by Mark Leggatt
Empty. He dropped the gun onto the asphalt. His leg began to spasm. He looked down and saw a neat hole punched through his calf muscle. Suck it up, bitch. You ain’t dead yet. His eyes stung from the jet fuel vapors as he turned to Kessler. “Just you and me now. Asshole.”
Kessler shifted from foot to foot and stared at the carnage around him. He seemed to jolt to attention and then shot a glance towards the bag, lying near the nose of the jet. He shook his head. “I could have made you a very rich man, Montrose. Richer than you could ever dream.”
Montrose laughed. “Keep up, dickhead, we’ve done that bit. I thought you wouldn’t deal with a piece of shit like me?” He watched Kessler’s eyes fix on the revolver lying beside the Afghan, hot wisps of vapor curling up from the barrel where it lay in the fuel. If it was gonna blow, it would have done it by now. And I’d be toast. But he’ll get there way before me. How many rounds are left in the chamber? What the hell, enough to kill me. “Don’t even think about it, Kessler. I’m CIA. They’ll hunt you down like a dog.”
Kessler threw his arms in the air. “You think? They asked us to kill you! And for what you have done to my father, I’ll take great pleasure in getting my hands dirty.”
“You haven’t got the balls. Hand over the memory stick. It’s your last chance.”
“You astound me, Montrose. What are you going to do? Arrest me?”
Montrose flinched as the Jag’s tires exploded and the flames grew higher, sending thick black smoke curling towards them. “An arrest isn’t top of my list right now.” He tried to push himself up, but his leg refused to move. “I might just beat the shit out of you. Hand it over.”
Kessler patted his jacket pocket. “It’s safe.”
“Show me. A last request for a dying man, yeah?”
Kessler reached into his pocket, and brought out the memory stick. “Last look.” He waggled it between his fingers. “All for this. If you weren’t such a persistent imbecile, I might have some sympathy for you.”
“Yeah, you’re all fucking heart. Now, throw it clear. If you kill me, that’ll clear my name.”
Kessler glanced towards the bag. “That’s not going to happen. I need you to be remembered as a psychopathic murderer. After all, someone’s going to have to take the blame for . . .” He was lost for words as he looked at the bodies around him. “This . . . What’s the word? Clusterfuck?” He placed the memory stick back into his pocket. “Goodbye, Montrose.” He edged towards the revolver, watching Montrose’s reactions.
I’ll never make it. He saw Kessler move his weight forward, ready to sprint. Fuck it! Montrose threw himself towards him, arms outstretched as Kessler started to run, and slapped his hand against Kessler’s heel, pushing the shoe away.
Kessler’s foot slammed into the back of his own leg and he tumbled to the ground, then rolled and snatched up the revolver. He stood and looked down at his suit, the damp patches of fuel spreading across his knees and chest. “You’ll pay for that, you bastard!” His hands shook as he brought up the gun.
“Yeah? I’ve got more to think about than your dry-cleaning.” Snub nosed revolver. He’ll have to come closer. The way his hands are shaking, I’m the last thing he’s gonna hit around here.
Kessler advanced slowly, steadying the revolver. “I’ve never killed a man before. I often wondered what it would feel like. You know, I think I’m really going to enjoy it.”
One last roll of the dice. And just keep rolling. No, I need to be further away. Or I’m dead too. “You’re finished, Kessler. They’ll find you. Just give me the memory stick. Take the bag.” Get some distance. Montrose pushed himself back on his hands, across the asphalt, dragging his legs behind him. Faster. Pain shot through his body and his arms buckled beneath him. He slipped his hand into the pocket of his pants. There’s no choice. Do it!
Holding the revolver with both hands, Kessler stepped forward. “I’m going to empty this gun into your stomach. Then you can watch me walk away with the bag as you bleed to death. I’m told it’s the most painful way to die. Or I might just fire into the fuel and watch you burn.”
“Yeah? I like your thinking.” He felt the soft, familiar metal deep in his pocket. “Listen, I’ve got something for you. To remember our time together.” His fingers folded around the metal and his thumbnail found the edge of the lid. “Made in Berlin. A present from my sister.” He pulled the gold lighter from his pocket and sparked the flint as he lobbed it at Kessler’s chest.
Kessler’s eyes opened wide as the spark lit the flame. He tried to catch the lighter, but he grabbed thin air and it dropped at his feet. A glimmer of blue light curled around Kessler’s legs and flashed across the ground, then erupted into a golden inferno, edged in black smoke, enveloping Kessler in the flames.
The heat scorched Montrose’s back as he rolled away, hands over his face. He heard an ear-splitting scream, and looked up as the burning figure stumbled towards the edge of the fire then collapsed to the ground.
Kessler’s entire body was alight. The hair from his scalp had gone, his head blackened and bubbling with burning fat. A carbonized hand reached out, fingers clawing into the asphalt and skin tearing away, leaving bloodied, blackened stumps. Then the hand stopped and lay still, flames and smoke curling from the tips of the fingers.
A car slid to a halt beside Montrose’s head. He looked up and saw the grill of a black BMW and watched open-mouthed as a man stepped from the car and grabbed the leather bag from under the nose of the jet.
The man opened the flaps and held up the letter, then ran back to the car with the bag under his arm. The BMW drove off before the door had closed.
Who the hell . . .? Montrose dropped his face to the asphalt and crawled away from the flames.
The sound of sirens came drifting down the runway.
Oh, fuck. He leaned forward on his arms and looked down. He could see the blood trail behind him. Here we go again. He turned his head at the rumble of a big twin cylinder engine and saw the Norton thundering up the runway.
Charlotte slid the bike to a halt.
Montrose shifted his weight to his good leg and held a hand in the air. “Charlotte! I had no choice. They promised me the evidence to clear my name. I’m not a murderer.”
She stared transfixed at the charred body of Kessler, engulfed in flames, then the burning corpses of Muller and the Afghan. She snapped her head away from the sight in disgust and shock. “I understand.”
He pointed to Kessler’s corpse at the edge of the flames. “And now the evidence to clear my name is destroyed.” He turned to Charlotte. “How did you know where to find me?”
“Mossad. They nearly caught up with you in the forest. They’d been tailing Kessler ever since he arrived in Paris.”
He looked down the runway, but the BMW was gone. “I thought they were going to shoot me.”
She wiped the damp hair from her face. “It crossed my mind to ask them.”
“Charlotte, I didn’t know it would turn out like this.” He saw Muller’s blood spattered across his hands.
“You can make it up to me,” she said. “I know a good restaurant in Casablanca.”
“Where?”
“Morocco.” She wiped her eyes against the sting of the smoke. “Get on.”
I ain’t gonna argue. He crawled forward and grabbed the seat of the bike, hauling himself up, then swung his bloodied leg over the seat and wrapped an arm around her slender waist.
She turned her head. “Tighter, Connor. I don’t want to lose you again.” She dropped the clutch.
The Norton launched forward. A blast of searing heat burst across his back as the plane exploded. The bike shook and pitched sideways in the shockwave. Charlotte wrestled it straight and opened the throttle wide.
Ferguson stood at the hotel window, looking down onto the hospital. German cops flanked the door. A blacked out Mercedes SUV sat at each end of the street, loaded with GSG9 Counter Terrorism troops. He knew there was no more could be done. Every cop in Ge
rmany had Montrose’s photo, but he was nowhere to be seen. The psycho must have left France hours ago. Was he crazy enough to come to Berlin?
He peered out of the window, straining his neck to the sky. It was there, but he couldn’t see it. The drones were invisible to radar and there was one above every Latin American Embassy in Berlin, and above the hospital where the Afghani Trade Delegate lay in a critical condition.
He looked down to the street where two black SUVs left to change the shift guarding the Chinese and Russian Embassy. There would be no chance of asylum. They’d kill him on sight.
If Montrose showed his face on any other street the cops would find him, if the .50 caliber rifle on a drone didn’t get him first. He turned away and sat on the bed, rubbing his face hard. A knock came at the door.
“Room Service!”
Slipping back his jacket, Ferguson pulled out his revolver, and took up position. “We didn’t order room service.”
“Well, you’re going to want this. Special Delivery.”
He whispered into the walkie-talkie. “Guys? You there? In position?”
“Yeah, we’re here. It’s just a room service chick. She’s kosher.”
He heard the voice behind the door.
“Kosher! Yes, that is a good one. You are a very funny man.”
Ferguson glanced through the peephole of the door, but could only see a staff uniform.
“Stop looking at my tits.”
Ferguson pulled the door open.
A figure hunched over a room service cart and rattled it into the room. She stood up straight. She was easily
a foot taller than himself. “I’m Rosamund. Where’s your boss?”
Ferguson tried to regain some composure, taken aback by her deep voice and her guttural Bavarian accent. “Depends who you’re looking for, sweetheart.”
She swept aside her red hair, cut into a bob which served only to heighten the length of her neck. “I’m not a sweetheart. I have a heart as black as the coals of hell. And you’re not Spinks. Where is he?”
“Here,” said Spinks, closing the bathroom door behind him, hauling his belt over his stomach.
“Ah, yes,” said Rosamund, looking down at his gut. “You must be him. Jonny said you were no stranger to a plate of schnitzel.”
“Jonny?” said Spinks. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Jonny Syracuse.”
Spinks looked her up and down. “You’re from Mossad?”
She threw her hands in the air. “What, do I need a Star of David tattooed on my ass? Do you know anyone else called Jonny Syracuse? I’m thinking not.”
“Yeah, yeah, what do you want? Jonny sent you to gloat, has he?”
“I’m here for good and bad news. You can call off the operation. Montrose is not coming to Berlin.”
Spinks strode forward, tilting back his head to look at up her. “And tell me, just how do you know that?”
“Because he’s dead. Connor Montrose was killed today. At an airfield near Paris.”
Spinks shoulders sagged and he stepped back, holding onto a chair. “Jesus, they got him.” He stared open-mouthed out of the window, down at the hospital. “Who killed him?”
Rosamund shrugged. “If Jonny knows, he’s not telling me.”
“Did he talk to anyone before he died? The press?”
“I doubt it.” She grinned and pointed to the mute TV in the corner, tuned to CNN, the latest news scrolling across the bottom of the screen. “You would have heard by now, no?”
“Yeah.” Spinks let out a belly laugh and punched a fist in the air. “It’s over!” He cocked his head to one side and eyed Rosamund. “So what’s Mossad got to do with this? What did he do to you?”
“What am I? CNN? So, that’s the good news.”
Spinks dropped down on the bed. “Yeah, believe me, it doesn’t get much better than that.” He waved a hand at Ferguson. “Call them off. All of it. The bastard’s dead.” He held his face in his hands for a moment, then looked up. “We have to get back to Rome.”
He nodded towards Rosamund. “Say thanks to Jonny for me.”
Rosamund shook her head. “You forgot the bad news. Before Montrose died, it seems there was a firefight. The Afghani Ambassador to France took a hit. He’s very dead.”
Spinks stared at her, his fleshy bottom lip edging southwards.
She bent down to the cart. “I’ll leave that with you,” she said and headed for the door. “Goodbye, gentlemen, and good luck. I think you’ll need it.”
CHAPTER 34
The Moroccan summer nights were too hot for clothes. As the morning sun rose they lay jammed together, Charlotte’s face tucked under his chin. He felt the rise and fall of her breasts pressing into his chest as she slept.
His eyes opened. Only one thing could make this better. He gently lifted her leg, uncurled her arm from his chest and rolled out from underneath her sleeping form. Coffee.
He placed his feet gently on the floor. The hole in his calf had closed to a hard, encrusted scar, but the muscle was tight and sore first thing in the morning. As he stood, a warm breeze pushed the gossamer-thin curtain aside and touched the damp areas where their skin had pressed together. He looked down at her on the bed. The temptation to touch her was strong. He flexed his fingers. As strong as it had been since she had held on to him in a shaking Parisian metro carriage. No, let her sleep.
The melodious strains of a muezzin, calling the faithful to prayer, drifted across the rooftops. Montrose closed his eyes and listened, savoring the simple, hypnotic rhythm of the words. A hum of voices came from the vast, tented market of the Medina, jammed up against the wall of the mosque. A hint of spice hung in the air. The stallholders in the small square below their window began to light their charcoal burners and a rainbow of aromas would soon flood the narrow alleys around the house. A shout came from a man in the street, chasing young boys away from his fresh bread stall.
This ain’t no paradise. But it’s damn close. He turned back to Charlotte. Her skin had become even darker in the Moroccan sun. More like chocolate. No, coffee. Hell, can’t I think of nothing but sex and food? Maybe this is paradise.
He gathered his clothes from the floor and limped through to the bathroom. He turned the squeaking faucet of the dripping shower. The water sputtered and spat from the rusting showerhead, and banged in the pipes. I’ll wake her. He twisted the faucet closed, and stood, listening to the water dripping. She’s still asleep.
He glanced through to the bedroom. She lay face down across the bed, the thin sheet draped across her ass and her hair spread across the pillow. What now? Where do we go from here? Mossad would take care of her. But me? He picked up his clothes. The window of the small bathroom was jammed shut and the heat of the day was already starting to build. Rising up from his chest, he caught the intoxicating scent of her on his skin . . . Maybe wash later.
The coffee was dark, strong and sweet as candy. Montrose placed the glass on the stained wooden table then returned to reading about the Yankees taking a beating. The Herald and Tribune fitted neatly behind the pages of the Le Courrier de Casablanca.
He relaxed back in the chair, lifted the newspaper to cover his face and let the noise of the café wash over him. Arabian cafés were not known for their love of restrained debate. He’d only be worried if it went quiet.
He didn’t notice that someone had sat at his table until he heard a polite cough. His grip tightened as he lowered the newspaper. A small, pink-faced man with thick glasses smiled across at him. The tight, button-down collar and pencil tie only served to make Montrose think that the man was choking to death.
The man placed his childlike, almost translucent hands on the table. “Mr. Montrose,” he said, his Texan drawl longer than a football field. “Let me say at once, I am a friend.”
The deal with Mossad was a passport and a promise to keep my mouth shut. No one else knew I’m in Casablanca. Until now. “That’s good to know. How did you find me?”
/> “I have a friend in Tel-Aviv. He owed me a favor. He wouldn’t have told me unless he truly trusted me.”
Montrose said nothing. There was no spook agency on the planet that was completely watertight. Mossad had been grateful, but it wouldn’t last forever. Shit, it had only lasted a week. Time to move on.
The man’s intense gaze never wavered. “May I also say, I am quite alone.”
“Yeah?” Montrose glanced across the café. Everyone looked local which was why he had chosen it. It was too dirty for Westerners. But the coffee was to die for. He looked down at his glass. Not literally.
The man closed his eyes and nodded his head, as if in prayer. “And I am a man of my word.”
“Good for you, soldier. What do you want?”
The man let out a high, almost childish laugh. “I want to shake your hand, Mr. Montrose. The heroin deal in Rome. Helluva job. I mean it. You saved so many young people from a lifetime of misery. For that, I am eternally grateful.”
Montrose took the man’s hand. “Really? Then let me guess, you’re not CIA?”
The man shrugged almost imperceptibly, then delicately lifted one finger. “Used to be. Amongst other things.”
“Whatever. So, who do you work for?”
“Our organization has no name.”
Montrose raised his eyebrows. “Are you fucking serious?”
“It serves a purpose. And please, I abhor foul language. My name is Mr. Pilgrim. May I say, you came with a very good reference.”
“You got a reference from my old CIA boss? I don’t think so, pal.”
“No, in fact, the reference was from Inspector Claude Bonsergeant of the Sureté.”
Montrose’s mind flashed back to Paris. This guy seemed to know everything. Okay, I’m officially spooked.
“The Inspector said you were an honest man.”
