The Noble Mercenary

by Patrick John Donahoe

The waitress arrived with their plates of food and they ate with gusto. This could be their last meal for many hours.

  Thirty Nine

  Most missions jacques had been on in the past 900 plus years consisted of many long days of boredom, concluding with a few minutes of heart pounding danger. So far, this one was following the norm. Jacques was bored, but not ready to go to sleep, so he continued reading The Brothers Karamazov in Russian. Serena had suggested he read the book to improve his Russian, so he had carried a paperback version around with him ever since. He was at the part where Kolya lies down between the railroad tracks, and allows the train to pass over him. Jacques found Kolya’s flirting with danger, and proclaimed atheism interesting. Most of the book bored Jacques, as Dostoyevsky expressed his stuffy ideas on philosophy, religion, and social mores through his characters, but the dark, cool hallway with the bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling on its electrical cord, and the discomfort of the old army style cot seemed to enhance the reading.

  Jacques’ eyes began to tire from the poor lighting. He looked up to rub them when he noticed Charmaine standing next to his cot wearing only bright red panties and bra. Jacques, not one to press himself upon women, and having decided that Charmaine had no interest in a romantic interlude with him these past two weeks was surprised to see her.

  She stepped closer, her right shin against the metal frame, and asked, “Stay or go?”

  From his vantage point near the floor, he looked up at her exquisite form, which almost took his breath away, pulled the yellowed sheet and army style blanket aside, and whispered, “Stay.”

  She clambered into the cot with one smooth motion and Jacques felt her warmth against his skin. Jacques kissed her tenderly on the lips and adjusted their positions so they were facing each other on their sides. It was obvious the cot would not support more than a tight snuggle, but Jacques, French gentleman that he was, continued to provide romantic foreplay to relax himself and Charmaine. When it became obvious that they were going to seal the evening, Jacques lowered himself to the floor, and assisted Charmaine to the floor with the sheet and blanket and they made passionate unrushed love. Jacques held her in his arms until she dropped off to sleep. He dreamt he was kissing Charmaine on the lips, and awoke to Charmaine kissing him on the lips. She started to excuse herself, but Jacques held her arm gently, and whispered, “Again.”

  At first she only acquiesced, then took the lead exhausting Jacques. When they had completed a second lovers’ passion, more relaxed and enjoyable than the first, Charmaine excused herself, gathered up her undergarments, kissed Jacques one last time, and returned to her own bed. Jacques dropped off to a deep sleep.

  Jacques awoke at first light to the mouthwatering smells of hot peleni, kotlety, and coffee. On his way to use the bathroom, he passed by the small kitchen and saw Charmaine fully dressed fixing breakfast.

  Jacques used the bathroom, then walked up behind Charmaine close enough to feel the heat of her body, and asked, “What’s for breakfast?”

  “Leftovers, and not the kind you’re itching for.” She turned to face him, a sly grin on her face.

  “Where’s Jon?” Jacques placed his hand on her shoulder.

  “He’s out for a walk, but don’t get any ideas.” She turned, and continued cooking as though Jacques were not standing almost against her.

  “Is Jon OK? He never seems to talk more than one word at a time.”

  Charmaine turned the gas down under the skillet, and turned to face Jacques again. “Jon doesn’t like to talk about it, but he received a head wound, and several pieces of shrapnel in his torso, and legs, during a street riot in Chechnya. I know it’s difficult for you to understand wrongs which date back twenty years, much less since the 1700’s, but the conflict between Russia and Chechnya has been going on for a long time. My grandparents were killed in their border village of Samashki in 1995. Jon and I have plotted revenge ever since.”

  Jacques kept his peace about understanding conflicts that covered centuries, but said, “I understand you want to get back at the Russians for their atrocities, but isn’t it better to focus on making the future better, than getting revenge for the past?”

  “Putin is another empire building maniac. He will put the Ukraine and Chechnya, and any other country he thinks he can add to his empire under his thumb. He is the ravenous wolf looking for prey. If we stop him now, we can prevent a great deal of bloodshed and sorrow in the world.”

  “I’m here for you. I’m not a bloodthirsty man, but I do understand the damage that can be done by one man.”

  Charmaine scraped the frying pan full of hot peleni and kotlety onto three plates. “It’s like Gretsky said, consider how much better off the world would have been if someone had assassinated Adolf Hitler in 1939. Unfortunately, he created hell on earth until he committed suicide in 1945.”

  “That’s the history book version, but he was too much of a coward to kill Eva Braun and commit suicide.” Jacques thought about Ian and Serena’s mission to rid the world of Hitler.

  “How do you know?”

  “You’re right, the world would have been better off if someone would have shot him in 1939.” Jacques took a chair at the table and leaned in to smell his breakfast. “The food smells delicious. What’s that?” he asked, pointing to a cup filled with what looked like salt and pepper and other spices.

  “My own special blend of the various spices I found in the cupboard, the ones that weren’t moldy.”

  “Let’s eat.”

  Gretzky picked the trio up at 11A.M. and drove them to Putin’s palace. They did not want to start work too early in the day. The closer they arrived to Putin’s arrival time, and the less time they spent in the palace, the better. Jon and Jacques dressed as tile layers in baggy overalls and loose cassock style shirts, brogans and white socks. Jacques pulled a workman’s cap down low over his forehead. Gretzky had piled the back of his carryall with five boxes of mosaic tile, three sacks of tile cement, and two sacks of grout. He also had a tool box with a blue line snapper, trowels and tape measure. A wet tile saw was lashed down to the attachment hooks built into the interior of the carryall.

  Charmaine wore derriere hugging slacks and an almost too tight blouse. Charmaine detested using her feminine wiles to lure a man, but she would make an exception in this case. She wore plain glass eyeglasses, and a workman’s cap with her long hair tucked up inside, to be released when she wanted to make Putin and his security drop their guard. She had a business-like clip board with several drawings made up for the occasion. She would show Putin the room’s interior decorating plans to lure him and probably his two-man security team into the room where Jon and Jacques would be hard at work laying tile. When the time was right she would release her hair and drop her clipboard requiring her to bend over to pick it up. Her distraction, though brief, would give Jon and Jacques the edge they needed to take out Putin’s security, and then Putin. Once the attack began they had only seconds to escape.

  Gretzky had been working on the palace for almost three months, long enough to know all the regular workers and guards and their daily routines. Bringing three unknown workers on site was dicey, but Gretzky had obtained forged IDs, and a work order that would holdup for one day at most, the time it would take for a suspicious guard to investigate their backgrounds and confirm their deception. He had only turned the work order in for approval the previous day, time enough to be processed, but not time enough for a thorough investigation.

  As the carryall bumped along the gravel road to the palace, Gretzky said, “Our best intel indicates Putin will depart Sochi this afternoon and make secret stop to check on construction progress. He will be on site for only an hour. I have to leave with you. I will be in as much danger as you, since I brought you into palace. Whether mission is success, or failure, you must drop the rappelling rope out window and shimmy down fast as possible. We will not be able to escape grounds by foot. We will run to hole in fence, then to water’s edge, where small electric
outboard boat is hidden under some brush. We’ll motor two miles south to orange float marker, and beach boat where car is hidden under some brush, drive to airfield, hide car, and wait in weeds until aircraft arrives. . . hopefully, to pick us up. Aircraft will only sit still long enough for to jump onboard. Any questions?”

  “We’ve gone over our escape many times, but thank you,” replied Charmaine.

  Gretzky turned his head, and said to Jon and Jacques sitting in the back seat, “I give only 50-50 escape chance.”

  “I plan on getting out alive,” said Jacques.

  “Me too,” added Jon.

  The Russian guards hovered over them for the first half an hour after they arrived, checking and rechecking their work order papers and IDs, especially Charmaine’s. They finally became bored when Charmaine showed no interest in any of them, and returned to drinking coffee and playing cards. When President Vladimir Putin arrived they would become all businesslike. Apparently, Putin had not given any warning of his visit to the head guard who, along with the Construction Superintendent, were both indisposed, due to Gretzky spiking their coffee with a mild laxative.

  Gretzky gave Jacques and Jon a paper template for an intricate pattern of mosaic tile flowers.

  Jacques hoped no one would look in on them and realize they were not professionals. Jacques hoped their tile laying skill level would be less obvious if they worked slowly, a standard Russian worker’s mode.

  Jacques wished he had taken some mosaic tile laying lessons in the past centuries, since their flowers were not as beautiful as skilled artisans would have accomplished.

  The time dragged on, and became more nerve wracking, as they waited for Putin to arrive.

  Charmaine sat on a plastic covered couch and considered how she would lure Putin into the room on the pretense that she wanted to show him plans for the interior decorations. She unbuttoned, and buttoned, the top two buttons of her blouse while she played out the approach in her mind.

  Gretzky walked into the room where Jacques and Jon were grouting the small section of tile they had laid. Grouting the tile was easier than trying to lay the intricate patterns. “He has arrived with entourage. Charmaine, come with me. We will bring him up with minimum number of guards.”

  About half an hour later, Jacques heard a number of footfalls coming toward the room. He looked up to see Charmaine leading a party of five; two hard core, dark suited Russian personal security guards, then Putin, then directly behind him Ian and Serena. Jacques tried to suppress his surprise at seeing Ian and Serena. How this was going to play out was not obvious, but he didn’t have time to contemplate all the possible outcomes.

  Jon, who hadn’t said a word since they started laying tile, pulled out his plastic pistol and shot one of the security guards. Charmaine shot the second security guard through her clipboard, but not before the second security guard shot Jon. Charmaine spun around, and kicked Putin in the gut, knocking him breathless to the floor. She whacked him on the head with the pistol butt as he fell.

  Serena grappled with Charmaine, while Ian dragged the unconscious Putin out of the room.

  Jacques pulled Serena and Charmaine apart.

  In the scuffle, Charmaine hit Serena a whack on the forehead with the clipboard.

  Jacques grabbed Charmaine and dragged her toward the open window.

  Serena fell to the floor dazed, and let Charmaine go with Jacques to the window. She realized Jacques was trying to escape with the girl, and faked the seriousness of the wooden clipboard thump on her forehead.

  Jacques threw the knotted rope out the window, exited the window and rappelled down to the ground. Charmaine followed. They had only minutes to escape before the palace guards caught up to them.

  Jacques and Charmaine ran as though their lives depended on it. They ran to the perimeter of the manicured grounds. Jacques crawled through the hole Gretzky, or his confederate, had cut in the fence, then helped Charmaine through the hole. Fortunately, for Jacques and Charmaine, the Russian soldiers had systematically killed all the stray dogs in Sochi prior to the Olympics, and in their zeal had also killed all the dogs in and around the palace. They would have to track Jacques and Charmaine without the aid of dogs.

  Ian helped Mr. Putin into a sitting position, and asked, “Are you alright, sir?”

  “Yes. Thanks to you. How are the other guards?”

  “Both of your regular guards are dead. I don’t know about my partner.”

  “And the attempted assassins?”

  Serena entered the room holding her right hand to her forehead. “Two of them went out the window, sir. I tried to detain the female, but she struck me on the head with her clipboard. I was out for a minute, or two. Long enough for them to escape. The third assassin, a male, is dead.”

  Putin stared at Ian.

  Ian said, “I hauled you into this room to get you out of harm’s way.”

  Putin looked back at Serena.

  Serena said, “They cannot get away, sir. Your security patrols have probably caught them already.”

  “They had better. No one attacks me and lives.”

  Ian helped Putin to his feet. “Are you alright, sir?”

  “I want to see my guards.” Putin walked unsteadily to the adjacent room, looked at his two personal bodyguards and Jon lying in pools of blood, the window open. He strode to the window and looked down. The knotted escape rope still hung from the window. “These people are suicidal.” He stepped over to Jon’s body and examined Jon’s face. Several of the palace guards entered the room. The head guard asked, “What do you want us to do, sir?”

  “Your job!” he shouted, with an angry edge to his voice. “Who was behind this attack? Where are they now? Why are you here and not pursuing my attackers?” he yelled in rapid succession.

  “Yes, sir. We’re pursuing them now.” The guard spoke into his two-way radio. “Have you captured the assassins yet?”

  A static filled response replied, “No, sir. We tracked them to the perimeter fence. After a short search we found a hole cut in the fence and a foot path to the water’s edge. They must have had a water craft standing by for their escape. We called for a patrol boat assist. Over.”

  “How long will a patrol boat take to arrive? Over.”

  “Fifteen minutes, sir.”

  “Don’t sit and wait. Pursue them on foot,” The head guard barked into the radio.

  Putin restrained his anger, but the tension in his voice was obvious. “Call for a helicopter search, post blockades on all roads around the area. Find those criminals!” he spat out.

  “Yes, sir.” The guard excused himself and left the room, glad to be away from his angry boss.

  “Why do I find myself surrounded by such incompetence,” Putin muttered, more to himself than to either Ian or Serena.

  “What would you have us do, sir?” Serena asked.

  “Describe the two that got away to my sketch artist. Did you get a clear look at them?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Follow me. We’re leaving for Moscow.”

  On an athletic track, Jacques could run a four-minute mile, and the boat was less than a half mile away, but he and Charmaine had to run through trees and low level scrub brush to get to the water. Charmaine impressed Jacques with her ability to keep up. It was still almost an hour before sunset, so they didn’t have the luxury of the cover of darkness. Jacques pushed aside the cut branches and leaves covering the bench seating for four motor boat.

  Gretzky had told them he might meet up with them at the boat, but if he wasn’t there to leave without him. Gretzky had outfitted the boat with a small electric outboard. Eight minutes had passed since the shooting, and a small army of Russian guards would be on top of them in another seven. Jacques pushed the boat into the water, and said, “Get in.”

  Charmaine sat in the boat and Jacques motored out with the electric outboard. He kept to the coastline using the trees at water’s edge as cover. Not far enough behind them, he could hear th
e shouting and commotion of guards crashing through the underbrush. The trees became sparse providing less coverage. Jacques spotted the orange float. He pulled the plug Gretzky had built into the bottom of the boat, and scuttled it. He and Charmaine waded to the shore, and ran through the brush until they came upon a small Russian car, a Yugo, camouflaged, and parked under a tree. The hood was still warm. The key was in the ignition.

  One of Gretzky’s unnamed confederates had placed the car under the tree. Gretzky kept his confederate’s identity a secret for all their protections.

  Jacques drove away without hesitation in the direction of the small private airfield Putin had flown into. No one would suspect Putin’s attempted assassins to escape from the same airport he had flown into, and was going to fly out of. Charmaine had memorized the circuitous route to the airport, and told Jacques which turns to make to get to the airport with the least exposure.

  They ditched the car in a gulley near the airport and threw a pile of debris over the vehicle. A pile conveniently laying at the edge of the gulley placed there by Gretzky’s again unnamed accomplice.

  Gretsky indicated he had Plans A, B and C to escape the palace once Putin was assassinated. He had not revealed any of his options to Jacques, or Charmaine, or Jon, so they couldn’t betray him if tortured. Gretzky’s accomplice had the responsibility to call the extraction team, and let them know it was time to pick up Jacques and company. All Jacques and Charmaine could do was hide near the side of the runway and wait for the extraction aircraft to arrive.

  If Gretzky was able to join them, he would fly out also. They had to stay in readiness until the plane arrived. It would sit on the runway for no more than twelve minutes from touchdown to takeoff. It would leave, whether they were onboard, or not. The rescue plane would be the same plane, the stealth plane, they had parachuted out of yesterday morning. No one would expect a rescue plane to land next to Putin’s plane, pick up the assassins and fly off over the Black Sea. And no one would expect a stealth aircraft, which could lose itself from visual and radar detection, either. It was a bold, suicidal, plan.