Kiss My Assassin Page 6

  Astrid muttered, “Yes, thank you,” and hung up. She turned to Bishop. “Wake-up call.”

  Startled that she’d slept so long, she plunged into the bathroom for an ultra-fast freshen up. She emerged minutes later, only slightly less dishevelled. Paying little heed to her outfit selection, she flung on clothes, not turning away as she dressed. After the night before, there was no need for modesty.

  “Where are you headed?” Bishop did his best to sound casual.

  “I… that thing we… didn’t really discuss?” She pulled her hair into a ponytail. “There’s something I need to… I won’t be back for a couple of hours.”

  Before Bishop could say more, in quick succession she kissed Mikhail and then him. She took a moment to assess her conquests. “I feel I need to commemorate this somehow.” Her face creased into a wicked smile.

  “Do we get parting gifts?” Bishop asked.

  Astrid snapped her fingers in agreement and glanced about the hotel room. She handed Mikhail the “Do Not Disturb” door hanger they had miraculously failed to utilise the night before. Approaching Bishop’s side of the bed, her eyes sparkled as she handed him her “gift”.

  “A pen?”

  It was emblazoned with the words “Mandarin Oriental” on the side.

  She shrugged. “It’s mightier than a sword.”

  “So they say.”

  She leaned down and kissed his cheek, taking a moment to linger beside him. Before she broke the embrace, he slid his cover’s business card in her palm. In a whisper, Bishop said, “Call me as soon as you’re able. We need to talk.”

  Astrid looked him directly in the eye and gave a firm nod. She understood. There was gratitude in her eyes, and it wasn’t due to the previous night’s activities. Perhaps she saw Bishop as a way out of whatever was scaring her. That was good. He was close to finding what it was all about, and if he could help Astrid along the way, that would make it all the sweeter.

  The hotel door closed, and Bishop and Mikhail took their cue. They dressed and left without a word to one another.

  Back in the comfort of his own hotel room, Bishop took the longest shower he could remember. Cleaned and changed, he headed back to Temple’s villa. There were unanswered questions there, too.

  The morning had a dry warmth that seemed deceptively fresh. Stray dogs trotted about the dusty streets as if they wanted to get all their affairs in order before the afternoon heat. Smart dogs.

  Bishop took twenty minutes to scope the property, detecting no sign of life within. As he did so, his mind wandered. His thoughts returned to the events of the previous evening, and in particular, his conversation with Astrid. He couldn’t be sure it was The Auction that she was talking about, but it seemed likely. And she seemed genuinely fearful about whatever her involvement was. How was she embroiled in international arms trading? And why had she attracted the attention of a grey-hooded stalker who just happened to match the description of the sniper who had taken out Demir? Bishop hoped to hear from her soon to find out.

  Once again, Bishop created the pretence of a package delivery and picked the lock to enter. Again, no one stopped him wandering the grounds of the compound. No one answered the door, nor did anyone stop him from picking the lock and slipping inside.

  This time he had extra baggage with him. Bishop had his surveillance pack, and he intended to use it.

  Starting with the kitchen, Bishop planted the latest MI6 monitoring devices. Miniature ones for dark corners that could be hidden in air vents and smoke detectors; larger higher-definition devices in lampshades and bookshelves. He tested them as he went. They all worked perfectly.

  He moved on to the bedrooms and bathrooms, then finally found his way into the subterranean torture chamber. Like the rest of the house, everything was as he’d left it; there was no suggestion that anyone had been there since the day before. He planted four devices in total in the room downstairs, more than he had in any other room. Bishop wanted to be sure that whatever occurred in this room was recorded.

  Making his way upstairs, Bishop performed one last test of the equipment. Everything passed. The boffins at MI6 really don’t receive enough credit. Closing his case, he performed one final reconnoitre to ensure he had left no evidence behind.

  While in the kitchen, Bishop heard a scraping sound. Extracting his pistol, he was on high alert. Had Temple returned? Was it a housekeeper? Security?

  He steadied his breathing and strained to hear more. He didn’t have to wait long. Though muffled, there was a patter above his head. That was no bird. Someone was on the roof, fiddling with the skylight.

  Mind racing as to where he could hide, Bishop decided that being cornered in the dungeon would be less than ideal. Then he mused. Owners rarely enter their property via their own skylight. If someone was on the roof, they were either performing maintenance up there or…

  A shadow fell across the skylight. There was the hum of an electric drill, then it was lifted open. A heavy bag was dropped to the kitchen floor, right in front of Bishop. It landed with clang, as though it contained tools. Bishop backed into the butler’s pantry, holding his weapon skyward, and waited.

  A rope dropped from the ceiling and landed on the tiled floor. Definitely not the owner.

  After several light grunts, someone descended. The strong arms made simple work of the climb, as if used to such physical exertion. When the person’s feet reached the floor, there was an audible sigh.

  Bishop didn’t wait. He stepped forward and placed his gun to the intruder’s head.

  Pressing the barrel into the man’s temple, Bishop moved close to his ear, voice like granite. “Nice of you to drop in, Mikhail.”

  Chapter Five

  Bishop had the drop, but the big man had lightning-fast reactions. Brutally so. Not losing a moment to shock, the Russian dipped his head and wove his bulky fist on the inside of Bishop’s gun arm, deflecting the weapon away. Ready for the move, Bishop stepped back and countered easily, using his feet to neutralise Mikhail’s movement. Fighting was all about footwork. Gene Kelly would have been a hell of a brawler.

  The big Russian drew his right fist back for a punch. Bishop tilted his upper body in anticipation, but Mikhail was messing with him. Two swift left jabs to Bishop’s jaw meant his opposition had purposely telegraphed the first punch to get the next two in.

  Damn. The guy had game. Fine. No more fucking around.

  Wary of underestimating his opponent, Bishop circled the intruder around the kitchen, waiting for his next move. He seemed unperturbed by the gun, assuming that if Bishop hadn’t fired yet, he was unlikely to. He was right. The man could have vital information. It was likely he was working against Temple. If so, he knew more than Bishop. That meant Bishop couldn’t kill him.

  It didn’t mean he couldn’t shoot him a little bit.

  Mikhail bounded towards him, left arm up defensively, his footwork better this time. A big meaty fist flew towards Bishop as if propelled by rockets. Barely moving his head away in time, Bishop was about to use the big man’s momentum against him. But the Russian had already shifted his body mass, readying himself for the next series of punches. He was learning.

  Getting in a flurry of upper body blows, Bishop pushed the other man away, then held his hands up, palms wide. “Look, can I—”

  The jab to the nose jerked Bishop’s head backwards and he staggered.

  “Listen, you crazy Ruskie, all I want to do is—”

  This time a blow to the stomach doubled him over. Bishop managed to slide out of the way of the next punch but wheezed hard at the effort. Why didn’t he want to talk? More to the point, why did Bishop want to? Was he doing this because it was what the opposite of a blunt instrument would do? Or was it what was best for the mission? Maybe it was both.

  “We don’t need to fight.” Bishop ducked a lazy haymaker.

  Mikhail huffed. “Why do you want to chat like an old woman?” His big fist missed Bishop’s face but connected with his shoulder, sending
him back two strides.

  “It’s new for me, I’m trying it out.”

  Unaffected by Bishop’s words, Mikhail moved in for his next go, a series of upper body punches. While none of them were decisive blows, they weren’t exactly love taps either. But they brought him in close.

  Using his footwork to slide into position, Bishop kicked the inside of the big man’s knee. The placement was less about force, more about precise pressure points. With a grunt, Mikhail buckled. Bishop smashed the grip of his pistol into Mikhail’s forehead, sending the Russian reeling backwards until he landed heavily against the kitchen cabinet.

  “Stay down, you stupid bastard. I’m trying to talk to you.”

  Mikhail nodded, but launched himself at Bishop once again. Not wanting to shoot him, the MI6 agent picked up the closest object. A large metal spatula. As his opponent attacked, Bishop weaved his body away and slapped the spatula clean across his face.

  Mikhail stopped, and took a moment to register what had happened. “Did you just hit me with a kitchen implement?”

  Once the shock had dripped from his face, he raised his meaty fists again. In response, Bishop smacked each hand with the spatula, like a mother who’d caught a kid trying to sneak cookies. He followed this up a slap on each cheek for good measure.

  The Russian recoiled, his arms flailing wildly. “Stop hitting me with that thing!”

  Taking full note of the request, Bishop stepped forward and flicked the spatula fast against Mikhail’s forehead. It made a pleasing boing sound. The Russian staggered backwards.

  Exasperated, Bishop asked, “Are we going to talk or do I have to get out a whisk?”

  Bishop could see the cogs turning in the Russian’s brain. He seemed extremely keen to attack again. The MI6 agent put down the spatula and aimed his gun. Mikhail sneered, but didn’t attack. Seconds ticked by. The two men faced off.

  Bishop considered the rope dangling from the skylight. “I’m going out on a limb here, but I’m guessing you’re not a construction worker?”

  With his thumb, Mikhail wiped blood away from the corner of his mouth. “What are you doing here, Englishman?”

  “Where I come from, it’s the one holding the gun who asks the questions.”

  The Russian snorted. “And where is it you are from, little man?”

  “I think we’ve established I don’t quite deserve that label, wouldn’t you say?”

  Every muscle in the Russian tensed as he stared at Bishop. Good. If this was to turn into an interrogation, Bishop needed him angry. Angry men made far more mistakes than calm ones.

  Taking a moment to admire Bishop’s weapon, Mikhail frowned. “I did not know MI6 issued Glock 19X to field agents. Shorter than the 17, is better for concealment, very reliable firearm. This is a good choice.”

  Keeping his poker face, Bishop hid his surprise not only at the accuracy of Mikhail’s assessment and his knowledge of weaponry, but also at his sudden change in demeanour. The man was trained, and trained well.

  The two eyed each other across the kitchen.

  Deciding they weren’t getting far, Bishop thought the direct route would be best. “What interest does the SVR have in the auction?”

  “What auction?”

  The Russian was a fair liar, but there was enough surprise in his tone to reveal that he knew what Bishop was referring to. If only Bishop did. Mikhail’s reaction when Astrid had first used the word “auction” suggested that the big man was here for the same reason the Bishop was.

  Mikhail stared at Bishop. Stalemate again.

  It occurred to Bishop that he could shoot out the Russian’s kneecap. But besides being elementally satisfying, it was unlikely to make Mikhail talk. Plus, he’d have to clean up the blood before Temple arrived. Even worse, Temple could turn up to find a bleeding Russian on his kitchen floor. That would be somewhat difficult to explain, and not exactly the stealthy infiltration he was hoping for.

  And yet…

  No. He wouldn’t be shooting the Russian, so they may as well talk.

  Bishop tucked the pistol into his shoulder holster. His opponent raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

  The MI6 agent jutted his chin. “What’s with the accent?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Your accent. It’s not as thick as it was yesterday. You sound less like a Cossack tractor mechanic and a little more, let’s say, educated. Don’t tell me you lay it on for the ladies? That’s incredibly sad, my friend.”

  “I am not your friend.” He waved a dismissive hand.

  “No, I suppose not. Let’s concentrate on what you are then, shall we? You didn’t deny being in SVR. So I’m wondering what interest Russia’s foreign intelligence service has in this auction. As I see it, not-friend, we have two options. Either we stay here and glare at one another until the end of time or we share intelligence to get to the bottom of the auction. What do you say?”

  Mikhail’s contemptuous expression lessened by about three and a half per cent, in Bishop’s estimation. So he was at least considering it. Best to keep the momentum going.

  “Look, it seems we’re both here for the same thing, and it’s not Astrid. I have a feeling you’re after an arms dealer, like we are.”

  The words “arms dealer” made his eye twitch. He wasn’t that well trained after all. Physically, perhaps, but he still had a lot to learn about covering his tells.

  “What were you doing breaking into Temple’s house, Mikhail?”

  “I don’t know who that is. I thought this was someone else’s villa.”

  “Whose?”

  “Barbara Streisand.”

  “I… what?”

  “I am a very big fan. Huge.” Mikhail’s face wouldn’t have been out of place at a poker tournament. “I was told this was her place and I wanted a piece of memorabilia.”

  Bishop’s mouth dropped open. If the Russian spy thought the absurd story would throw Bishop off he was insane. Then again, if it was true, he was equally insane.

  “Big Streisand fan, huh?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Okay, give me one Streisand album title.”

  Bishop really hoped the Russian was bluffing because he didn’t know any himself. Streisand could have released an album called “Launching Alpacas into Space” and he wouldn’t know. Bishop kind of hoped she had.

  The Russian sighed, folded his arms and glared up at Bishop, then reluctantly threw up his hands. “Fine. We are looking into arms dealing.”

  “You’re going to have to give me a little more, I’m afraid.” Bishop leaned against the kitchen bench and folded his arms.

  “Kali,” Mikhail said. “The arms organisation we’re after is called Kali.”

  Before Bishop could respond, a beeping emanated from Mikhail’s person. His eyes darted between his chest and Bishop, as if asking for permission to reach into his jacket. The MI6 agent nodded.

  Mikhail glanced at a small black device with a tiny screen. “Parameter breach. Temple is home.”

  Without discussion, both men scrambled towards the rope. Mikhail went first. Bishop tossed Mikhail’s bag up, then his. He was careful not to grunt or show any sign of exertion as he ascended, not wanting to be shown up. When they reached the top they reeled up the rope and quietly closed the skylight behind them. Silent as ants on velvet, they scrambled along the clay tile roof and down a downpipe at the rear of the villa. Within minutes they were on the street and away. A large black Hummer sat in the driveway of Temple’s estate.

  Once they were sure they had no tail, both men let out an audible sigh of relief. The streets were deserted, bar the occasional stray dog who was a bit slow getting its affairs in order. Without another word, Mikhail crossed the road and walked away from Bishop.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Bishop yelled after him.

  Mikhail glanced back, but didn’t stop. Bishop crossed the road and caught up.

  The Russian glanced at Bishop and sneered. “What are you going to do, E
nglishman? Shoot me in the street?”

  “Is there somewhere else you’d like me to shoot you?”

  Mikhail gave no response as the MI6 agent matched his stride.

  “Seems we’re on the same team here, Mikhail.”

  “I work alone. I do not do teams.”

  Bishop hefted an eyebrow. “What’s changed since last night?”

  The Russian scowled, unamused. They rounded a corner and passed a restaurant. The owner tried to entice them inside, but Bishop declined with a friendly wave as they walked on.

  Mikhail gave Bishop a sideways glance. “You are proposing we work together on this?”

  “Maybe?” Bishop wasn’t entirely sure it was a good idea. Then again, MI6’s intel was sadly lacking. At the very least, MI6 could find out what SVR knew. Besides, the auction was meant to be the next day. They were running out of time. Bishop had no authority to make a deal with a foreign agency and wasn’t entirely sure how receptive MI6 would be to the idea. A blunt instrument negotiating with a foreign power may send several members of his own organisation into conniptions. That was their issue. Bishop had a mission to complete, and he intended to do so in any way possible, including sidling up to an on-again, off-again enemy.

  Bishop needed to determine if he could work collaboratively with the Russian. If he were honest, he thought it likely he’d squeeze the SVR agent for information and then proceed on his mission alone. It didn’t seem prudent to let Mikhail know that, however.

  “What do you propose,” Mikhail asked, “if we do collaborate?”

  “Well, the first thing we need to do, and I think you’ll agree with me here, is we need hats.”

  “I… what?” Mikhail stared at him as if he’d gone mad.

  Relishing his reaction, Bishop warmed to the idea. “You know, like, club hats.”

  The Russian frowned. “There will be no hats.”

  Bishop went on, ignoring him. “I’m thinking something like a peaked cap. Not baseball ones, obviously, more of a Breton cap. Maybe a little embroidered logo to really nail the in-a-club vibe. I’m picturing a simple black and white insignia, perhaps a spy glass or a fedora, but I’m open to suggestions.”