  “Yes, I’d be happy to. Inspector?”

  “Yes?”

  “If you find something interesting, can you please let me know? This case is of utmost interest to me.”

  “Of course.”

  Soussier waited several hours into the night for the information to arrive by download link, and delved into it right away. Maynard had been tenacious in his pursuit of the case, but Soussier gave a new meaning to the word.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Lyosha had checked in with Robert too late in the afternoon to have lunch. Unlike Moscow, where you could get breakfast, lunch or dinner at any hour of the day or night, 24 hours around the clock, since lunch was like a religious service in France, the restaurants stopped serving it at 3 p.m., so Lyosha, on Robert’s advice, ordered room service. His only breakfast had been a pot of coffee and another helping of Nastya, so he was famished. Robert made plans to meet him later on for dinner. In the meantime, he formulated a strategy for taking care of Shamoun.