by Rob Aspinall
“Oo-ooh,” Zak said, laughing and winking down the webcam at me. “Yeah, he’s got a present alright.”
Giles blushed and hit Zak hard on the head with a giant inflatable hammer. I blushed too, but thankfully no one noticed.
For one, Philippe was too busy muttering to himself.. “I used to work with trained professionals. Now with these children.”
Giles regained his composure, batting a giggling Zak away from the desk. “Anyway, the reason I called is, we got a reply from Quarter Horse. He wants to meet in the next twenty-four hours.”
“Can’t it wait?” Philippe asked, looking out of a tiny, frosted window. “We’re only just passing over Russia,”
Giles nodded. “I know, I know. That’s what I told him. But he said something about being the last and only time he’s willing to meet up.”
“Where?” Philippe asked.
“Location Charlie,” Giles said, sucking on his ice pop and looking off-screen as he clicked on a mouse. “I’ll forward you the details.”
“Cool,” I said with a smile. “See you in a few.”
“Later Lorn,” Giles said, ending the call.
Philippe was staring at me.
“What?” I asked, still a little red in the cheeks.
“There’s not … something between you, is there?”
“No!” I said, jumping up and returning to my own seat. “Not that it’s any of your business anyway,” I said.
“Okay, don’t shoot,” Philippe said, holding up his hands and walking towards the front of the cabin.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“To see if the pilot can re-route. We need to switch planes.”
5
Fifth Avenue
MANHATTAN, NEW YORK CITY
It was a clear day in mid-April, with a light chill hanging in the air. I pulled my maroon hoodie off the shoulders of my leather biker jacket and hung it low over my head.
Quarter Horse followed the usual routine. He plonked himself on a long wooden bench across the street from the Rockerfeller Plaza. The location changed; the city, the state, the country. But it was always a bench.
I pretended to window-shop a short distance away along West 50th, a super-busy street swimming with New Yorkers, tourists and honking yellow cabs.
Philippe, on the other hand, hung around the entrance to the plaza, pretending to talk on his phone.
Really, he was talking to me. “Quarter Horse is in attendance,” he said into my earpiece. “Wait for my signal.”
What he meant was give him a minute to satisfy himself Quarter Horse hadn’t been followed. So I ogled the green maxi dress in the window some more. It came with a price tag that would make an oil sheik sweat.
“I don’t get it,” I said over the comms. “If I was looking for a couple of spies having a clandestine meeting, the first place I’d look is a bench.”
“Well it’s a good job none of us are spies,” Philippe said.
“We really need to find a job description for whatever this is.”
“Why?” Philippe asked.
“You know, for if we want to recruit. When we expand.”
“Expand?”
“Come on, I’m gonna have to do this for the rest of my life?” I asked, checking both ways for trouble.
“Don’t worry,” Philippe said. “Chances are, neither of us will live that long.”
“Wow. Way to pep talk, Mr Inspiring Quote.”
“Time to move” Philippe said. “You know the drill.”
The drill was that I’d stroll casually up to the bench and drop a Bluetooth headset in his lap, then take a seat next to him. He’d read the day’s newspaper with his Bluetooth in one ear, while I leaned forward and pretended to play on my mobile. Philippe meanwhile, would hang around across the street so he could keep an eye on the pair of us and anyone approaching who might look suspicious.
I took a look around my immediate surroundings. No one dodgy. Just a few business types. A South American family taking photos. And a slim, pretty Asian girl, I guessed in her late teens or early twenties, with her hair in pigs, sucking on a straw plugged into a McDonalds cup, She wore a cute red jumper with a panda on the front chewing a leaf. I liked her entire outfit - black boots and skirt, with patterned tights and a black leather jacket that looked more expensive than mine. I had to stop focusing on other girl’s outfits when I was doing surveillance work. But it was hard not to slip into auto pilot.
I switched back into secret meeting mode. The fact that half the world seemed to wear one headset or another made this stuff a lot easier. Quarter Horse, dressed in a grey pinstripe suit and a long, dark coat, slipped the headset in his right ear. He pushed the power button. “Y’all find that file useful?” he asked, in his Texan drawl.
“We did,” said Philippe.
“Then you’ll forgive me if I call this little rendezvous my last,” he said.
“We won’t,” I said, browsing the internet using a newly-installed shadow app;
“I can’t keep feeding you information like this,” Quarter Horse said. “The wagons are circling.”
“Why?” Philippe asked.
“Why do you think?” Quarter Horse said. “Since Snowfall, the entire committee has gotten jumpy.”
Now I knew what Snowfall meant - it was a term JPAC were using for the Alaskan retreat we blew the hell up. What he meant by circling wagons, I had no idea, but Philippe seemed to understand.
“What’s the protocol?” he asked.
“Forget protocols,” Quarter Horse said. “We’re talking a management reshuffle. A whole new operational procedure. All plans suspended until further notice.”
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“The bottom line is that this little arrangement is over. I’m not in the loop anymore.”
“It’s not over until we say so,” I said.
“Don’t forget what’s at stake here,” said Philippe.
“Think of your family,” I said, feeling epically wrong saying it, but threats were all we had.
Quarter Horse turned the page on his newspaper and shifted uncomfortably on the cold, hard bench, swinging one leg over the other and facing away from me. I saw Philippe ambling left to right across the street.
“Y’all don’t seem to comprehend,” said Quarter Horse. “The old leadership team are no more. And as for your little threats; you mustn’t have heard the news.”
“Assume we haven’t.” Philippe said.
“Three senior committee members, all scrubbed inside a week. Antonenko the latest.”
The truth is, we had heard about that one. The papers said Vladimir Antonenko had been killed in a car crash on an icy Austrian road, but Philippe had said he knew a staged hit when he saw one.
I wondered again what Alexei thought about it all. Was he happy? Sad? Mixed feelings maybe. His dad was dead, but at least he was free.
Quarter Horse folded up his newspaper and shifted forward on the bench, as if preparing to leave. He reached inside his coat, producing a stainless steel memory stick. “This is all I had access to before the squeeze,” he said, tucking the flash drive inside the folded newspaper and leaving it on the bench in the space between us.
“What’s on it?” I asked.
“Enough to keep you going,” Quarter Horse said. “Much as I enjoy these little chats, it’s time y’all got yourself another patsy.”
Quarter Horse buttoned up his coat. He removed the Bluetooth headset and handed it to me without looking in my direction. I stashed it away inside a jacket pocket and got ready to move.
As Quarter Horse took his first steps away from the bench, he stopped and stood rigid. I saw a tiny metal dart lodged in the side of his neck, no bigger than the nib of a pen; a thin trickle of blood from the wound, his veins bulging and his throat swelling purple. He turned to me, his eyes bloodshot. He coughed once and collapsed in a heap on the pavement.
Teddy Tucker was dead.
6
Spring Fashions
Turns out Philippe wasn’t the only one who’d been shopping for poison-tipped toys. I spun instinctively to see the Asian girl with straw to mouth, pointed in the direction of Tucker; a hole in the base of the cup. Philippe was blocked off by busy traffic across the street, meaning I was on my own, with the assassin’s eyes firmly on me.
I grabbed the newspaper with the memory stick tucked in and rose to my feet.
I was up fast, but not fast enough. As I broke into a run, I was instantly brought down. A flash of pain to the right side of the face. So lightning quick I didn’t even know what she hit me with. All I knew is the world went horizontal and I ended up on top of Tucker staring at the Asian girl’s empty cup on the floor.
I shook off the blow, but the assassin already had hold of the newspaper. She took the memory stick and ditched the paper.
I pushed myself off Tucker and barged past a pair of businessmen who asked me if I was okay.
The assassin was on the move, but Philippe was intercepting, picking his way between yellow cabs. He forced the assassin to check left along the street, giving me a vital second to launch into a sprint and latch on to the end of the chase.
The assassin broke left again, pushing through a plush glass door to the ground floor of a huge, fifth avenue department store. Philippe was hot on the her tail. I was a few seconds behind, into a labyrinth of sleek, high-end cosmetics and fragrance counters with trigger-happy perfume spritzers at every turn.
Up ahead, I saw Philippe chasing the assassin, startled shoppers shoved out of the way.
“You with me?” Philippe asked over the comms.
“Right behind you,” I said.
“How did she get him?” he asked.
“Poison dart,” I said.
The assassin hit the escalators. The first of many by the looks of it. Philippe jumped on behind her, clearing the human traffic and giving me a chance to gain some ground as I ran up the steep metal stairs unchallenged.
That is, until I hit the first floor.
My love affair with store security guards continued, as one of them grabbed hold of me around the waist. “Got one,” he said, into his radio.
He was bald and shaped like an egg, which meant there was no point elbowing him in his spongey midriff. So instead, I threw an elbow into his throat. He gasped for air, losing his grip on me. As he bent over double. I kneed him across the bridge of his nose and stole his radio. I scanned the first floor as I ran. Philippe and the assassin nowhere to be seen.
I turned up the dial on the radio. “Me and Stan got the other two,” said another guard in a crackling voice. “They’re coming our way outside Louis Vuitton.”
I sprinted between handbag and jewellery stores - more shiny, super-expensive goodies. By the time I slalomed my way through to the Louis Vuitton store, the guards I’d heard over the radio were flat on their backs; blood trickling out of cuts to their faces.
“Where are you?” Philippe asked me, short on breath.
“Handbags and jewellery.”
“Head right and take the escalators up to four,” he said, “When you hit the floor, bank left. I’ll steer her your way.”
“Copy” I said, slamming on the brakes and picking up an orange crocodile skin handbag; acting like a normal customer.
“You do know that’s four thousand dollars?” a snooty store assistant said, with a red bob that was downright offensive.
“Yes,” I said, politely. “Could you tell me?” I asked rubbing a hand over the fancy orange bag. “Is this made from the same stuff as your skin?”
Before she could come back at me, I tossed the bag in the air. She gasped in fear, lunging desperately to catch it.
With the guards having run past me to help out their stricken colleagues, I took off again and bounded up the escalators, the steep metal steps burning their way through my hams and quads. I made it to the fourth floor, hot and sweaty.
Why did they always crank up the heat in these places?
I took a left as Philippe had said, jogging lightly along an aisle between the mannequins and clothing racks of women’s designer fashions.
I stopped and caught my breath a moment, wondering if I was in the right spot.
I was.
The assassin darted out of a row of female mannequins dressed for spring in designer skirts and cardigans. She saw me and stopped. Philippe appeared behind her. He slowed to a walk and we squeezed her into a small space in between racks. Whichever way she wanted out, she’d have to fight us for the right.
“Give yourself up now,” I said. “And we’ll go easy on you.”
The assassin cracked a smile in the corner of her mouth. She didn’t appear to be armed, so I edged towards her.
“Okay, have it your way,” I said. “But this is gonna hurt.”
The assassin adjusted her body position so she was side-on to me and Philippe. Making herself a smaller target, with an eye on each of us. She shuffled outwards with both feet, widening her stance and bending at the knees. She brought her hands up in a kung fu position and waited.
I was closest, so I went first, with a side-kick to the face. One of my banker moves. The assassin stood her ground, but leaned her head out of the way. My white trainer sailed on by her face, missing her nose by a whisker. She grabbed my ankle and swept my standing foot away with a short, sharp kick.
I landed hard and awkward on my hip bone.
Okay.
Philippe moved in. He threw a rapid-fire one-two combination. She ducked and dived with ease. He threw a kick and a forearm. She ghosted clear. Barely moving. Philippe got frustrated and moved in closer to get hold of her. She threw him to the deck, making a small hi sound as Philippe rolled off her shoulder on to his back.
She turned to run towards the escalators, but I was up again, ready to rock.
“Just warming up,” I said, letting her come on to me instead.
The assassin threw a left and right. I blocked both, but she caught me with a rising elbow to the chin. I staggered back, the taste of copper on my tongue.
How could someone with such skinny arms pack so much power?
Philippe charged her from behind. Without looking, she delivered a reverse kick to his face; her leg bent almost one-eighty. As Philippe hit the floor again, she swung the same leg forward, bending into a knee to my mid-riff. I shifted away, caught her leg and went for an elbow to the clavicle. She leapt and twisted into the air, hooking her spare leg around my neck and flipping me one-eighty.
Before I could blink, I was on the floor again, the whole world spinning.
She spun and caught an open-handed punch from Philippe. They traded twists and holds, neither getting the upper hand. I scrambled to my feet and into the fight. If I could just grab hold of her, Philippe could deliver the knock-out blow.
Fat chance, sister.
She was too fast. Too skilful. She ducked under my grip and hid around the back of a mannequin, popping her head around to tempt me in. I fell for it and threw a punch, only succeeding in knocking the head of a blonde mannequin wearing a red fedora off its shoulders. She swung the mannequin around off its base as Philippe flew at her with a flat-palm. She ducked at the last and I took the hit instead, wobbling on my feet. The assassin blind-reverse-kicked me, before spinning away as Philippe smashed the mannequin to bits in a rugby tackle. As the assassin moved towards the aisle, I picked up a loose arm and swung left and right. She ducked yet again, before kicking me in the midriff and catching the hard plastic arm as it fell from my hands, swinging it upwards to connect with my chin.
Philippe caught the arm mid-swing and ripped it from the assassin’s grasp. I steadied myself and we both went for her. Me from in front. Philippe from behind.
The assassin had already telegraphed the pair of us, leaping and spin-kicking us both us in the mush. I bounced away like a human skittle taken out by a bowling ball, my left cheekbone on fire.
“Damn she’s good,” Philippe said, down on one knee, spi
tting blood.
Yeah, she was good. And she was getting away. That is, until a gaggle of NYPD beat cops came running up the escalators.
The assassin stopped in her tracks and reassessed the situation. She glanced to her right, at a line of four pink decorative drapes extending from a floor above, all the way down to ground level.
Surely, she couldn’t be thinking-
Yep, she was.
She climbed on to the barrier railing and leapt across the six foot gap. She caught hold of one of the drapes with both hands, hooked her legs around and let herself slide.
Philippe was up fast and vaulting off the railing on to the next drape along. He caught it and slid down fast n pursuit.
A couple of NYPD cops turned and ran back down the escalators. Unfortunately, a couple more came my way. I guess it was my turn.
7
Snatch & Grab
I climbed on to the railing and saw Philippe and the assassin zipping their way towards ground level. How hard can it be, right?
The jump was the worst part. I ignored the churn in my gut and leapt off the railing, just in time to avoid the clutches of the boys in blue. As I hit the drape, I gripped the satin-like material tight. I fought to wrap my legs around, swinging awkwardly.
Okay, go …
Descend now …
I stayed put. What was I doing wrong? Oh yeah, you had to actually let go a little.
So I loosened my legs around the drape and let the material slide between my fingers.
Big mistake.
I flew past the fourth, third and the second, far too fast. At this speed, they’d have to scrape me off the polished marble with a spade.
Halfway between the first floor and ground level, I tightened my grip on the drape. I came to a sudden stop, almost popping a shoulder and swinging left to right.
Above my head, I heard the material tear.
Oh bananas.
There was nothing I could do. The last few threads of the drape snapped and I fell the rest of the way. My one saving grace was a special promotional stand full of Hello Kitty toys. I hit the stand at pace, snapping the legs of the table, but the landing was soft, the toys breaking my fall and scattering over the floor to the gasps of onlooking shoppers.
