An eastbound Gulfstream V crossed the French coastline on its way to Nice. The three passengers onboard huddled around a small conference table. Katya answered the plane's satellite phone in hopes of hearing the voice of one of the Royal Physicians.
“Yes.” She listened intently and wrote two phone numbers on the pad in front of her.
“Wonderful news, Sir Geoffrey. Thank you for this. I am indebted to you. How will I ever repay this favor?”
On the other end she heard her kind friend say, “Counting you and your late husband as close friends is recompense enough. Any debt you feel you owe me is cancelled.”
“I shall never forget this kindness.”
Katya got a wistful glow in her eye. Not yet forty-five she felt out of time and place. Sir Geoffrey’s gallantry was a rare commodity in an era obsessed with greed and self- promotion.
“May I presume Sir Geoffrey succeeded?” Edwin Pendleton put down his gold edged reading glasses.
“Indeed, Dr. Pendleton. He secured space for his patient, attended by you, at the Farnazzi Clinic. Here are the direct numbers for Farouk and his personal assistant. You are to call either one with anything you or your patient needs.” She passed the note pad across the table.
“Brilliant.” Edwin lifted his glass and took a sip.
“He also informed the clinic staff the patient will be watched twenty-four hours a day by her own private bodyguard. Her Majesty insists.” Katya stifled a chuckle. “I wonder if the Queen knows my bodyguard is a refugee from criminal charges in Argentina.”
“Me?” Jorge Aguierra pointed at himself and said, “I am much more than a bodyguard and far from a refugee.”
“Indeed you are.” Edwin gave his young friend a sparkling smile and a pat on the back.
“Correct.” Jorge grinned as he lifted his own glass and touched it to Edwin’s and Katya’s. “Here’s to a successful mission.”
“Here, here.”
“Now that we’re in, so to speak, what is our plan?” Edwin fiddled with his reading glasses as he spoke.
“Simple. We confirm Joey Beretta’s location, wait until the night shift comes on, and we take her.”
“Simple?” Jorge asked with a skeptical wrinkle of his brow.
“Yes. Oh, did I mention we shoot anyone who interferes?” Katya pulled a nickel plated dart gun out of her travel bag. “We shoot them with these.”
“Sounds like a plan.” Jorge looked pleased. Edwin did not.
“Ten darts per clip. They’re quiet, fast acting, and leave fewer souls on our already burdened consciences.”
Edwin preferred sedation over bloodshed and perked up a little on the positive news, but Jorge's brain raced ahead.
“What about big game?”
“Farouk is mine.” Katya reached back in her bag and extracted a 9mm automatic with a noise suppressor.
“Nice. That should handle him.”
“Yes, it should.” Katya and Jorge high fived one another to Edward's dismay.
Katya despised Farnazzi as much as she hated Serge. She spent the last two of her teenaged years getting clean of the junk the good doctor had pumped into her veins, but still, she wasn’t a cold-blooded killer. However, on behalf of herself and his other victims, she was quite willing to make an exception.
Katya pulled up an architectural scheme of the clinic on her computer screen and pointed to the half dozen suites on the fourth floor.
“We’re supposed to be accommodated in one of the clinic’s best and most private areas. The VIP level seems like the perfect place to sequester someone so I’m hoping they have Joey Beretta in one of the suites. If so, our job will be a hell of a lot easier.”
“Let's hope. We’re acting on unreliable information and a hunch. Mrs. Beretta may not be on the property at all. Then what?” Edwin always stayed grounded in reality.
“I’d prefer to consider the intel an educated guess, Edwin. If not I suppose you'll run me through detox and perhaps do a little something with my chin." Katya smiled at Edwin who always took a minute to catch on to a joke.
“Then I hope we're right for your sake as well.” Jorge laughed aloud and toasted his colleagues.
“To success.”
On the clinic grounds Tommy nestled in his perch, and settled on a course of action. The idea of taking Joey Beretta back and holding her for ransom tempted him, but, as he would be working alone and with few resources, his chances of success were slim to none. No, Tommy the GraveRobber resolved to get the hell off the clinic’s grounds as soon as the sun set, hole up somewhere for the day, and storm Serge Malroff’s villa the next night. He’d plunder the place for anything of value, then shoot the sonofabitch and hope to escape in one piece. The former gunney sergeant leaned back against the tree and closed his eyes. In a couple of hours he’d be off this property and on a collision course with Serge. All of his precise planning, hard work and high hopes had come down to nothing more than a glorified home invasion. At best he'd pick up some goodies and kill Serge. Worst case: Tommy dies.
What the fuck? The goon squad killed his girlfriend, he’d been cheated out of millions and to make matters worse, Malroff’s stooges had been planning to murder him all along. Count on it, Serge, if I only get one shot I won’t miss.
Back in his studio apartment Frank poured another drink and lit his fifth cigarette in ten years. Bad habit or not he began to remember how much he once enjoyed smoking. Considering the results of his last checkup quitting hadn't proved worthwhile. Neither were regrets and Frank already made his position of them clear. He sipped his vodka and blew smoke rings at the ceiling. Now everything came down to waiting.
62.