Kiss My Assassin
Page 13
“I am a spy.”
“That’s what I said.”
Gingerly, Oleg helped Bishop swing his legs over the side of the table. “Can you stand?”
Bishop raised an eyebrow. “If it means getting out of here, I can fly.”
“Walking will be sufficient.”
Wincing, Bishop shuffled forward to place his feet on the ground and let out a cry of pain, so overcome he didn’t care that Oleg had seen his weakness. He was far beyond caring.
Somehow managing to stand, he put an arm around the big man and leaned on him to remain upright. The two shuffled a few steps, Bishop sucking in deep breaths through his teeth with every stride. He could do this.
“What the hell?”
The two spies spun around. Temple stood in the doorway, knife in hand. Oleg let go of Bishop. With nothing to hold onto, Bishop fell, grasping the air for support that didn’t come. He landed hard on the ground.
Oleg yanked his pistol from his shoulder holster and fired. Temple’s head jerked back and his body collapsed, just like Bishop’s had. But unlike Bishop, he would never rise again. The bullet to the centre of his forehead had seen to that.
Gun trained on his target, Oleg approached slowly, ensuring the kill with another three bullets. There was no need to check for a pulse.
“Not so good at preserving witnesses, are you?”
Oleg turned. “You would prefer I hit him with a pillow, perhaps?”
“He was our only witness.”
“There is also Astrid, da?”
“True. But we have to find her first.”
“When I observed Temple, he placed luggage in the rear of his vehicle.”
“We need to get to the airport.”
Oleg frowned. “We need to get you to the hospital.”
“Stitches can wait. Revenge can’t.”
But revenge didn’t come. At least, not yet. Despite racing to the airport, there was no trace of Astrid. Her flight must have left before they arrived. She had mentioned she was cutting it fine to get to the airport. Only two international flights had recently departed: New York and Abu Dhabi.
On the way to the airport, Bishop had bandaged himself as Oleg drove. He needed stitches and urgent medical attention, but patching would postpone it for a time. He’d cleaned himself up as best he could, but knew he was unfit to be seen. Fit to be shunned, sure, but not seen.
After failing to find her at the airport, Oleg drove away, the mood in the car sombre. Using Oleg’s phone, he called MI6 and was put through to Paul. Before his boss said a word, Bishop advised him that the line was not secure, much to the Russian’s amusement. Providing a succinct summary, he gave Paul a rundown of recent events.
Paul promised to have agents waiting for both flights. At Bishop’s urging, he assured him they would take every precaution, given Astrid’s true nature.
“You didn’t listen,” Paul said over the phone.
“Listen to what?”
“That message I sent you, when you first arrived. I distinctly remember wishing you good luck and advising you not to get shot.”
“I was never very good at following instructions.”
Paul let the silence swirl for a moment. “We’ll get her, Bishop.”
Before he hung up, Bishop told Paul about the recorded footage from the auction and urged MI6 to open a new avenue of investigation. Paul assured his agent he would get right on it. The two rang off.
Feeling suddenly dizzy, Bishop leaned against the car window. With no other options, he relented to Oleg’s demands and went to hospital.
There he was prodded and poked and injected. Not unfamiliar sensations, although at least he had the benefit of painkillers this time. One doctor repeatedly asked a nurse how Bishop wasn’t dead already. Not exactly an ideal bedside manner.
Hours ticked by, and eventually word came through. Astrid had not deplaned at New York or Abu Dhabi. The head of Kali was a ghost.
Bishop had to mend his body. Over the next few hours he let the doctors do what they needed to heal him. Oleg left and Bishop was alone in a hospital room for the second time in a week. On both occasions Astrid had put him there.
Never again would he underestimate the purveyor of his current pain. He closed his eyes to get some rest. Bishop would need all his strength hunt her down.
Bishop awoke to the sounds of screams. It took several moments to realise they were his own, and much longer to calm his frayed nerves. He had to convince himself he was no longer on the torture table. While this was true, the after-effects were still very much present.
His pain had eased, but not his dread. There was nothing broken, the stitches were mending well. Having been pumped full of antibiotics and saline, he was infection free and on the road to recovery. At least, his body was.
On the bedside table a small jar glistened in the morning sunlight. It contained the fragments of the bullet taken from his thigh—a souvenir of his time in Marrakech. He would have been happy with a fridge magnet.
Mid-morning he had his first and only visitor. He came in and threw a bottle on the bed while Bishop finished the last of his bland hospital lunch.
“What, no flowers?” Bishop smirked.
Oleg shook his head. “Vodka is better.” He slumped into the lone armchair.
“For once I’m not going to argue with you.”
Bishop opened Oleg’s present and took a swig straight from the bottle, then handed it over. Oleg did the same. They sat quietly for several minutes.
He still didn’t trust the Russian. He had, after all, spied on him. Then again, he also saved his life when he really didn’t need to. Oleg claimed it had been repayment of a debt, but was there more to it than that? Where they becoming friends? Bishop didn’t know how to feel about that. He didn’t want a new friend. He wanted something else.
“My organisation cannot find her.” The Russian’s words were morose.
It was as if Oleg had read Bishop’s mind. “Mine either.”
They passed the bottle between them and drank. It was unlikely Astrid would return to Temple’s villa. If he didn’t reply to her messaging, she would assume the worst and stay away. With her lover dead, there was no need to come back. That meant she could be anywhere on the planet.
Letting his mind wander, the MI6 agent went through all he knew. It wasn’t a lot. There were fragments. More precisely, fragments of fragments. He sifted through them in his mind.
“There’s a shipment,” Bishop said.
“A shipment of what?”
“No idea.” Bishop rubbed his eyes. “But during the auction the third lot had to be delivered within a week. That’s what the lamp bought.”
“I don’t understand. How does this help—”
“The shipment was from this auction, so it can’t be legitimate. Therefore, it’s potentially something we could intercept. If we can do that, there’s a chance, a small one I’ll grant you, that the shipment could be traced back to its source. If we could do that, we could build a case against Kali and bring them down.”
Bishop didn’t need to add that it could lead them directly to Astrid herself.
“But what is the shipment?”
Bishop beamed. The expression must have been startling, because the Russian recoiled. “I don’t know.”
Oleg narrowed his gaze, amused. “Where is it?”
“I don’t know that either.” Bishop pushed the food tray away and ripped the biometric sensor pads off his chest. The room filled with various beeps and warning chimes. He ignored them and reached for his clothes.
In minutes he was dressed and vaguely presentable. Before leaving the room, he made sure he snatched the tiny vial with the bullet fragments. Fuel for his vengeance.
Over the howls of protest from doctors and nurses, Bishop left the hospital. Holding Oleg’s shoulder for stability, the two hobbled towards the taxi stand outside the Polyclinic du Sud hospital.
The warm air refreshed him. It was good to be free of the con
fines of the sterile environment. He wasn’t healed, far from it, but for the sake of his wellbeing, Bishop had to move. He needed to act. Bishop waved down a taxi. His road to recovery began here.
While they waited, Oleg grunted. “Where are we going, Englishman?”
Bishop grinned. “Do you want to go and kidnap the Saudi Finance Minister?”
Oleg’s smile matched Bishop’s. “More than anything in the world.”
Chapter Eleven
To say the Royal Mansour Marrakech was opulent was an understatement in the extreme. It would be like stating that a DB9 was a mere car, or calling the Balvenie fifty-year-old single malt an adequate dram.
The Royal Mansour had been commissioned by King Mohammed VI himself, and he’d spared no expense. Set among 4 hectares of fragrant Moorish gardens, the hotel was an architectural masterpiece, adorned with amazing geometric mosaics, carved cedarwood, stained glass, beaten bronze and inlaid marquetry. Inside, the rooms were finely decorated with suede and silk carpets, velvet sofas and crystal chandeliers. It seemed fitting that the Saudi Finance Minister was staying at one of the most expensive hotels on the continent.
Inside, privacy was at an absolute premium. The elite guests the hotel attracted did not want to be confronted by the great unwashed, so the hotel had a network of subterranean passages for the staff to get about, so as to not offend the delicate sensibilities of the sickeningly rich. It was this last aspect that Bishop and Oleg planned to exploit.
The silver Airbus H155 that sat on the helipad told the two spies that the minister was yet to depart. That was unfortunate for him. Given his status and who he represented, security would be formidable, though not as determined as his brand-new adversaries.
In the second-storey bar across the street, Bishop and Oleg drank overpriced cocktails and waited. It was late, the air cool under the blanket of stars. The revelry of the bar had steadily waned and they were the last two customers left. Anxious staff hovered, waiting for the Westerners to finish their drinks so they could go home.
Bishop swirled the ice in his glass with a straw. “No killing hotel staff.”
Oleg frowned. “If I have to—”
“No.” Bishop stopped stirring and glared at the Russian. “They’re just doing a job. They probably get paid fuck all to wait on arrogant pricks who demand room-temperature ice and shiatsu massages for their ocelots. They don’t deserve a bullet in the back of the head for earning an honest wage.”
Oleg shrugged. “Fine. No killing hotel staff.”
“And the minister’s entourage, if you can help it.”
Oleg’s mouth dropped open. “What if a fly buzzes past, can I swat it or will Your Zen Majesty object to the cosmic imbalance?”
Bishop snorted. “They work for a prick, that doesn’t automatically mean they are one, okay? If there’s no alternative, fine, but working for an arsehole doesn’t mean they’re the manifestation of evil.”
The Russian groaned. “This is not an MI6 operation. You understand this, da?”
“Just tread carefully is all I’m saying, and try not to put a bullet in the face of the subject before we interrogate him. This is our last shot.”
“I am aware of this.” Oleg swirled his glass. He didn’t make eye contact. “Is this mission sanctioned by your government?”
“Officially or unofficially?”
“Either.”
“No.” Bishop was conscious of the time. “Are we doing this or not? I’ll go alone if I have to.”
“Have you seen your face? You resemble a child’s piñata after all the candy fell out.”
“Are you in?”
“I am, but only if I can call you Mr Piñata Face from now on.”
Bishop ignored the jibe. The two finished their drinks and left a hefty tip. Making their way towards the high, ornately decorated fence of the hotel, Bishop felt oddly fresh. It may have been the booze, or the painkillers or adrenaline, but he didn’t feel the full weight of his recent ordeal. The doctors had done a great job patching him up, but he had no time for rest and recuperation. That would happen one day, just not today.
Both he and Oleg wore black, and there the similarities ended. Again, Bishop was dressed in a manner befitting the luxuriant surrounds of the hotel: expensive slacks and shoes, a slim-cut long-sleeved black shirt. His counterpart, on the other hand, was dressed to clean the toilets of the same establishment. Black jeans, black runners and a t-shirt so stained Bishop first thought it was a Jackson Pollock homage.
They strolled through the front entrance like they owned the place. The cobblestone path was delicately lit and surrounded by lush palms and vegetation. It had a heady perfume of gardenias, and dripped with affluence. The spies held their heads high while checking for threats. Thankfully, none were immediately apparent.
On their first sighting of a “Staff Only” sign they split off from the path and ducked through the foliage. A far less attractive path was harshly lit. They followed it towards the main building. Far above them, the main entrance glowed with a soft, warm light. Below, the staff were made to scurry about in harsh fluorescent lighting interspersed with long patches of darkness. The Morlocks to the super-rich Eloi.
Near the subterranean entrance a young kid, about seventeen or so, stood smoking in the dark. Approaching slowly so as not to startle him, Bishop put on a friendly face.
On seeing him, the kid jumped, threw the cigarette on the ground and stubbed it out, his face pained. “You’re not going to tell, are you? It’s just the guests can, so I thought if it was near the balcony… I don’t want to get fired… please don’t say anything.”
Bishop winked. “I won’t if you don’t.”
Confusion creased the kid’s face. “I don’t want to get into trouble.”
“No, of course not.” Bishop’s voice was calming, sympathetic. “And trouble is what we’re trying to avoid as well, okay?” Bishop nodded his head towards Oleg as he stepped out of the shadows. “You know this man, of course?”
“I think… I think so?” The kid didn’t want to offend by saying he didn’t.
“He’s a very big Hollywood producer, I knew you recognised him straight away. I’ll be honest, he’s in a spot of bother, you see. We’re scouting locations with a past leading lady and he’s late because he and the lady, who let’s just say isn’t his wife, have spent the afternoon… You don’t need to know the details, but let’s just say he shouldn’t be seen coming in so late, okay? I’m sure you know there have already been too many scandals. One more and the studio—the one he founded, mind you—are going to fire his arse. My friend and I are keen to prevent that from happening, you see.”
The kid nodded slowly. He got the gist, but that didn’t mean he fully understood what it was they wanted.
“What movie are you making?”
“Uh, good question.” Bishop rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m, uh, they’re remaking The Cannonball Run with an all-star cast. Filming the whole thing in Africa—you know, subsidies and tax breaks and whatnot. Chris Pratt is in talks for the Burt Reynolds part, he’s teaming up with Donald Glover. Emma Stone and Jennifer Lawrence in another car. You get the idea.”
Oleg perked up. “I would watch that movie.”
Bishop blinked at him. “I should hope so.” He squinted. “As you’re the one making it.”
“Ha, yes, of course.” Oleg straightened his back and turned to the kid. “I’m kind of a big deal.”
Bishop stuffed a wad of notes in the young man’s hand, sickened by the realisation that he had done the exact same thing to Zoya and now she was dead.
Patting the notes, Bishop said, “That’s for helping us. Is it sufficient?”
Eyes wide, the kid stared at the cash and nodded.
“What’s your name?”
“My name is Gabe, sir. I can get you what you need.” A hopeful expression crossed his features. “When you make the movie, can I have a part? It doesn’t even have to be a big one. I’ll stand up the back, I don�
��t have to say anything. My brother Jaheem would be so jealous!”
The kid’s voice rose for the last part. Bishop nodded while shushing him. “Sure, absolutely. You have my solemn vow that if this particular movie ever gets made you get a speaking part.”
This seemed to please him no end. The kid squinted at Bishop and his demeanour turned serious. “What happened to your…” He waved his hand around his own face.
“I also do stunt work on the side.” Bishop leaned in close. “My advice to you is never work with Ryan Gosling, okay?”
Gabe nodded. “What do you need?”
Bishop slapped his hand down on his shoulder. “Two uniforms, a clipboard and a mop.” He glanced down at the kid’s hand. “Oh, and can I borrow your lighter?”
Gabe was true to his word, and in no time the two spies were dressed in crisp white uniforms, although the Russian’s was somewhat snug. They navigated the subterranean labyrinth beneath the hotel with ease, thanks to Gabe. Other staff paid them no heed, too busy attending to the needs of the one per cent.
If he had to guess, Bishop would have said the Finance Minister had the Presidential Suite. He was awarded the grand total of nothing for being correct. Gabe had heard from other staff that the minister had a temper. He’d apparently flown into a rage when a cleaner had dared to leave behind a dusting cloth, and demanded her dismissal. The hotel had complied and she’d been fired on the spot. Apparently the whole hotel was on edge.
It was fortunate, as far as their mini-operation was concerned. Nobody particularly liked the minister and staff were only too happy to avoid that end of the hotel. Gabe led them from the underground passageway to near the suite. There they parted ways. Gabe had no desire to be near the wrathful guest, and Bishop wanted him nowhere near what they were about to do. They parted on a silent handshake, Gabe opening the hidden door to the opulent hallway.
The two spies strode down the luxuriously appointed hall near the minister’s suite.
“You would have made a good socialist, I think.”