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“I’m
stuck in a god-damn hell hole.”
Paris
picked up the glass on the bar and put to her lips one more
time, tilting it back to let the amber liquid burn down
the back of her throat. She was in a bar somewhere in the
middle of Russia, smoke thick in air filled with the low
murmurs of men and women drinking vodka until they slunk
home in half-stupor. She hated Russia. She hated this job.
The hand-off would happen tomorrow. It had already been
delayed two times. She told them a third delay and they’d
need to find someone else to steal $5 million dollars worth
of heroin from the Russian Mafia. There had been no more
delays. After finishing the job, she’d take a train
to Moscow with the package and leave for Bucharest that
night. It was a higher profile job than she’d been
taking lately, but the money would be enough to last her
six months. For Paris that was six more months of freedom.
Freedom
is a precious commodity for someone who had been owned completely,
and for someone who owed her very life to one person. Paris
smiled a little as she remembered the look of surprise on
Jacques face as she slipped the knife between his ribs,
right into his heart, then turned and left him bleeding
on the floor. She was no one’s possession anymore.
She
ran for a few days after her escape, sleeping on the street,
living off money she stole, always moving east. Eventually
she ended up in Bucharest and decided it was time to stop
running. She took a job. It was a small one: break into
the US Embassy and take pictures of some documents. For
a highly developed assassin like Paris it was almost too
simple, but it gave her enough money for two months. She
took other jobs when the money ran out, but always small
stuff, basic reconnaissance and nothing that would attract
attention.
So she stayed out of public, only going out at night. She
took the easy jobs and never used all her skill. Free, but
hunted because Paris knew Nightingale was looking for her.
Paris could feel it somewhere in her artificial soul. Nightingale
would always be looking for her.
Then
there was the problem of the girl whose body she’d
stolen. She was still there, waiting in the background,
always waiting. There had been some blackouts months ago
and she would lose a few hours, maybe a day, but then she
would be back, and Paris knew it was the girl, trying to
claw out. There were days where Paris felt dangerously close
to fading away, of losing herself for good, but even those
were growing fewer and Paris was growing stronger.
Paris
lifted her hand to signal the bartender for another drink
when she felt a small gun jam into her ribs.
“Hello
darling.” A voice whispered in her ear in a thick Russian
accent. The soft scent of Red Moscow perfume surrounded
her. Paris silently cursed the heavy smoke that had blocked
her highly developed olfactory senses. Only one person wore
that perfume: Sabeth Drobot.
Paris
had her first whiff of Red Moscow six months earlier in
Chechnya. Paris had been on a counterintelligence job stealing
a cache of explosives concealed in the basement of a former
Soviet safe-house when she stumbled in on a group of FSB
(Federal Security Service) agents who were after the same
thing. The agents were planning to blow up an apartment
building and frame the Chechen rebels. Paris didn’t
care if they blew up the Kremlin; they would snatch her
payload over her dead body. Paris hired some local thugs
and headed to the house a day earlier than she had planned.
Sabeth
had been sent to case the house only to find some locals
loading boxes of explosives into a truck. Paris watched
her stop in surprise from behind a corner of the house.
The pause was long enough Paris to come up behind her and
stick a gun in her ribs. Now the tables were turned.
“Sabeth.”
Paris smiled as she twisted around to face the woman. She
was tall, like Paris, with dark hair and even darker eyes.
Her face was pale and her lips were large and carefully
lined with a dark red lip liner.
“I
see you’ve done your research.” Sabeth pushed
the gun further into Paris’ ribs. Paris stared at her,
her face betraying nothing. “Outside, sister.”
Paris
stumbled into the deathly cold Russian winter. Icy snowflakes
stung her cheeks and stuck on her eyelashes as the bitterly
cold air went into her lungs with a sharp jab. Sabeth hadn’t
given her time to grab the thick fur coat she’d bought
especially for this job.
“Drop
your gun.”
Paris
reached behind her and pulled the Russian made Glock out
of her waistband. It landed into the soft snow with a muffled
thud.
“And
the other one.”
Sabeth’s
eyes were shadows in the dim light and Paris fixed a defiant
stare in her direction. There eyes locked for a moment then
Paris bent down and pulled the small gun out of her ankle
holster and tossed it next to the Glock.
“The
knife.”
Bloody
hell, Sabeth had done her research too, and she had a good
source. It wasn’t easy to find out what weapons an
operative carried. Paris slipped the switchblade out of
her sleeve, the pearl inlaid handle glinting. She dropped
it, watching it disappear into the snow, trying to memorize
exactly which spot it landed.
Sabeth
pushed Paris up against the grimy wall outside the bar.
The scent of Red Moscow wafter over Paris again as Sabeth
leaned against her, her breasts pushing into her back, her
hand pushing Paris’ cheek into the rough brick.
“Consider
us even.” Sabeth said quietly in her ear. “You
hijacked us, we’ve hijacked you.”
The
shipment. The FSB must have intercepted the shipment. Paris
felt a chill go through her body. She needed that job.
“And
consider yourself lucky.” Sabeth continued. “I’m
going to cuff you now and in ten minutes a small charge
on the cuffs will blow the lock. You’ll be free to
go.”
“Why?”
The word slipped out before Paris could stop it. The world
of counterespionage was brutal. You kill or you will be
killed.
“Because
killing you would be un-sportsman-like, and no one can accuse
me of that.”
Sabeth
took her weight off Paris and turned her around. The women
stared at each other again, and then Sabeth turned around
and picked up Paris’ guns. She dropped them at Paris’
feet.
“No
one will be out of that bar for the next twenty minutes.
Vodka is my countrymen’s favorite mistress and they
rarely leave her until late in the evening.”
Her
black hair shone in the moonlight as Sabeth tucked her gun
into the holster under her heavy parka. She stepped toward
Paris who was using every muscle in her body not to shiver
in the bitter cold stopping just inches from Paris. Lifting
her hand, she trailed a finger down her ice-cold cheek.
Sabeth leaned in and pressed her lips to Paris’. The
kiss burned. Pulling back from Paris’ mouth Sabeth
leaned back and smiled.
“Until
next time.”
With
that, Sabeth turned and disappeared into the night leaving.
Paris felt the tension drop from her body and she started
to shiver from the cold. Sabeth had hi-jacked her job, she
was out of money, and the specter of Nightingale was always
in the back of her mind.
What
the hell was she going to do now?
The car pulled up to the curb and Sabeth glanced over her
shoulder. It was a late model black Mercedes; the kind only
diplomats and the Russian mafia drove. Sabeth reached inside
her coat, loosened the holster and continued walking down
the deserted street. The car continued to follow her. Finally
she turned and knocked smartly on the window. There was
a quiet whirring as the automatic window rolled down.
“Are
you lost?”
The
driver shook her head yes and asked where St. Peter’s
Square was located. Sabeth leaned in like she was giving
detailed directions.
“Is
it done?”
“The
FSB was happy to have some extra cash from the heroin, and
Paris has been taken care of.”
“Good.
You’re payment has been deposited into your account,
just as we arranged.”
Sabeth
smiled. One of the easiest jobs she’d ever done and
she got to rough up that bitch who thwarted the Chechen
job. She stood up and pointed down the street, telling the
woman somewhat loudly that she needed to take a right then
a left and she would be there. The window rolled up and
the car silently moved down the snow-covered street.
“It’s only matter of time now.”
The
woman steered the Mercedes quietly through the snow-covered
streets.
“What
if she doesn’t bite?”
She
glanced in the rearview mirror, at the man sitting in the
back seat.
“I
know Paris like I know myself. This will make her desperate.
It will make her clumsy.”
“I
don’t like it. There’s too much that could go
wrong.”
The
woman brushed a curl of blond hair away from her face. The
lines around her mouth deepened and for a moment she looked
every minute of her 54 years. There’s always too much
that could go wrong. It was the nature of the spy business.
After over thirty years, that was the one thing Nightingale
knew to be completely true.
“The
plan is perfect.” She said, staring straight ahead
as she negotiated streets she knew like the back of her
hand. Had Jacques built a sense of irony into Paris, Nightingale
wondered for a moment. She never thought she’d return
to this god-forsaken place, yet here she was, driving streets
she had hoped to one day forget.
There
was silence from the back seat. She glanced in the rear
view mirror again, her eyes quickly taking in the worried
set of the man’s mouth. He was staring out the window
at the passing buildings.
“I
know…” she began, but her voice trailed off. What
did she know? Jacques lying dead in his lab, blood on the
floor. She felt something in that moment, and it was the
closest she’d ever been to actually loving someone.
Had she ever loved like this man: almost to the point of
insanity? Did she want to?
“Mr.
O’Conner.”
He
turned toward the front of the car, his face once again
a mask.
“The
Russians have been working on a biological weapon that will
spread the ebola virus rapidly. The Council wants the plans
for this weapon.”
He
nodded, saying nothing. Millions of lives hung between them.
They both knew the Council didn’t want the weapon because
they planned to destroy it.
“Paris
will do this job for us. We’ve backed her into a corner
and she doesn’t even know it. And when she is done,
I will deliver Ms. Bradley to you in one piece. You can
return to your position at The Legacy and we can forget
we ever knew each other.”
“What
if she finds out?”
The
question hung in the air. She would disappear. Above all,
Paris wanted to live.
“Then
we let her go.”
“No.”
Nightingale
glanced in the mirror a third time. He was staring out the
window again, his face unreadable.
“We
must. Paris must be brought in alive. It is the only way
to safely extract the AI, the only way to keep Katrina alive.”
“No.”
he said again, his Irish accent getting stronger. “I
have had enough…she’s done enough.”
The
air hung heavy in the car as it cut through the dark night.
The cold was seeping into the compartment, and even though
she had the heater on high, it was impossible to escape
the chill of the Russian witer. Nightingale stared straight
ahead. After a long while, the man in the back seat spoke,
his voice strangled and gutteral.
“I
will kill her. I swear to God, I will kill her.”
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