The International Assassin A Sexy Times Crime Thriller (34 page)

“What about you?”

“No, not married”

“But you have someone special I think? Only love can create such a unique mix of misery and happiness that your face wears so well.”

I nodded.

“Yes, there’s someone special. But no matter what I do I can’t seem to save him. It seems like the world and fate has set itself against us.”

“Maybe fate is telling you not to save him. Maybe he is meant to save you?”

“I wish he would. I feel like I need saving right now.”

“You know people think I’m crazy…but when people have a special connection I believe they always hear each other no matter if they are together or apart. So maybe you need to tell him you need saving and he will come and save you.”

I nodded.

“I’ve asked him a few times. Hasn’t worked yet.”

“Maybe he is just late but then maybe he’s waiting to arrive exactly on time.”

“I think I’m being punished.”

“Do not feel sorry for the things you have done and do not feel sorry because of the things you will do. You understand?”

“Yes I think so.”

“So what did you lose?”

“It’s not what I lost it’s what I’m about to lose. I spent my whole life wasting time now when I need it most I don’t have it to spare.”

“We are all guilty of such things. A wasted minute of youth is a precious sixty seconds of old age.”

I smiled.

“You are very philosophical.”

“It is the prerequisite of every bar owner. Wine and advice. It is so people do not drink at home. So you did not lose it yet?”

“No, not yet.”

“Then you have no reason to be pessimistic that you will lose it.”

“I wish I could be optimistic believe me I would fight until my last breath, but I just can’t see a way forward right now. It just seems so bloody hopeless.”

“You know it’s not until you feel hopeless that you find hope because you simply weren’t looking hard enough to find it the first time. If you look again and look really hard you will always find hope. There is always hope.”

“Do you believe that?”

“Of course. It is why we drink too much beer. We hope we don’t have a bad hangover the next day but we always do. It does not stop us hoping.”

I laughed. 

“That’s true.”

“If you look hard enough I think you will find hope.”

“
I hope
.”

“See. Already a good start.”

I drank the rest of the beer, collapsed my head into my arms on the table and prayed for divine intervention. The owner returned to his bar. 

I was disturbed by the sound of a noisy misfiring Renault arriving. I watched as a battered old heap pulled up outside the bistro. Its elderly peasant owner got out and came inside. He sat at a table. The owner greeted him and brought over a beer. He drank it before getting up and going to the toilet, which in traditional rural French fashion was little more than a hole in the ground surrounded by a wooden shed out back. I noticed he had left his car keys on the table. 

I checked my watch. It was nearly 6:50pm. There was just time. I took out a twenty Euro note for the beer and dropped it on the table, as I past I swiped the keys and went outside to the car. I opened the door and slung the bag inside on the passenger seat and tried to start the car, the engine turned over but it refused to start.

“
Come on you piece of shit
,” I muttered at it as I prodded the accelerator trying to coax the battered heap of junk into life. 

The commotion had attracted the attention of the cars owner who was hobbling back out yelling at me in French. As he approached the car I quickly locked the door and continued trying to start it. He tried the door and knocked on the window.

“I’m sorry! I need your car!” I said apologetically.

He tried his best to open the door. Finally the car burst into life. I crunched the car into reverse and pulled out before heading down the road with its owner chasing me before he collapsed, presumably having had a heart attack.

I wrung every ounce of power out of the Renault’s ancient asthmatic engine, I dug around in the glovebox and found a faded Michelin map and tried to figure out a route back to Monte Carlo that would have been much easier if I actually had some clue where I was. 

Eventually I reached a main road and followed the signpost for the autoroute and beyond it - Nice. Despite keeping the accelerator nailed to the floor the best I managed out of the stolen pile of rust was a little over ninety kph which slowed to under eighty when going up a steep hill. 

It was just past seven p.m and passing a distance signpost for Nice I had more than sixty kilometres to go, then maybe another twenty more to Monte Carlo. 

Cutting it fine would be an understatement.

As the beer started to take effect I found myself struggling to drive in a straight line and in a final bitter blow of fate my drunken driving had attracted the attention of a passing police patrol. The blackness of my rear view mirror lit up with flashing police lights before the patrol pulled alongside and gestured me to pull over.

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” I cursed under my breath wondering exactly how much bad luck it was possible to have in one day.

With absolutely no power in the gutless antique Renault I had no choice but to pull over. I followed the police car into the slip road and came to a stop behind it. As the car stopped the engine spluttered and died. I was pretty sure it would refuse to restart quickly enough so I could make a bolt for it. I banged my hands against the steering wheel in frustration as the policeman got out and walked over tapping on the window. 

I looked around for the electric button to lower it before realising there wasn’t one and cranked the ancient handle.

“Is there a problem officer?” I slurred. 

“Do you know what speed you were doing Madame?” he asked.

“Well I can be pretty sure I wasn’t speeding. Honestly it doesn’t have the capability. Believe me I’ve tried.”

“You were speeding Madame. And you seemed to be having some difficulty driving in a straight line.”

“That’s not really a surprise. This isn’t exactly a finely tuned chassis.”

“Have you been drinking Madame?”

“No,” I replied innocently.

“You smell like you have been drinking…”

“It’s a new perfume.”

“From whom? Stella Artois?”

“Good guess. My boyfriend is an alcoholic. It’s his favourite scent. He also goes crazy for Whisky Number Five.”

The policeman shone his torch into the car focusing on the bag on the passenger seat next to me.

“What is in the bag?”

“About three point eight million Euros in cash.”

“Why do you have such a large amount of cash?”

“I heard you have to pay speeding fines on the spot. I thought it was best to be prepared.”

“You are in a Renault madam, not the space shuttle.”

“Yes but you frenchies are a dodgy fucking lot. I had to account for bribes.”

“Is this your car?”

“Do I look like I would own a shit-heap like this?”

“Non. That is why I asked.”

“I borrowed it.”

“With the owners permission?”

“In a manner of speaking…”

“So you didn’t have the owners permission?”

“Do you believe in God?”

“Yes Madame.”

“Well God told me to do it.”

“Did he speak to you directly, because I am not aware that the almighty is in the business of instructing people to steal cars.”

“He presented me with an opportunity to solve a problem and I took it.”

“Madame the owner has reported this car stolen.”

“I was setup! Look at it! He’s obviously after the insurance money!”

“Step out of the car Madame.”

“Officer, I will buy the owner a brand new car, but please! I don’t have time for this. I have to get to Monte Carlo and I don’t have time to be arrested.”

“Step out of the car.”

Reluctantly I grabbed the bag and got out of the car.

“This way Madame.”

I followed the police officer to his car and he opened the back door. I got in. He got in the drivers seat and took out a pad of paper and pen.

“How much?”

“It is not a question of money Madame. You have stolen a car and are driving while drunk.”

I leant back and remembered I had the PPK stuck in the base of my back. I casually reached round and pulled it out then cocked it and stuck it in the policeman’s neck.

“That’s unfortunate. Because I’m getting tired of killing people, but I’m really in a hurry.”

“Put down the gun!”

“I really can’t do that. Please don’t make me shoot you!”

I reached forward and pulled the Beretta out of his holster and checked it out.

“Beretta. Good choice. I like these. Does yours jam?”

“No, I had it modified.”

“How does everyone know about this modification except me?”

I shook my head and put the PPK in my pocket and pressed the Beretta into the policeman’s neck.

“What do you want?”

“You are going to drive me to Monte Carlo.”

“I’m a policeman not a taxi service.”

“You have two choices. You can drive me to Monte Carlo and I’ll let you go then you can come back and recover the stolen car. Or I can tie you up in the boot, drive your car to Monte Carlo myself and leave you there then you will be the laughing stock of your station for your ineptitude. Or I can shoot you.”

“That’s three choices.”

I cocked the Beretta to reinforce the point. He nodded.

“Very well.” he started the car and pulled away. I checked my watch.

“As fast as you can. I’ve got a boat to catch.”

“You will never get away with this!”

“You are honestly the least of my problems.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“A Russian arms dealer has kidnapped my boyfriend. He’s holding him for ransom on a large yacht in Monaco harbour. If I don’t get there before nine p.m he’s either going to kill him or sell him to Jihadists who will probably make a video of him being beheaded.”

“Why would they do that?”

“Because he works for MI6 and that’s what Jihadists do.”

“This sounds very serious. Why didn’t you call the police?”

“That’s a good question officer. But I’ll take a crack at it. Because if I had walked into a police station and reported this they would have filled out about two hundred pieces of paper, called in a trained negotiator who would have offered them boxes of pizza and listened to their demands before sending in a crack assault team who would have got everyone, probably including themselves - killed.”

“And you think you have a better plan?”

“I did have a better plan. But that’s all gone to shit now.”

“So what is your plan now?”

“Hope for the best.”

“Well if you don’t mind me saying that’s a really shitty plan.”

“What would you do?”

‘I don’t know, but I would at least have a plan.”

I sank back into the seat.

“Well I love him. If we’re going to die then we’ll die together.”

“I think you need help.”

“I don’t have time for therapy.”

“No I mean real help.”

“They have the one person who can help me. I’m on my own.”

I checked my watch then stared out the window. Maybe the French barman had been right, there was always hope even though right now things seemed pretty hopeless.

Chapter 28

WE ARRIVED
at Monte Carlo harbour just after eight-fifteen p.m, I was already late for the agreed eight p.m. meeting but remembered Anatoly’s instructions that he would wait until nine. I hoped that he would hold his word and
La Perla
would be within close enough range that I would make it on time. 

“Put your hands on the steering wheel,” I told my unwilling police chauffeur.

“You know this is suicide?” he said.

“You only live once,” I replied.

“Much shorter at this rate,” he sighed.

I took the handcuffs from the side of his belt and leant over and put them on him through the steering wheel.

“Sorry,” I said shrugging my shoulders.  I looked around the harbour. “It’s pretty busy here so wait five minutes and then honk your horn and I’m sure someone will come and free you. If you don’t wait five minutes I will come back and shoot you.”

I grabbed the bag of money and got out of the car and ran down to the pier where thankfully
Little Nelly
was still at her berth waiting for my arrival. The Captain of the temporary crew the broker had assigned looked at me in surprise. 

“Don’t ask. It’s been a rough day at the gym,” I told him in some passing attempt to explain my injuries. 

He nodded. I took out the paper with the co-ordinates to where Anatoly would be at anchor.

“La Perla. Do you know it?” I asked.

“Sure. It left port a couple of hours ago. What’s this?”

“It’s the co-ordinates. We have an invite,” I replied. 

“Okay, follow me,” he replied leading me to the bridge. He typed in the co-ordinates and ordered the crew to cast off. 

“How far is it?” I asked.

“Not far. Maybe three kilometres offshore.”

“Can we catch her up? I have to be there before nine. Let’s just say it’s a life or death situation.”

“Sure. No Problem. It should take us maybe ten to fifteen minutes. There is a speed limit on the harbour but once we get outside the breakwater we can go quicker.”

“As fast as you can. Don’t spare the horses…or knots.”

“There is a cabin down below if you want to freshen up.”

“Thanks,” I said.

 I followed his directions down the stairs to the large stateroom.
Little Nelly
’s engines fired up and I felt the boat vibrate as the propellers started to push us forward. 

Locking the door behind me I put the bag of money on the bed and headed for the en-suite shower room. 

I was shocked at the state I was in. The beating I had sustained was much worse than I realised. I ran the tap and took a towel from the rack and soaked it in cold water and dabbed it on my nose. I walked back through to the stateroom and retrieved a bottle of Vodka then returned to the en-suite, soaked the towel in the Vodka and gently dabbed it on the cuts on my face. It stung fiercely as the alcohol bit into the cuts but it did at least stem the bleeding. I looked at my poor battered face and wondered if I would ever look normal again.