The International Assassin A Sexy Times Crime Thriller (13 page)

I took out one of the many spare registration plates in the boot and affixed a set of German tags over the top of the current UK ones before returning to the car where despite the re-enactment of the
Somme
on the northbound carriageway Nick was still sleeping like a baby. For an espionage agent he had a remarkable lack of environmental awareness when sleeping. I suspect he had done military service and was too used to sleeping in war-zones to notice or our constant shagging had finally worn him out.

I quietly put the car in gear and drove off sedately to return to the southbound carriageway and departed the scene. Two of the patrol cars had now caught fire from the leaked petrol and oil of the motorbike and the late night motorway users were starting to stop and investigate. I drove steadily to the tollbooth as several more police cars drove south to investigate the devastation I had unleashed.

Arriving at the tollbooth I was pleased the roadblock had now been fully cleared as its participants all raced to the belated aid of their fallen comrades. I duly paid the toll fee with the proceeds of the petrol station heist and pulled away sedately when Nick finally woke up.

“Everything okay?” he asked sleepily rubbing his eyes.

“Everything’s fine. Motorways. Boring. You know,” I said innocently.

“Yeah,” he replied as more police sped past with their lights on. He looked behind to see what the fuss was about. “Wonder what that’s about.”

“Small accident a few miles back.”

“Drive carefully. You know what the French are like.”

Nick went back to sleep.

With the autoroute suddenly free of police I floored it and returned to my preferred cruising speed of one hundred and sixty miles per hour. Nick had originally suggested we stop en-route at a hotel to break the journey. At around six hundred and fifty miles to Geneva it was normally a ten hour drive but at one hundred and fifty miles per hour average it could be done in a little over four and the sat-nav indicated we had already passed the halfway point, since he was already fast asleep and in light of my nocturnal activities it seemed wise to push on and reach the neutrality of Switzerland as quickly as possible.

Only a couple of hours had passed before the Aston demanded feeding again with her pricy concoction of flammable breakfast. Despite having imbibed enough Red Bull to wake the dead I was feeling sleepy enough that I had nearly parked the two hundred thousand pound supercar in the crash barriers twenty minutes earlier having misjudged a corner whilst falling asleep at the wheel.  Stopping and letting Nick who was now fully awake take over seemed a good idea. 

“You made good progress,” he said checking the sat-nav in disbelief. “You been speeding?”

“Not much,” I replied innocently. “Traffic was light.”

We stopped at the petrol station and got out. Nick seemed happy to stretch his legs having been asleep for most of the last four hundred miles so he went to refuel the car while I paid a visit to the ladies room to wash and clean up.

I don’t know how long I was asleep on the toilet. I went in and clearly had just passed out through exhaustion but I awoke to the sound of gunfire. Realising there was probably only one person who would be the agent-provocateur of such confrontations I tried to pull myself together, dashing out the cubicle I splashed water on my face to wake myself up before pulling out the gun I still had in my jacket pocket. I pushed open the toilet door onto the forecourt carefully. 

Bullets were ricocheting around like fireworks. Next to the Aston with an MP5 stood Nick, surrounding him at the entrance to the petrol forecourt was a line of unmarked police cars with blue lights flashing, behind them several armed police were returning fire - half of whom were now stricken on the floor. With Nick suppressing the fire I quickly took aim at the closest threat and started picking them off accurately with my pistol. Having emptied my entire magazine I dashed for the cover of the Aston with Nick laying down a full automatic cover fire. I grabbed a spare magazine from the car and using the door for cover helped Nick finish off the stragglers.

“Get in!” he yelled at me as he made a dive for the driver’s seat.

I jumped in the passenger seat and pulled the door shut as he tore off the forecourt in a plume of wheel-spin and tyre-smoke.

“What the hell was all that about?” I asked him.

“I have no idea!” he replied turning around to check for pursuers.

“I came out the petrol station and they were all there. They started yelling at me to lie down on the floor…and well you can guess the rest!”

“Bloody French,” I said disparagingly. “They are very intolerant of tourism these days aren’t they?” Nick looked at me suspiciously. “Don’t look at me!” I replied innocently. “I was on the toilet.”

Nick frowned trying to work out exactly why the French police had decided to send their S.W.A.T team to attack him at six a.m on a Shell Station forecourt. I declined to inform him the obvious reason for this sudden intrusion into his early morning fuel stop. It seemed prudent to keep the nights activities to myself for the benefit of the continued harmony of our relationship.

“You do seem to cause a lot of trouble,” he said.

“I was on the toilet!” I protested.

“And you didn’t kill anyone in there?”

“Why would I kill someone in the toilet?”

“I don’t know,” replied Nick. “But if anyone could find a reason to kill someone in a toilet I think it would be you.”

“Really Nick. I’ve been as good as gold. I come out the toilet and you’ve started a
Waterloo
re-enactment and you want to pin this on me! You need to go to anger management.”

“Anger management?”

“You must have done something to upset them.”

“What could I have possibly done to upset them?”

“Maybe you were walking in a threatening manner. I don’t know they are French…they are easily scared.”

I shrugged my shoulders. 

“They are crazy,” said Nick shaking his head in disbelief.

“Too much cheese.”

“What?” said Nick with a confused frown.

“It’s eating too much cheese. You know how when you go to bed after eating cheese you get nightmares? It’s the fat. Interferes with your brain process. They eat too much cheese so they are all paranoid.”

Nick looked at me. I nodded at him in support of my thesis on cheese consumption causing madness in the French.

“You are the strangest girl.”

I kissed him on the cheek.

“I’m not the one who gets shot at for filling up with petrol.”

Nick made a continued speedy getaway and within the hour we finally approached the Swiss border. Nick pulled in to a lay-by to hide the guns back in the safe.

“I’m sure I brought more ammo than this,” he said.

“I had to throw some away,” I replied with a casual shrug.

“Why would you do that?”

“They’d gone off.”

“Bullets don’t go off.”

“Yes they do. They looked past their sell-by date. You can’t be too careful with these things.”

“We’ll have to find an arms dealer and get some more.”

“Make sure they aren’t short dated.”

We got back in the car, which just goes to show even the best espionage agents are no match for a woman’s ability to bend the truth. 

We managed to cross the border into Switzerland without drama. As driving holidays in France go my jaunt with Nick had so far certainly lived up to expectations. 

Chapter 11

NICK HAD
booked us a suite at the grandiose
Swissotel Metropole
overlooking Lake Geneva. We arrived just before lunch. After the long drive through France I was ready for a shower and a room service lunch. Nick opted to park the car himself rather than trust it to the valet which was probably prudent given the lethal cargo in the boot, although this meant we had to walk with our luggage the short distance to the main entrance which felt less dignified than rolling up to the red carpet in the Aston. Such sacrifices a girl has to make in the name of discretion when travelling with a spy. 

We approached the check in desk.

“Good Morning Sir. Welcome to Geneva. Checking in?” asked the receptionist.

“Yes. Mr. and Mrs. Salinger,” Nick replied handing over our passports.

Nick had managed to secure me a fake replacement passport within the time it had taken to get me out of Hackney. While I liked the idea of being Mrs. Salinger being married without the benefit of a lavish wedding felt much less agreeable.

“We have a lake view suite for you. Champagne is on ice in your room as per your instructions and lunch will be served to your room at one p.m,” the receptionist said as he passed the papers for Nick to sign.

Nick handed over a platinum credit card that was probably a fake and took money from some unsuspecting Sheikh’s offshore account before he passed the forms back to the receptionist who clicked his fingers for a porter to collect our luggage.

“Ralph will show you to your suite. Your butler is on call twenty-four hours a day. If you require anything else the concierge is at your service. Enjoy your stay at the Geneva Metropole,” the receptionist said handing us our keycards.

We followed the porter to the large classic suite. Nick tipped him and he left. I kicked off my shoes and collapsed on the bed thankful to be able to finally stretch out after fourteen hours in the car. Nick started prowling around the room looking behind pictures and under the bed.

“What are you looking for?” I asked. “The minibar is over there,” I said pointing at the ornate cabinet by the TV that obviously hid the cachet of alcoholic entertainment. Of course I knew he was sweeping the room for bugs and other such spy-ware. Satisfied our room was free of electronic surveillance he attacked the Champagne bottle and brought me a charged glass.

“Well Mister Salinger, this must be our honeymoon, although I don’t recall attending the wedding,” I said toasting his glass with mine.

“Ah that, it’s simpler. Less questions. Paperwork. I hate paperwork,” Nick replied.

“I don’t mind. I quite like being Mrs. Salinger,” I told him with a teasing smile pulling him down to me on the bed for an embracing kiss.

“You should get some rest. Busy night ahead,” he told me after we finished playing tonsil hockey with our tongues.

“Of course. There’s Roy to deal with,” I replied with annoyance, remembering our sojourn to Switzerland wasn’t entirely pleasure.

“I want to go over to the house, take a look around.”

“Do we have to? Can’t we just go and kick the door in tie him up and torture him with electricity?”

“We should check the place out first.”

“Okay boss.” I sighed with reluctant agreement. “I’m going to take a shower before lunch and you are going to join me and scrub my back.”

“Okay then,” he replied.

The lunch arrived at exactly one with the timing accuracy you would expect of the Swiss. We enjoyed it on the terrace overlooking the lake. Nick seemed pre-occupied.

“I would just love to know what you are thinking about,” I said as I delicately loaded a Ryvita with some Scotch salmon and salad. 

“I was just thinking if it wasn’t for the fact we were here to retrieve your trust fund from Roy, torture him horribly then kill him this would almost seem like a romantic holiday,” he replied.

“Well there is no reason why it can’t be. Combine pleasure with pleasure.” I smiled as I polished off the Ryvita with  a mouthful of Bollinger.

“I guess not.” Nick downed his Champagne with one gulp and looked out on the lake. “We should get a boat,” he mused.

“There is one at the house,” I told him.

“Where is it? The house?”

“South-west side of the lake. About seven kilometres from here.”

“Security?”

“Big fences, cameras, alarm system.”

“Dogs?”

“No dogs.”

“Good. I can’t deal with dogs.”

“So what’s the plan?”

“We go and plant some surveillance, make sure they are there and see what Roy is up to,” he said. Nick clearly noted my displeasure at the lack of affirmative action in parting Roy from his balls. “I know you want to just exact your revenge on him but that’s not going to get your money back is it?”

“It’ll make me feel better.”

“Patience…”

I finished lunch, took a shower and went to bed for the afternoon. While Nick wanted to be professional and do things by the book I had other ideas and plotted my assault on Roy’s domestic peace.

Nick woke me up around nine p.m since he didn’t want to go to the house until after dark. He was already dressed in some ninja black outfit in readiness for his skulking about. We left the hotel and collected the Aston from the car park. Nick didn’t know where we were going so I drove us down the west side of the lake to where Roy was holed up in my lakeside villa with that bitch Charlotte. As we arrived Nick instructed me to park up out of sight across the road.

“So what now?” I asked him.

“I’m going to plant some wire taps and you are going to stay in the car and keep an eye out,” he told me as he plugged in his radio earpiece.

“Bollocks to that!” I protested. “I’m not missing out on the fun.”

He passed me a radio earpiece.

“Stay here and keep a look out,” he reaffirmed.

As he got out the car I shot him a pouting sulk that had no effect. He retrieved his bag of tricks and a machine gun from the boot. There was no way I was going to miss out on the skulking about so I got out, walked around to him and played my ace card.

“You take me with you or we’re never having sex again,” I told him assertively.

“You need to stay in the car.”

“It’s my house!” I protested.

“Stay in the car,” He said, the firmness of which was quite sexually arousing.

“No,” I sulked.

“Stay in the car,” he repeated losing patience.

“No! I’m serious. I come or you don’t.”

Sexual blackmail, the oldest trick in the book. Nick shook his head and sighed.

“Are you going to behave yourself?” he asked.

“Within reason…” I told him.

Reluctantly he handed me a loaded MP5.