Kiss My Assassin Read online

  Mikhail rolled his eyes and stomped onward. “You talk too much.”

  “So I’ve been told.” Bishop gave the Russian his most charming grin. He noticed Mikhail hadn’t properly wiped away the blood, which was smeared in the corner of his mouth in a crusted red stain. “What do you think, Mikhail, are we teaming up?”

  The irony of the statement was not lost on Bishop, given their activities the night before.

  Mikhail sighed. “I will seek guidance from my superiors.” The idea didn’t seem to fill him with delight. “I will advise you of their decision.” He stopped walking and glared at Bishop. “Personally, I think you are an idiot and believe working with you would be like hitting my genitalia with a mallet.”

  “You really need to work on your trash talk there, my friend. That was like being slapped by a wet sponge cake.”

  “As I have said, I am not your friend.”

  “That much I know.”

  At precisely 17:00 local time, Bishop filed his report. At exactly 17:08 Paul called. “What the ruddy hell is this business about requesting to work with the Russians?”

  Bishop explained the situation he’d referred to in his report, again editing out the parts pertaining to punching. As he gave his account, Paul made a series of increasingly pleased murmurs.

  “How did you negotiate that?” On receiving no answer, Paul added, “How keen are the Russians?”

  “Not sure, to be honest, but it’s possible they’ll come to the table. They’re on Temple’s tail as well, so that alone tells us we’re onto something. If only we knew what. I’m thinking they don’t want a powerful government-manipulating clandestine organisation swanning about destabilising the world any more than we do.”

  “What do the Russians know?”

  “Undetermined. Their man was reluctant to divulge much without checking with the higher-ups.” Bishop rubbed his jaw. Soft food for dinner. “Here’s hoping they decide to share what they know. We may crack this case yet.”

  “Keep at it. We’re touching base with SVR via embassy back channels; probably burning through a couple of covers in the process. If there is a way to share intel on this we may get to the auction on time. They know the clock is ticking as much as we do. Working with the enemy might get us to the bottom of this sooner.”

  Yes, Bishop thought, sooner. Providing Bishop with no partner or backup on this mission showed how little MI6 had thought of the assignment, and perhaps of him. Now that the Russians were on the same scent, things had changed. Bishop checked his watch. He’d wanted to check in on Astrid as soon as he’d returned to the hotel, but mission parameters dictated otherwise. Regardless, he was keen to end the conversation as soon as possible. As always, Paul seemed to have other ideas.

  “There’s another reason for our chat.” Paul’s tone was forced casual. “Five Eyes has picked up random chatter about Kali. Nothing of note, but Section 31 are chasing them up. Previously we had scant past references, and to be honest much of it came from unreliable sources. They were of such preposterous magnitude that little attention was paid, besides the obligatory report in order for the agent’s expenses to be reimbursed. But…”

  “But?” Bishop was wary.

  “But, in light of your mission we’ve done some digging. Kali seems to have people scared. You were right about the retiring or missing illegal international arms dealers. Some sources are attributing the missing ones to Kali. That alone has people spooked, but there’s more. Granted, it’s mostly rumour, but there are some who are terrified to even utter the name. There are rumours of assassinations. Strongarming government officials. You name it. There was nothing tying any of this together, not until you uncovered it with the ambassador, then verified it with the Ruskies.”

  “Was that an expression of admiration, sir?” Bishop didn’t care if Paul could hear him chuckle.

  “Merely a statement of fact. Anything more is pure conjecture on your behalf.”

  “Of course. And boss?”

  “Yes Bishop?”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Paul chuckled. It might also be conjecture, but Bishop believed his boss liked dealing with him because Bishop “got” his superior, and the two had formed a good bond. In their business, Bishop knew it could account for little in the end. If it were a matter of strategic importance or national security he had no doubt he’d be left flapping in the wind. The opposite was true as well. Friendship was a luxury few in espionage enjoyed.

  Bishop understood why the Russians would be keen to prevent a rogue arms dealer. A new player willing to arm Chechen rebels or Ukraine dissidents would be a terrifying prospect for the current regime. They’d do all they could to stop it. As the great philosopher Kylie Minogue once said, better the devil you know.

  “Oh, hang on a moment.” There was rustling and muffled talk, as if Paul had placed his hand over the receiver and was talking to someone in his office. “Looks like we’ve got the go-ahead from the Home Office. SVR have authorised a joint mission.”

  “That was fast.”

  “British bureaucracy, the most efficient in the world, my lad.” Paul’s tone took on a serious edge. “I don’t need to tell you to be wary of your new cohort.”

  “Really? The though never occurred to me.”

  Paul ignored the jibe. “We don’t know what branch he stems from, what his background is, his specialities. I’m aware we may be lowering you into a vipers’ nest. Just be careful, is all I’m saying.”

  “Will do, boss.”

  Paul tapped away on a keyboard. “Oh, and there’s a note here about your man Mikhail.”

  “He really is a big Streisand fan?”

  “No, but apparently his name isn’t Mikhail at all. It’s Oleg.”

  The elevator pinged and Bishop strode out. He was surprised by his own haste. He attempted to tell himself it was purely to ensure Astrid’s safety. It was a lie and he knew it. Had she really taken hold of him so quickly?

  She was a most unusual woman. Complex, certainly. Smart, most assuredly. Sexy, without a doubt. But she also had an alluring mix of confidence and vulnerability. It was a heady mix. Seeing her hotel room door at the end of the hall, he increased his pace.

  Knocking, he waited with equal parts trepidation and anticipation. No answer. He knocked again. Silence. Once more he knocked, this time calling out, “It’s me, Tyler.”

  The lack of response only increased his heartrate. He extracted his bump key and looked around for any witnesses. He was armed, too. Given Mikhail’s—well, Oleg’s—sudden appearance at Temple’s villa, who knew what other forces were at work in Marrakech. Bishop wasn’t taking any chances. He picked the lock and entered.

  Dappled light shone through the curtains. Even in the dim room, Bishop could see enough. He drew his pistol. The place was trashed. Furniture up-ended, clothes and luggage strewn everywhere. The bed, which held such fond memories, had been overturned.

  Someone had searched the room. Bishop sucked in air. There was more. Stepping into the room warily, Bishop saw pools of red on the floor. The place hadn’t just been ransacked, there had been a struggle. The blood was tacky—whatever had taken place had happened at least an hour ago.

  “Astrid?”

  No answer.

  The fact that she wasn’t there and hadn’t contacted him multiplied his trepidation exponentially. Bishop quickly searched the hotel room for clues, but none were immediately apparent. Every room had been tossed, cushions and pillows slashed. Without knowing what had been there to begin with, there was no way of knowing if they’d found what they sought.

  MI6 had supplied a contact number for Oleg. Bishop rang it and the Russian answered. In quick order Bishop explained the situation. Oleg hung up without another word. Thirty seconds later there was a knock at the door.

  Bishop let him in. “You turned up fast.”

  A little too fast.

  The SVR agent ignored Bishop as he pushed his bulk into the room. He performed the same checks Bisho
p had, coming to the same conclusion. Astrid had been abducted.

  For virtually the first time since he had arrived, Oleg regarded Bishop. “Who would take her?”

  “I was hoping you’d tell me.”

  “If I knew, which I do not, why would I tell you, Englishman?”

  Bishop folded his arms. “It appears our superiors want us to work together.”

  Oleg grunted, apparently regarding the whole idea with disdain. For the first time, Bishop noticed a haphazardly applied bandage over the back of Oleg’s hand.

  Nodding towards it, he asked, “Where did you get the wound?”

  It was soaked red. Deep. Fresh. Bishop didn’t recall any hand injury during or after their confrontation at Temple’s.

  Oleg glanced at the wound indifferently. “Cut it shaving.”

  “I see.”

  “How do we find Astrid?” Oleg asked with no sense of urgency.

  “I have a few ideas.”

  He didn’t, but he was working on it.

  “I have told my superiors I do not like working with the United Kingdom. They did not listen.” A sneer creased his face. “Your people are not to be trusted.”

  Bishop found the statement laughably ironic given Russia’s history with the UK. “Well, be that as it may, Oleg, it is what it is. As the old saying goes, it appears the Russians are getting in bed with the English. Better get used to it.”

  “You think you are amusing. I do not think you are capable of being funny.”

  It was Bishop’s turn to sneer. You have no idea what I’m capable of, Oleg. But you’ll find out soon enough.

  Chapter Six

  Astrid hadn’t checked out of her hotel, nor had she ordered a taxi or transfer via the hotel. Bishop’s various methods of persuasion combined with several fake IDs determined that she hadn’t gone through the airport. The last stop was the railway station, where there was no record of her. She may have gone via road, but where? And how?

  Bishop knew he was being overly hopeful. The desolation of the hotel room and the blood splashed across it meant she hadn’t left voluntarily. She hadn’t merely packed a bag and caught the next flight out, she’d been violently abducted.

  Oleg had accompanied Bishop late into the night, though his presence was less collaborative and more like a reluctant child being dragged grocery shopping. Bishop was surprised he wasn’t whining for a lollipop.

  The two walked along a deserted railway platform, having hassled every official they could find. It was late, the railway station was close to deserted. The only other people about were shopkeepers closing up for the night. They strode towards the exit, the desert breeze cooling everything after the heat of the day.

  Fists deep in his pockets, Oleg grumbled, “This is a waste of time.”

  “Finding Astrid is a waste of time?” There was an edge to Bishop’s voice. He didn’t try to hide it.

  “No. You said Demir advised the auction was four days away, that means tomorrow. That’s what we should be concentrating on. If Kali do not wish Astrid to be found, we will not find her.”

  “But who is Kali?” Bishop asked. Oleg frowned and offered no reply. Bishop sighed and added, “Let me rephrase: who does SVR think Kali is?”

  Reluctance swept across the Russian’s face, as if he was weighing up whether to tell Bishop anything. Finally, a look of acquiescence won out. “We do not know. The fragments our intelligence organisations have discovered seem to show they are powerful. Every story is more fantastic than the next. If remotely true, we do not know how they could have achieved what they have without us knowing. The auction is the first time we have known in advance where they would be.”

  “And how did you know about the auction in the first place?”

  The question was so loaded Bishop was surprised it didn’t explode in his face. Oleg gave a boyish shrug, like a kid who had snuck into the cupboard, eaten all the birthday cake and farted on his way out.

  “How did you know there was an auction, Oleg?”

  Seemingly aware that a shrug would be unacceptable, the SVR agent apparently thought silence would be more satisfactory. He was wrong.

  Bishop sighed. “If this partnership is going to work, we have to share intelligence. Acting all coy is neither charming nor helpful. So I suggest you stow the schoolboy routine and either start assisting or piss off back to Mother Russia. For the last time: how did you know about the auction?”

  The big man gave another annoying shrug. “Let us just say you have holes in your yard.”

  Bishop shook his head. “I have no idea what that means.”

  “Holes. You have them in your yard.”

  “I live in an apartment.”

  Oleg frowned. “No. It is a meta? Meta. Yes, it is meta.”

  “Are you having a stroke?”

  Oleg grunted. “Simile? Allegory? Whatever. A mole. You have a mole. How was it not clear?”

  A mole? In MI6? That was how the Russians were here? That was concerning. Beyond concerning. Bishop doubted Oleg would be willing to supply a name, position and where they would be located on a Tuesday evening.

  So many departments would have access to the Kali intel. His own, obviously. Records and Signals were used for research and verification. Department heads, their subordinates, secretaries and other functionaries. Too many and too high level to interview to any reasonable degree. Bishop would have to extract more from the big Russian over time.

  “A mole, hey?” Bishop exhaled. “But MI6 hardly saw my mission as a priority. Hell, they barely considered it a mission at all. How did—”

  “The word Kali triggered alerts.” Oleg didn’t look at Bishop, but continued to walk down the cool platform. “Once we knew of the auction, we determined we would need to be present. My organisation believe the Kali threat to be real and growing.”

  “You seem to know more than us,” Bishop observed.

  “This is a very true statement.”

  “On Kali.”

  “And all other things.”

  “I was talking about Kali.”

  “I was not.”

  Knowing the line of conversation would lead nowhere, Bishop decided to change tack. “What does Astrid have to do with this?”

  “I do not know.” He gave Bishop a sideways glance. “But if I was not interrupted by your blundering attempts to woo her last night—”

  “Did you say woo?”

  “—I would know much more.”

  Bishop frowned. “But why were you talking to Astrid in the first place?”

  Groaning, as if talking further would cause him pain, Oleg replied. “I found it suspicious, a woman travelling by herself, checking in prior to the auction and checking out the day after it. I decided to question her, to ascertain if she was connected to my assignment.”

  “So you just find any unaccompanied woman, assume she’s related to your mission and bed her?”

  “Is this not what you did?”

  Bishop held up a finger, then lowered it. “Let’s get a taxi. It’s late.”

  “Good. Spending time with you is like taking my sister to the prom.”

  Bishop puckered his brow. “Do Russians have proms?”

  “Nyet.”

  “And do you have a sister?”

  “Nyet.”

  “Good analogy.”

  They walked along the platform in silence, their footsteps echoing into the still night. Bishop needed a shower. He was coated in a thick layer of accumulated sweat and disappointment.

  Again, Bishop was perplexed by his urgent need to find Astrid. He hardly knew her. His usual modus operandi was to flee within hours of anyone he chose to sleep with. It was exceedingly uncommon for him to afford them an afterthought. Sure, she seemed to know about the auction and could be vital to the assignment, but there was more to it.

  He was rather adept at making women fall in love with him, but it never occurred the other way around. It was rare for him to care, and completely unheard of during a mission.
What was it about Astrid that made him break all his established rules, both personal and professional?

  Meandering thoughts of Astrid brought his mind back to the discovery of her ransacked hotel room, and particularly the cut on Oleg’s hand. Bishop had never intended to trust the big Russian, but the suspicious cut and his equally dubious quick arrival turned his suspicion into distrust, tilting towards outright disbelief.

  Bishop asked again about the hand and the answer was as vague as before. The only way to get a real answer would be to utilise Temple’s torture chamber. The MI6 agent wasn’t unaccustomed to ruthless means of persuasion.

  There was no doubt Bishop regretted believing he could trust the SVR agent. He would not make the same mistake again.

  In the distance, a lone taxi sat by itself in dusty car park. A smattering of men milled about the ticket area, seemingly having nowhere to go. Bishop’s thoughts wandered from the feel of Astrid’s skin to how he would use Temple’s torture equipment if the need arose.

  They walked past a lone man in tattered pants and an Adidas t-shirt rolling a cigarette at the end of the platform. Bishop’s senses were suddenly alert. The man was doing nothing more than rolling a cigarette, but it was the extra fraction of a second he took watching them pass that put Bishop on edge. That was no casual glance. They were being watched.

  When they were out of earshot, Bishop whispered to Oleg, “Are you armed?”

  The Russian regarded him curiously. “As a Russian, all I will say is, Без тебя бы мы никак не догадались об этом.”

  Bishop eyeballed him. “I don’t know what that means.”

  “Is equivalent of, no shit Sherlock.” Oleg’s words dripped with sarcasm. “Yes. I am armed. Why?”

  “I have a feeling our questions have aroused some local interest. I could be wrong, but be prepared.”

  To his credit, the big man didn’t whip his head around searching for threats. His face hardened, his body tensed, and he undid the front of his jacket.