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“Well done, Cossack. That was a tricky shot. You judged the windspeed from the east perfectly.”
John Rider – Hunter, for the duration of his infiltration of Scorpia – checked his watch. They had at least half an hour to get clear of the area before the first police were likely to arrive on the scene. Being assigned a job in England had concerned him, but the chances of being recognised in a northern county he’d only visited twice before weren’t high.
Cossack – Yassen Gregorovich – had disassembled his rifle and packed it away in his rucksack even before John had chance to press send on the coded message on his burner phone confirming the successful completion of the hit.
He wasn’t going to shed any tears over being complicit in the death of a corrupt politician, and it appeared that Cossack was fast losing his inhibitions when it came to the final act.
Those few words of praise had brought a warm glow to the young man’s normally pale cheeks, made paler by the cold wind sweeping across the heather moor on Longridge Hill near Preston.
They left the area without incident, ditched their weapons off a bridge into the River Ribble and were soon making their way south on the M62 to catch an afternoon flight from Manchester airport bound for Madrid where their next job was already scheduled.
They travelled first class – Scorpia had deep pockets when it came to expenses, and John found that hiding in plain sight was often a good strategy. Their next hotel was luxurious, set in a quiet side street in the capital, remarkable mainly for the fact that it faced the Ministry of the Interior. The number of armed police at the end of the road were probably merited, but the armoured car was definitely overkill. It probably acted as a deterrent to muggers, though.
Their job was simply to perform an assessment and report back. The hit itself would almost certainly be carried out by a more disposable operative. So, for two days and nights, John and Yassen had to do nothing more than pose as rich lovers.
After a quick shower to wash off the sweat of travel, they strolled casually down to the hotel bar and accepted complimentary cocktails.
John lifted his glass in salute. “You did well today,” he said softly. “My report will reflect that.” They were the only guests in the bar, and the barman was otherwise engaged texting on his phone, so John felt able to speak freely, if he kept the conversation opaque to a casual observer.
Yassen allowed himself a slight smile. “Thank you, … John.” Using his given name clearly didn’t come easily, but appearances needed to be maintained.
The job itself was simple. They had to carry out a feasibility study for a possible assassination of the Spanish Interior Minister. Their room had an unobstructed view of several floors of the Ministry building and with a high-powered sniper rifle taking out the target would not be problematic, providing the killer had reliable advance intel. The problem would be getting away afterwards but providing a reasonably competent but ultimately disposable operative was used, the kill would be easily achievable.
John relaxed into the deep leather sofa resting his hand casually on Yassen’s thigh. The young man’s muscles twitched under his fingers but outwardly Yassen was perfectly relaxed.
Another couple walked in, hand in hand, and took the table next to them. Nods were exchanged.
Smiling warmly, John leaned in and pressed a light kiss to Yassen’s lips. “Have I ever told you how beautiful you are?”
Yassen blushed and his long eyelashes fluttered. He’d passed his seduction training, but his tutors had commented that he was not temperamentally suited to honeytrap work, despite his youth and good looks. Further training had been recommended. Rothman had insisted on their present legends as part of that training. John knew perfectly well the wretched woman had designs on him, and he was coming to the conclusion that she was also interested in Yassen. Threesomes were not John’s idea of a good time, especially not if the Black Widow was involved. Unless it proved to be absolutely unavoidable, he preferred not to cheat on Helen with women.
Men, however, were a different proposition, especially when it was necessary to combine business with pleasure. John was ever the pragmatist in such matters, and he hadn’t had sex for several months…
“Dinner or another drink?” he asked, rubbing small circles on the back of Yassen’s hand with his thumb.
“Another drink then dinner?”
John smiled with a lover’s indulgence. They rarely drank when in the field, other than the malt whisky he allowed himself after a kill, however all Scorpia operatives were trained how to handle the effects of alcohol and to precisely judge the degree of impairment associated with any particular drink and the amount consumed. Avoiding the shooting range and the combat arenas were wise during that sort of practice.
No doubt because of his Russian upbringing, Yassen had a phenomenal head for alcohol and could – quite literally – drink the rest of the Malagosto candidates under any table in the training school. Even Gordon Ross had been impressed, and the pair of them had spent a memorable evening drinking enough to knock out a charging bull elephant whole continuing to throw knives with terrifying accuracy. John had opted to watch from the safety of an upstairs window.
He signalled to the barman to bring over another round of cocktails. They fell into easy conversation with the couple at the next table for half an hour then found a restaurant two blocks away and ate an excellent meal of paella, accompanied by a bottle of red wine.
Yassen remained in character for the whole evening, responding to John’s casual touches, but responding even more to the less casual words of praise that John dropped into the conversation. Yassen Gregorovich was unused to receiving compliments. The instructors at Malagosto were more likely to dispense punishment than praise. In a school where death was the price of failure, no one expected to receive approbation. Which was fortunate, as they certainly didn’t get it.
Yassen’s file had made no mention of this character trait and for the sake of his pupil’s future safety, John would leave any mention of it out of his report. He would concentrate on Yassen’s ability to absorb the character he was playing and adapt to the circumstances he found himself in.
As they talked about imaginary holidays they’d been on together, John observed how Yassen blossomed under gentle compliments and soft touches, turning his hand in John’s, their fingers entwined on the pristine white tablecloth. John knew it would be all to easy to succumb to Yassen’s lithe grace, long eyelashes and ice blue eyes. Too long spent in deep cover with everything that mattered to him buried so deep it would need digging out with a mechanical excavator blurred any sense of right and wrong and he was undeniably tempted.
John had started this infiltration with a whole list of lines he wouldn’t cross. But there had been first one toe, then a whole foot, then a tentative step until finally he had strolled into hell without even a backward glance. And once in hell, there were plenty of distractions. But with Yassen, John found that he was fast approaching another line. He was starting to care about the boy – the young man – and in his job that was definitely a line that should not be crossed. Saving Yassen’s life in the jungle had been a spur of the moment decision. He’d taken the shot. Taken a life and saved a life with one bullet. And he hadn’t regretted his actions.
He wasn’t blind. Yassen had been abused for years and Scorpia had only added to that. The way Yassen reacted to even the merest hint of praise told its own story.
“Your scores on the range are unparalleled,” John murmured. To a casual observer they were talking about Yassen’s proficiency in competition shooting. Yassen positively glowed under John’s praise.
It would be too easy to take Yassen to his bed. To make this pretence a warm reality. To cement the young man’s hero worship with kind words and soft kisses. And John would enjoy every moment of it, taking his pleasure from the lithe, muscular body without the need for restraint.
A light touch on his hand brought him out of his thoughts. “John?”
John smiled. “Shall we go back to the hotel?”
They had a last drink the bar – two expensive malt whiskies – then returned to their room. While Yassen used the bathroom, John stood on the balcony looking across at the Ministry of the Interior, automatically noting how many windows were lit, which rooms still appeared to be occupied, filing everything away in his mind for their report, as he’d noted the details of the armed officers at either end of the quiet road that separated the hotel from the building opposite.
“The best prospect for avoiding capture would be the fire escape at the back of the building,” Yassen commented, moving noiselessly to stand next to him on the balcony.
“The operative would need to be exceptionally quick. The firing position will be all too obvious.”
“Why here?”
John shrugged. “That wasn’t included in the brief. Our job is just to perform an assessment. The Board will make the final decision.” He turned to Yassen and smiled. “You played your part well, tonight. Was it difficult?”
Yassen looked momentarily puzzled, as if searching his mind for any area in which he might have fallen short of expectations. Eventually, he settled for a simple, “No,” then added, “is there something I could have done better?”
“Mrs Rothman felt you would benefit from the opportunity to put your other training into practice. Do you have a sexual preference, Yassen?”
Blue eyes as unreadable as an icy pool held the merest hint of amusement. “Preferences are unwise in this line of work. You taught me that, John.”
John drew in a slow breath and made his decision. “What happens next, if anything, is entirely your decision. It will not affect any report I make.”
Yassen held his gaze unwaveringly. “As a teenager, I was raped in every conceivable manner for four years. In Moscow I sold my body for crusts of bread. In Malagosto, I passed my assignments with both women and men, although I understand I am unlikely to be recommended for honey trap missions.” He fell silent for a moment and then said, “I know how to have sex, but that is not enough. Will you teach me how to enjoy it?”
John exhaled slowly. The decision had been made. For tonight, he would be neither Hunter nor John Rider.
Tonight, he would be the lover Yassen needed and wanted.
The praise, when it came, was real. John took delight in the way Yassen abandoned his habitual reserve in the slow dance of awakening pleasure. Uncertainty gave way to confidence and when Yassen buried his face in John’s shoulder as he shuddered through his first climax, John tightened his arms around the young man and wished he could promise a different future than the one that awaited him with Scorpia.
But if wishes were horses, beggars would ride and if turnips were watches he’d wear one by his side.