Kiss My Assassin Page 8

  Beside the closed ticket counter two heavy-set men in jeans, t-shirts and jackets stood, doing their utmost to appear casual. They were blocking the ramp towards the exit. Their arms were folded, but not enough to hide the weaponry tucked under their jackets.

  Bishop approached and nodded. “Evening, gents. Nice night for it.”

  The bulkier of the two stepped forward, blocking Bishop’s way. He was forced to come to a halt.

  The first thug frowned and gave them a sideways glance. “Nice night for what?” His accent was thick, his words fast, as if chemically enhanced. His pupils were the size of buzz-saw blades.

  “Excellent question.” Bishop paused. He slid his right foot backwards, defensive, ready. With a genial air, he asked, “Jenga?”

  “Did you just say it is a nice night for Jenga?” It was the smaller of the two, although calling him the smaller was like calling one wrecking ball smaller than the next. His eyes were as on fire as his companion’s.

  Oleg kept back, one eye on the two men, another on the surrounding area, checking for further threats. Mr Roll-His-Own was further back on the platform somewhere; others could be close by. Regardless of his scepticism of moments before, Bishop was thankful for Oleg’s backup. He just hoped he wouldn’t get shot in the back for it.

  The Russian circled behind Bishop. The two locals watched him uneasily.

  “Best tell your friend to keep his distance.” Thug One jutted his chin towards Oleg. “He’s making me nervous.”

  “Why would I ask him to do that?” Bishop shrugged. “I thought we were discussing games of dexterity and physical skill? What my friend here does with his pacing is his own business.” Bishop tilted his head at Thug One. “Now, are you going to let us pass, or do you have something erudite to say?”

  Thug One sniffed and slipped his hand into his jacket. He had the good sense to leave it there. “I want to know where she is. You were seen with her, both of you.” He nodded to Oleg. “Where is she? What did you do with the witch?”

  He could only mean Astrid. So they weren’t the only ones who’d noticed she was missing. Bishop decided he was playing too nice with too many people already.

  “Maleficent? The Wicked Witch of the West? Samantha from Bewitched? When I was a kid I had a thing for that twitch she did with her nose. Got me every time.”

  “We heard you were looking for her.” Thug One stiffened when Oleg took a step forward. Not taking his eyes off Oleg, he continued. “You better tell us or there will be trouble.”

  Bishop sighed. “Not very smart, are you?”

  “What… Why?”

  “Do I really have to spell this out?” Bishop shook his head and gawked at Oleg.

  The big Russian cracked his stern façade for the first time and issued a chortle while shaking his head. “I think these two are thicker than a whale thickshake.”

  Pausing for a moment, Bishop turned to Oleg, his voice low. “We really need to work on your similes. You just need to… one thing at a time.”

  Turning back to the thugs, Bishop let out a frustrated sigh. “Work with me here, fellas, okay? You said yourself we’re looking for this ‘witch’.” He made air quotes with his fingers. “So why the hell are you asking what we did with her? Logic would dictate that if we did indeed have said witch, we would no longer feel the need to be searching for her in the middle of the night. It’s like when people see you searching for your keys and ask if you’ve found them yet. Redundant, and a little idiotic. I’m terribly sorry to have stated the bleeding obvious in front of your husband here, but you left me no choice, I’m afraid.”

  Thug One winced and his hand delved deeper into his jacket. Oleg took another step forward and gave a warning growl. In response, Thug One removed his hand and raised his empty palm.

  “That hand goes in your jacket again,” Oleg sneered, “I will pound your arse.”

  Bishop rolled his eyes and turned to Oleg. “Look, I feel the ‘husband’ thing was probably erring on the slur side of things and I’m uncomfortable with that. You telling him you’re going to pound his arse isn’t helping.”

  “I mean.” Oleg motioned his fist up and down while he nodded towards the thugs.

  “Again, it’s unclear if you mean fisting or fighting. I don’t know these gentlemen, nor do I know their particular preferences, so let’s keep the innuendo to a minimum, shall we?”

  “Innuendo?” Confusion creased Oleg’s face. “I want to pound them.”

  “Are you doing this deliberately?”

  Thug one coughed. “Can I interrupt?”

  “I wish you would.” Bishop gave Oleg a glance, as if to say, drop it. To his surprise, the Russian did.

  “You two were last seen with the witch. She’s now missing. So either you took her or you know something that can help us find her.”

  “And what,” Bishop inspected his immaculate fingernails, “would you do with her if you found her?”

  Thug One shook his head as if the question was ridiculous. “Kill her, of course.”

  “See? Now I’m quite unlikely to help you out.”

  “You don’t have much of a choice.” Thug Two gazed beyond Bishop and smirked.

  The MI6 agent kept his eyes on the thugs, but heard Oleg turn.

  “Bishop…”

  Although Bishop hadn’t thought it possible, Thug One’s eyes grew larger. He gave a toothy grin. “You’ll tell us what we want to know or you’ll die slow.”

  “Like, old age slow?”

  “Bishop…”

  The MI6 agent turned to see Mr Roll-His-Own with an AK-47 slung casually over his shoulder. He wasn’t alone. Behind him, another nine scruffily dressed locals carried various weapons ranging from ragged pieces of wood to pistols that could be carbon dated back to the Second World War. The guns were tucked into waist bands, but clearly on display. A warning. Or a promise.

  Glancing at Oleg, Bishop asked, “Surrender or fight?”

  “Do you know Russian history at all?”

  “Good lad. You want the nine or the two?”

  Oleg sniffed and curled a lip towards Thug One and Thug Two. “Two. These boys need a good pounding.”

  “Again… look, we’re going to have words later. But for now…” Bishop moved so he and Oleg were back to back, Bishop now facing the ten assailants.

  Inhaling, Bishop flexed his fingers. Beyond the platform, darkness surrounded them like a heavy blanket. There seemed to be no breeze at all. The night was still. Silent.

  In a lightning quick move, Bishop drew his pistol. He heard Oleg do the same. His first shot hit Roll-His-Own in the shoulder before he even raised his weapon. He went down spinning and screaming in agony. Oleg fired rapidly, anguished shrieks telling Bishop his aim was true.

  Bishop’s next three shots were aimed at those scrambling to pull out their pistols. Each shot found its mark and the three assailants hit the ground in quick succession. Those with planks of wood glanced at their primitive weaponry and back at Bishop. They wisely dropped their sticks and ran. Only one remained. He couldn’t have been more than fifteen, nothing in his hands but a crowbar. The kid gawked at the AK-47 on the ground in front of the writhing Roll-Your-Own and then warily back at Bishop. The MI6 agent gave the kid a slow shake of his head. Thankfully, he was smart enough to get the hint. He dropped the crowbar and followed his comrades into the night.

  Turning, Bishop saw Oleg standing over the thugs. Each lay on the ground, red welts in the centre of their foreheads where their lives used to be.

  Walking towards him, Bishop asked, “Ever hear of witnesses?”

  Oleg sighed and tucked his pistol in his shoulder holster. “Ever heard of shut your fly hole?”

  “No. Mainly because it isn’t a… Seriously, they need to introduce a trash talk subject at SVR. I’m happy to teach it.”

  Perhaps Oleg did have his uses. He had Bishop’s back in a firefight. That didn’t mean Bishop was prepared to trust him.

  Or was he smarter than Bishop
gave him credit for, and therefore more dangerous? Bishop had had his back turned when Oleg took out the thugs. Was it self-defence, or did he kill them because he had another agenda?

  “What good is a witness?” Oleg shrugged. “They knew nothing of where Astrid was.”

  “True.” Bishop jerked his head for Oleg to follow. “But they could have told us why they were so interested in her in the first place.” Bishop pulled back the hammer of his pistol and held it to the head of the hyperventilating Roll-Your-Own. “Now, I’m sure this gentleman would be happy to elucidate the circumstances about which we are presently deliberating.”

  Roll-Your-Own was coated in dirt, his arm limp by his side, a dark red stain soaking his t-shirt. He shook his head, his eyes wide with shock and fear. “What?”

  Oleg poked his good shoulder. “Tell us what you know or he’ll shoot you again. Then it’s my turn.” Oleg aimed the gun at the man’s groin.

  Roll-Your-Own’s eyes darted from Oleg’s gun to his happy place and back again, his sweaty features a mixture of fear and pain.

  He nodded hurriedly. “Yeah, yeah, okay.”

  The frightened local sighed and did his best to calm himself. As he opened his mouth to speak, his head exploded in an eruption of brain and skull. The entire front portion of his face disintegrated, and his body slumped to the ground, a lifeless husk.

  Bishop spun and glared at Oleg, who held up his hands and said, “Wasn’t me.”

  The two turned their attention outward, pointing their guns at an unseen foe. In the empty distant car park—too far for a pistol—a hooded figure tossed a sniper’s rifle into the back of a Citroën then jumped into the driver’s seat. Within seconds, the car laid rubber onto the highway and was gone.

  Bishop and Oleg stood alone in the night, surrounded by death and silence. Without uttering a word, the two strode towards the exit. Nothing further could be discovered here.

  Why hadn’t the sniper taken them out? Why spare them? It curdled Bishop’s brain trying to make sense of it.

  A lone taxi they’d seen before sat at the rank. The driver sat reclining in his seat, listening to some dreadful R & B song at a ridiculous volume, apparently unaware that a gunfight had played out 50 metres away. They engaged his services and drove away. No one followed.

  Left to his own thoughts, Bishop ran through the events in his mind. He could have sworn the distant sniper who took out Roll-Your-Own looked familiar. Granted, he’d been upside down and bleeding at the time, but the hooded figure he’d just seen appeared remarkably similar to the one who’d stared him down at Lambert Estate. The assassin who had killed Demir.

  Bishop had vowed revenge on those who had killed the police and the ambassador; now the catalyst for that vengeance was in Marrakech.

  As the taxi drove into the night, Bishop swore one thing. In the next twenty-four hours retribution would be his, no matter the cost.

  Chapter Seven

  When the taxi arrived at the hotel, Oleg exited and strode inside, leaving Bishop to pay. Bishop was so happy to be rid of the Russian, he didn’t even mind. He was decidedly undecided on the Russian.

  On arriving in his hotel room, Bishop ordered a bottle of scotch from room service and took a shower. For the next three hours he scrutinised the day’s camera footage from Temple’s villa. And drank.

  Other forces were after Astrid. The assumption was that it was all tied to the auction somehow. But how? Why? What or whom did she represent? How was she involved? The brief coded conversation they’d had in her hotel room had suggested she was involved reluctantly. Was that true? Why had the thugs referred to her as a witch? Why were they after her in particular? Who had kidnapped her in the first place?

  So many questions. No apparent answers.

  Bishop decided to focus on what he could control. Like a sick voyeur, Bishop watched Temple plod around his home. The man seemed elementally plain, pottering around in various rooms, performing the most mundane tasks. Unpacking and washing clothes, tidying, cleaning benchtops. No untoward behaviour. No suspicious activity. No Astrid.

  The man himself seemed equally unremarkable. He was in his mid-thirties—younger than Bishop had anticipated. Bishop had envisioned a dumpy, middle-aged man. In reality, Temple had a strong jaw, dark curly hair and an intelligent face. He was like a good-looking accountant, a level of attractiveness where the bar was set low.

  Watching the footage, Bishop wondered if the man was worthy of surveillance at all. He saw him make a sandwich, watch a football match and put himself to bed. Hardly supervillain territory, but first impressions were always fraught.

  The footage of Temple going to bed seemed like a cue for Bishop. His bleary eyes demanded respite and he allowed himself a few short hours’ rest. His sleep was interrupted by tormented dreams of a tortured Astrid, her perfect body sliced and defiled. The piercing morning sun was a welcome interruption.

  Knocking the empty bottle of Laphroaig off the sheet-tangled bed, Bishop tried to focus on the laptop screen. It was a live feed. It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust, but when they did, Bishop sat upright. Temple was readying himself to leave the villa. A backpack was on the kitchen table, and he was eating the last of his toast.

  Bishop picked up his phone, unlocked the screen and stared at it until it locked again. Did he want Oleg’s help? Sure, he’d been helpful the night before, but did Bishop trust him? The answer was an emphatic no. Strategically, should he involve Oleg? That was another question entirely.

  The auction was scheduled for today; he did not have the luxury of finding nice people to work with. The Russians seemed to have more information about Kali than MI6, and they may well need it before the mission was through. Then there was the subject of the mole. SVR would never divulge who had supplied the information, but perhaps Oleg would let slip a tiny sliver of a clue that would help them narrow the search.

  As Temple bit into the final piece of toast, Bishop bit into his pride. Mission parameters took precedence. He called Oleg.

  Two minutes later, Bishop stood over Oleg at a table in the dining room.

  “Temple’s about to leave. We need to follow him.”

  Before the Russian was a sickening pile of bacon, fried eggs and sausages, all coated in a slick layer of grease. It was a far cry from Bishop’s daily routine of green juice and two hundred push-ups.

  “The auction’s today, we have to go.”

  “But I am hungry.”

  “That stuff will clog your arteries.” Bishop looked at the pools of oil on the plate. “I’m doing you a favour.”

  “Napoleon said an army marches on its stomach.”

  “First of all, a Russian should never quote Napoleon. Second, I don’t plan on marching. Third, I’m leaving right now, so either you come with me or this thing is over before it begins. Your choice.”

  The big man stood, gave his food a longing glance and left the table. A minute later they were in a taxi.

  The short trip to Temple’s neighbourhood was conducted in silence, apart from the growling of Oleg’s stomach. Bishop watched the live feed from the villa on his mobile. Temple seemed unhurried as always.

  Bishop advised the driver to pull up a block from the villa. The streets were quiet. Stray dogs continued their morning routine.

  Without turning, the taxi driver said, “Twenty dirham, gentlemen.”

  Bishop leaned forward. “May I ask your name?”

  The young, dark-skinned woman turned and issued a broad smile. She appeared barely old enough to see over the dash. She took a moment to think. “Janet.”

  Bishop chuckled. “Okay, but what is your real name, not the one you use for stupid Western tourists?”

  Her smile stayed in place. “Zoya.”

  “May I ask, Zoya, what you normally make in a day? Please feel free to inflate the figure for the sake of negotiation.”

  “Perhaps four or five hundred dirham, sayyid.”

  Bishop whistled, then, seeing Zoya’s expression of concer
n that she’d priced herself out of the market, he winked. “We’ll give you four thousand dirham to be our personal driver today. Take us where we need to go, wait when we need. It could be dangerous, it could be boring. What do you say?”

  Her pleased face lapsed into wariness. “No funny business?”

  “No funny business. This is purely a transportation arrangement, I assure you.”

  The young woman nodded. “For two thousand dirham I would change my real name to Jeff.”

  “Good lass.” Bishop stuffed a wad of currency in her hand. “A down payment. Wait here and we’ll be back soon enough. Okay?”

  Zoya nodded as she counted the notes.

  The two spies exited the taxi and walked the rest of the way on foot.

  “Can she be trusted?” Oleg asked.

  Bishop eyed his companion. “As much as the next person.”

  For ten minutes, the two stood in silence, waiting for Temple to emerge. When he finally did, the supposed auctioneer strode towards his Humvee and started the penis-compensation masquerading as a car.

  As the automatic gates of the villa vibrated open, Bishop and Oleg trotted back to the taxi and jumped in the back.

  “Zoya, do you watch a lot of movies?” Bishop asked as the Humvee slowly drove out of the driveway. “Because I want you to follow that car.”

  “Yes, sayyid! It will be like Driving Miss Daisy!”

  Bishop shook his head. “It’s nothing like Driving Miss Daisy.”

  “It’s almost exactly like the movie!”

  “You and I have very different recollections of Driving Miss Daisy.”

  Motioning to the Humvee, Oleg said, “Can we please…”

  They took off. Within minutes it became clear that Zoya was a natural surveillance officer. Without being asked, she hung back far enough to avoid drawing attention, but close enough that she never lost sight of Temple’s car. Occasionally she’d put on a hat or sunglasses to mix up her appearance, in case anyone was watching. She was smart and had natural instincts. Bishop would be sure to pass on the kid’s details to MI6 in case they ever needed an asset on the ground.