The Innocent Assassins

by Pema Donyo

  I wrapped the scarf around my shoulders. The purple fabric covered my bare arms and draped over my white dress. Goodness gracious, Roman vendors were pushy. At least she finally left me alone. A sense of relief washed over me as I reached the fountain in the middle of the piazza.

  The vendors selling knockoff paintings and cheap scarves still stood on the outskirts of the piazza, waiting for the tourists on travel tours to walk by. No doubt the woman with the scarves had gone back there too, on a hunt for another victim.

  I turned my attention back to the piazza fountain. It was beautiful, especially at night when the day crowd died down and the gelato stores stayed open. My stomach rumbled with the thought. Gelato. I glanced away from the bare bottom of the fountain sculpture and toward the gelato store. Gelato places and pizzerias felt like nearly half of the Roman shops to me.

  My feet pattered across the cobblestone steps toward the gelato store. The person working behind the counter appeared pissed off, like gelato store scoopers tended to normally look like. His dark hair tied neatly into a bun at the back of his head, and he fixed an expectant gaze at me.

  I pointed to the mint flavor and abandoned the English I’d used with the vendor. “I’ll have the mint gelato in a cone, two scoops, please,” I said in Italian.

  The man nodded and rung it up on the register. Hmmm, maybe if I’d used Italian on the woman she would’ve taken me for a local and not followed me for literally ten minutes telling me to buy her scarves.

  I reached into my pocket to pay for the gelato, but the man shook his head. He pointed behind him. The door behind him suddenly swung wide open, revealing a woman in a sleek black floor-length dress, evening make-up, and heels which belonged at the Met Gala and nowhere else. The woman was Marge.

  “Nice scarf.” She pushed aside the counter separating the back of the gelato store from the front. Marge inclined her head in the direction of the piazza fountain. Without another word, she walked on ahead of me.

  I glanced between her retreating figure and my gelato still on the counter. All right, free gelato. I grabbed the gelato and a plastic spoon, and then ran after her.

  “How did you find me? I only stopped at the gelato store because the woman…”

  “…selling the scarves finally sold you a scarf there for a great price. She works for Central Intelligence.”

  My jaw dropped. I nearly dropped my gelato too.

  Marge weaved her way through the vendors toward one in particular. I watched her with a wary eye. She stopped suddenly in front of a painting, and I halted behind her.

  “From this moment onward we will not address each other or anyone else by titles, proper or formal, and all of our conversation will be in English, not Italian. Am I clear?” Marge’s tone was low and hurried. She didn’t look at me, but at the watercolor landscape in front of us. “I understand you have information regarding the newest assignment. Please inform me of everything discussed during your last meeting with your past informant and now.”

  I swallowed my bite of gelato, letting the coolness of the mint fill my mouth. Ah, one thing I could get used to in Italy: eating gelato every day. The bugs and the rude waiters, not so much.

  “I landed yesterday. I’m staying on the outside of Rome, and I’m supposed to meet with my client tomorrow.”

  “Your past informant alerted me of your safe arrival yesterday.”

  “How would he know?”

  “He was on your flight, and he is staying in the hotel room next to yours.”

  “Tristan’s spying on me? Are you kidding?” SPLAT. My gelato slipped from my hands in my surprise and landed on the cobblestone floor of Piazza Navano. I felt critical stares against my back from the other passersby. “You don’t trust me to follow through on the mission?”

  “No names,” she seethed. The made-up Marge still didn’t turn to me. If any passerby glanced at us, all he would see was two women dressed up for a night on the town who admired art, not demolishers of the largest assassination corporation in the world.

  I imagined her mouth pressed into a thin line, the creases of worry etched onto her forehead and along her cheeks. “Don’t worry. I don’t believe you’ll double-cross us, but the directors of the CIA don’t want to take any chances.”

  I crossed my arms. “I’m risking everything here. I’m turning my back on people I grew up with.”

  “Murderers.”

  I remained silent for a moment. She was right. I couldn’t deny the parents killed, babies slaughtered, and guiltless hundreds of bodies perished at the hands of Covert Operatives. For what?

  I shuddered. For money.

  “I assure you, there is no longer any part of me who believes in the mission of Covert Operatives. No one wants to see the organization destroyed more than I do.”

  Marge still didn’t turn to me. “I know. Tristan knows. But orders from the top are still orders. Continue your stream of helpful information and everyone else will trust you’re on the side of the good.”

  There it was again—some magical division between good and bad. Some mumbo-jumbo about taking sides. I sighed. There was no way anyone in Covert Operatives would say they were on “the bad side.” It was a way of life, not some line between right and wrong. When everyone else you loved and admired and respected was involved in the same program you were, how could you call it wrong?

  “Your past informant is in deep cover. He has gained the trust of your new client. We cannot afford to lose this opportunity to understand how a contract is conducted.” Without another word, Marge spun around and walked away on her stilettos.

  I continued to stare at the painting while her heels clicked away against the cobblestones. It was a replication of a canal in Venice. The Italian landscape in the background served as the main attraction, with winding turquoise canals and looming ivory domes. The tall, antique buildings with brightly painted shutters and even brighter walls loomed over the narrow canal.

  Yet it was the detail in the foreground which caught my attention. Inside the canal was a woman who was drowning, and a man who was reaching out in an attempt to save her.

  I frowned at the painting. The vendor walked around the corner and gestured to the piece. “Interested in buying?”

  “What is it supposed to represent?”

  “Why, a man saving his woman, of course. She is drowning because she did not know what she was getting into.” The man shrugged as if this was the most common situation in all of history. “She’s not strong enough to make it on her own.”

  I may have not known what I was getting into when I agreed to spy, but I sure didn’t need someone to save me. I gave one last look to the woman in the painting. That’s not me.

  I turned around and trained my eyes back on the lighted streets of Rome leading away from the piazza. The street lamps began to flicker on as the darkness of night descended over Piazza Navano.

  I wasn’t some damsel in distress captured in a painting. This girl was strong enough to make it on her own.

  ****

  “I’m sorry; I thought you were a friend of mine!” I called out over my shoulder in desperation.

  The pink bathrobe-clad man still held up the pepper spray bottle as he stood in front of his wife, the spray aimed directly at my face. He swore at me in French again and edged closer.

  I scurried away from him and out the doorway without a second glance. As soon as I stepped back into the hallway, I slammed the door shut and leaned against the wall. All right, so Tristan was definitely not in Room 307. It probably hadn’t been such a great idea to pick the lock and enter the suspected room of my own accord.

  Which meant Tristan was probably in Room 305. I nearly picked the lock again, when the image of a fat man yelling in French and pointing a lachrymatory agent at me suddenly entered my vision. Yeah, I was in no mood for a repeat.

  I chose to knock on the door instead. Just in case, I tensed my body to prepare for a quick getaway should the situation turn hostile.

  Th
e door swung open, revealing a tanned man covered only in a low-slung white towel and an alarming lack of shirt. “The pizza was delivered quite fast, no? I…” Tristan’s voice faded. The tell-tale smirk emerged as soon as his eyes registered who I was. “Hey there, kid.”

  Time for the kill.

  I pounced on Tristan, my right leg springing up into action to deliver a blow square on his chest. He fell to the floor, belly-up, in less than a second. I crouched closer and poised my fist right above his chest, ready to make contact again.

  “Why are you spying on me?”

  Tristan’s infuriating smirk stayed on his face, like he found the whole situation entirely hilarious rather than worrisome that my right fist could kill him in seconds. “CIA’s orders. And I wanted to make sure you were safe.”

  “Marge told me.” I raised an eyebrow. My fist remained above his chest, ready to strike a blow. I chose to ignore the second part of his sentence. “Should I tell her about your history with Adrian?”

  Tristan scowled. He pushed me off him. “Why would you?”

  I contemplated kicking him to the floor again. “She doesn’t know. Why didn’t you tell her?”

  “I can handle the situation with Adrian on my own.”

  “You couldn’t handle him if you tried.”

  “Trust me. I’ve got a plan which will take care of him.” Something sinister brooded in Tristan’s face. It was darker than the usual playful expression which graced his features. A chill ran up my spine.

  “You’re going to leave him alone for now, right? He’s important to the mission.”

  Tristan snorted. “How close have you two even been since our kiss?”

  I winced.

  As Tristan watched my expression, the corners of his mouth curved upward. “I’m guessing you guys haven’t exactly been the best of friends. We don’t need Adrian anymore. Since you’re an executive, you still have information.”

  I followed him further into his hotel room, beyond the sofa threaded with gold and the expensive turquoise Chinese vase. The room looked exactly like mine: the best CO money could buy. Or Harry Croyden, in his case.

  I scanned the room as I spoke. “CIA agents have tried to catch Adrian before and they all failed.”

  Tristan walked toward the mini-bar behind the sofa and lifted up an already uncorked bottle. Next to the bottle rested two small tumblers. “Sherry?”

  “No thanks.”

  “Suit yourself.” Tristan poured out a glass of the dark liquid into one of the tumblers. The electric light above him reflected on the clear crystal. “We’re both meeting with Croyden tomorrow. Don’t forget.”

  “If you’re one of his men, shouldn’t he have arranged hotel arrangements for you? He would decide where you stayed.”

  “Who do you think suggested this room?” He lifted the glass in my direction. “Cheers, kid.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t call me that.”

  “Call you what?”

  “Kid.”

  Tristan took a long sip from his glass. The only sound heard in the room was the quiet clink when he set the glass back on the wooden counter of the mini bar. “You’re not a kid to me anymore.”

  “And what am I now?” I walked closer to the mini bar. His knuckles turned white as he clutched the glass harder. My voice shook with anger. “Some girl who’s risking her life to spy for the organization who raised her? Some girl who still isn’t trusted by the CIA even while she’s working as a double agent? A girl who watched her best friend lose consciousness from a bullet wound inflicted by information I leaked?”

  It wasn’t until I felt the heat from Tristan’s breath upon my cheek that I realized how close I’d walked toward him. I pulled back.

  But the damage was already done. Tristan’s arm snaked around my waist, his hand gripping the side of my waist as tight as he’d clenched his glass moments earlier. He set aside the glass onto the counter sometime during my speech, yet I still smelled the sherry on his breath.

  I swallowed. Neither of us said a word. The silence hung between us, thick with questions. There was nothing definite; everything had yet to be decided.

  Tristan made the first move.

  Taste. Taste was the first sense which invaded me—the sweetness of the sherry transferred from his lips to my own. He kissed me, wholly and fully, until the taste of sherry was on my lips and not just his own. His mouth pressed against mine, hard enough to leave a bruise. He didn’t meld his body against mine the way Adrian did. There was nothing soft or tender about his attack.

  SMACK.

  Tristan staggered back as he cradled his right cheek in his cupped palm. “What was that?”

  “I could ask you the same question!”

  “You loved the kiss,” he sneered.

  I wanted to rinse my mouth and gargle mouthwash until the aftertaste of sherry was gone. My hands balled into fists.

  His upper lip curled downward, but mirth played in his eyes. “You asked for it.”

  “No way. I can’t kiss you. I’m still with…” I stopped. The words I’d planned on saying froze at the back of my throat. I was not with Adrian King anymore, as much as my body still believed it true.

  Tristan either didn’t hear me or chose to ignore me, because he pressed on just as his invasive lips had. “I know you want me. Don’t deny it.”

  My jaw dropped. The nerve! “You’re my informant, and now my partner for the CIA. Nothing more.”

  Tristan’s eyes darted between my eyes and my lips, as if he couldn’t decide which was more important to look at. “I don’t get it. You were flirting with me, and then you kissed me.”

  I made a sound of frustration and threw my hands in the air. “When did I ever flirt with you? And you kissed me.”

  “What about all the late night phone calls?”

  “You mean the times I called you to tell you information I’d found?”

  Tristan shook his head, like he was denying lies I called out. Through gritted teeth, he muttered, “I don’t think I’m making myself clear. I think you’re strong, and beautiful, and smart. I want you.”

  “Well, I’m flattered.” I sighed. “But I don’t feel the same about you.”

  Silence descended for a few moments. It was pregnant silence, filled with the recent events between us and all the words left unsaid. Finally, he spoke, but his voice was so low I barely made it out. “You’re making a mistake, kid.”

  I watched him. I watched the way he trudged back to the mini bar, as if he was suddenly devoid of energy. I watched him down the rest of his glass of sherry without another word. But I didn’t watch him with the same affection he offered me.

  “I’m sorry, Tristan.” What else was I supposed to say? What did girls say in situations like these? What magic words could I offer to him to both preserve our friendship and make it clear to him we would never be together? “I think we should just be friends.”

  His face fell. Not literally, but something sunk in his features which only reminded me of falling. The corners of his mouth drooped ever so slightly downward. The brows furrowed in confusion, relaxed, and became limp. His eyes stayed downcast.

  I spun around and headed to the door.

  “This is about Adrian, isn’t it?”

  My heart thundered in my chest. “Why would it be about him? I was just flirting with him to get information.”

  “This is about Adrian.” The sentence was no longer a question; it was a fact.

  I heard him stand up from the stool at the bar and stroll toward me. I almost heard the wheels turn in his head as he spoke. With each word, he gained more and more confidence in his convictions.

  “It’s not about spying for the CIA. You like the murderer.” Tristan stood behind me. He was so close that if I turned around, my lips would touch his again. “It’s not just you wanting him. He wants you too.”

  My blood ran cold. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “That’s why he punched me at the Griffith. Th
at’s why he cared when I kissed you. You two weren’t just flirting.” He paused.

  Don’t say it. Please don’t say it.

  “You two were together even before the mission.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “Truth.”

  I blinked, staring straight ahead. “Good night, Tristan.”

  I slammed the door shut behind me. Within seconds, I’d pulled out my key card and entered my own hotel room. He knows. The two-word phrase repeated again and again inside my head. He knows; he knows.

  My gaze flickered to my coffee table in the room. Lucy’s letter still lay where I left it. What did she write again? It’s time you moved on.

  It seemed so easy—here was my chance to have a new relationship with someone else. I mean, Tristan couldn’t have made it any clearer. He wanted me, so why didn’t I want him?

  It wasn’t because there was anything wrong with him. He was handsome, he was easy to talk to and most important of all, we were on the same side. There wasn’t some powerful CEO corrupting his mind. He wasn’t ignoring me or flirting with my former best friend. Being with Tristan would be so much easier than it ever was with Adrian. There would be no constant struggle to make things work. We wouldn’t be on the verge of an argument all the time.

  I touched my lips with my fingertips, tracing where Tristan kissed me. Why had I said “I’m still with…?” I wasn’t anymore. Adrian wanted nothing to do with me.

  My stomach twisted when I thought of our last encounter nearly a month ago, when he’d acted so cold toward me. He didn’t care about me anymore.

  But I didn’t stop caring for him, I realized with sickening dread.

  ****

  I inspected my appearance in the elevator mirror. My skirt pressed neat folds to my knees; my leather heels shined to perfection; my color combination of black and white remained internationally acceptable; and… Oh, great. My shirt was inside-out and backward.

  I snuck a glance at the number ticking on the elevator. Eleven, twelve… I still had some time before reaching the twentieth floor. I started to unbutton my shirt, working my way downward. Displaying a shirt inside-out and backward was no way to greet Harry Croyden and his associates.