For all disclaimers: Graphic violence occurs in this part. Apart from that, see previous parts.
All Reviews welcomed.
The Last Day
Chaos is control.
-Jason Bourne
Paris, 2002
A long time ago, the streets of Paris were described as holding a mobile feast of people, moving every which way doing anything and everything imaginable. The number of people has since increased, dramatically, to the point that the feast could now feed the horde of people a city contains, well-warmed and half-cooked by a brilliant summer sun shining down from a Paris summer sky free from the shade of clouds. The city was always alive, bustling with life, energy, possibility and imagination-he honestly wasn't sure about its reputation for romance. Of course, that last part was nowhere in his job description, so why would he be worried? Why should he worry?
He liked to think of what he saw these days as being more of a puzzle than anything, how the people or person in question had got where they were, why they were going to their destination and what their ultimate purpose was. Everyone had something they had to do before they died, the trick was to realise it. He, of course, had had it realised for him a long time ago now...
David Webb strolled along the main road as the summer sun shone down on his head and shoulders, warming his forearms as they were exposed by his light blue t-shirt. His dark blue well-worn jeans and white sneakers completed the off-duty clothes he'd chosen for today, no hat blocking the warmth of the sun on his ash-blonde hair, grey eyes gleaming sharp in a gently handsome face. He looked about as average and normal as could be imagined, even with his clothes displaying well developed and compact, hard muscle, which was the point.
His real name, he supposed, was Jason Bourne. He was here to meet a man because he didn't have days off, just interludes when he wasn't busy at that moment. "Here" was the Green Leaf outdoor Café, perfect and scenic surrounded by plants, ferns and trees with a broad mixture of greens, reds and yellows colouring them like small rainbows wherever you looked. Chairs, tables, benches and even picnic mats were laid out everywhere that he could see as he approached, the expensive-looking café being almost full of people. Perfect, there was no better cover than people if you were careful.
He glanced at his watch as he strode in through the entrance, his stride somewhere between a distance-eating soldiers march and a panthers loping agility moving at speed, took in the time and glanced up, looked around himself carefully. Ten minutes early, nobody around who shouldn't have been. That was what he needed to know. He even had time for a drink.
He let himself wander through the café until he came across a member of staff, one dressed in the soft green short-sleeved shirt and light trouser uniform of the place, then paused to order a Cappuccino using fluent French so perfect even what was left of his original American accent didn't give him away. The Waiter smiled brightly, made a note and moved away. He kept moving, just enjoying the ever-so-slight breeze playing across his face, the sun warming his skin, pleasures he didn't so much get to enjoy as experience for a period of time now and again-
Then he saw her. His train of thought derailed and vanished without trace as his eyes opened so wide he thought he was going to fall over even as he leant towards her, trying to take in the vision he was staring at in one go even as his imagination failed, in utter shock.
Dark gold-flecked mahogany-brown eyes of a liquid nature that was more than mesmerising at a glance, shaded by impossibly perfect long, elegant eyebrows, eyes which drew in and kept the eye and the attention for far longer than they should have as an invitation almost bled into the mind. Very dark mahogany brown hair falling in a silken-smooth wave over and about her back, chest and shoulders down to her waist, all carrying a remarkable lustre which he knew made it even more fabulously perfect to the touch. Darkly devastating, with delicious tawny skin, long, lean body, full, firm curves and an almost disturbingly delicious beauty created from flawless old Roman blood. All filled out by a firm-formed physique forged of muscle, superb bone structure and the sort of physical allure fantasies were constructed of. Framed by a pale white shirt, sharp black shoes and sky-blue dress, clothes which only served to enhance the striking natural grace and elegance she displayed even sitting still.
She was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, could ever hope to see, could never hope to imagine. She spoke quietly, apparently translating something in her book aloud, so he heard her voice. A voice that matched her nature, sensual and sweet as finest honey dipped in liquid pleasure for added effect on anyone who heard her...
She was as beautiful and as sexual a creature as the Sin of Lust itself could ever have constructed. She was temptation in the same way water was tempting to those dying of thirst in the middle of a desert. She was every possibility of any impossible dream he'd ever had rolled into one. She was the kind of beautiful which made him want to see if she was real before he said or did anything...
He abruptly realised that she was smiling, very slightly, those full, perfect red lips shifting very little, but enough. He also realised he had been standing still, just staring at her, with his jaw on his chest for a minute at least now. She was smiling at him, out of everyone in the café who was trying, or even openly just staring, to get a good look at her...
He almost shook his head to clear his mind, very aware suddenly he'd been sandbagged by just a glance at a woman he'd never seen before. That was ridiculous, no matter how beautiful she was-he tried and failed to ignore the part of him that told him his reasoning was hopelessly flawed even as he drank in the vision in front of him, just looking at the woman having the effect of cutting intelligent thought right out of his mind. He barely even realised he was walking over to her before he was abruptly so close he could have knelt down and felt her breath on his face. This was crazy, he didn't respond to women like this, hadn't since-well, 95'?
She was sitting in a wooden high-backed chair softened with cushions, a glass of orange juice on a table in front of her sitting still in the sun. The brilliant sunlight being cast down from the cloudless sky above highlighted every plane of her flawless face, illuminated every corner of her body. He didn't need to guess at what the clothes she was wearing "concealed", they fit her close enough that darker areas filled in the gaps very well indeed. The book she was reading was titled "Hero In The Shadows", by an author called David Gemmell, someone he'd never heard of-why was he doing anything at all rather than talk to her?
"Will you sit down, silly man? I don't bite, in public, am in a public place and would not mind a little company, you know?" said the woman, glancing up at him with a raised eyebrow, strong Italian accent almost flowing from her lips. Feeling sheepish, he sat down-then thought to extend his hand to shake hers.
"David Webb" he said, not sure what response he'd get to his introduction-if he actually got one-but a hand met his and shook firmly, backed with surprising strength as he felt steel-cable muscle ripple in her hand and arm. That let him know there was more to her than met the eye, for certain.
"Monica Messolina, pleased to meet you David Webb. Excuse my distraction, but I am awaiting a companion and this book is quite delicious. However, I will not be impolite" said Monica, marking her place and putting the book down on the table even as Webb's Cappuccino arrived.
"Before you ask, I am a Lawyer professionally, so please think carefully before saying anything you might regret later, unless you intend to make sure I have good enough reason to forget it. Also, yes, I am Roman. You are American, yes? A weak accent, but I have good ears" said Monica, taking a sip of her orange juice.
Better than good, Webb thought, keeping his thoughts off his face and out of his eyes. He'd fooled experts with his language skills before now, yet she'd made him in seconds with a very brief conversation to analyse. That was dangerous. He would have to be very careful here.
"Yes, but I've been gone for a long time. I travel a lot, meet a lot of people, keep busy. I don't really have a profession, but you could consider me a roving salesman for any product you want to think of, just what I do. Right now I'm meeting a client here, a pleasant coincidence don't you think? Can I ask why you aren't drinking a Cappuccino, by the way? I thought Italians lived on them, no offence" asked Webb.
"After this, we go back to my place. I cook you Linguini and make you a real Cappuccino, you'll know the difference. Paris may be the city of romance, but Rome is the city of stories and I learnt how to make good food and drink from people who have practised for generations. The French don't know the difference except for bread, cheese and wine. If you want a proper meal ask an Italian woman. What? Am I being too forwards with you?" asked Monica with a smirk as Webb's eyes widened again.
"No, just very direct. Can I return the favour? If you make me fresh Linguini, I'll feel obliged to eat it all and enjoy every bite, so you'd better make plenty. I'm sure you can fit in Cappuccinos for the two of us at some point" replied Webb, with a grin. From the look in her eyes that lit up that fabulous face, illuminating brilliantly yet again just how beautiful she was, Monica Messolina hadn't missed the hint about what he was really talking about-nor did she mind the suggestion. Webb felt his pulse quicken, then she whipped out a notebook and pen before writing down a number and a name-her mobile number and hotel name and number, he suspected-before ripping off the used page and handing it to him.
"Do not loose this, David Webb, I will be expecting you soon. Is that yours?" asked Monica, staring over his shoulder at something coming towards them. Webb turned and spotted a balding man with greying black hair in his late forties, overweight, thick-set and slow with horn-rim thick silver glasses, sweat-soaked pale cream shorts and t-shirt atop poor-quality brown sandals making him stand out a mile. He was carrying a good quality dark-brown leather briefcase with a very solid-looking golden lock-but what really caught Webb's eye was the tiny red rose tattoo beneath the mans left ear. That identified his Contact, according to the briefing he'd already received.
Stephan Consuelos, American of Greek extraction, Project: Treadstone Paris Section Head, former CIA now active in some grey area of intelligence work under the blanket of the NSA umbrella. He'd said no one would look at him twice when he met Bourne, but Jesus... Well, that was that. He made a point of securing Monica's contact number and address in a pocket even as he turned back towards her.
"Afraid so, I have to go. See you soon" he said, to a look of some slight disappointment on that perfect face as he stood up and walked over to Stephan...
Stephan was a long-time professional intelligence Agent, he didn't waste time he didn't have and always made his point quickly. He and Webb barely glanced at each other before Stephan nodded, clearly identifying his Agent, walked over to one of the taller trees and leaned against it as though he was here to enjoy himself and the climate. In reality, Webb knew, Stephan hated extremes of temperature and sunlight because his soft body and excessive appetite for good food from all over the world often made him sick as a dog if he stayed in the sun for too long. He was only standing under the tree because it provided some shade. After this, he'd be back in his air-conditioned office and attacking whatever delicacy he'd managed to gather up today with gusto.
Thoughts of food lead him straight back to a woman sitting less than twenty feet away, whose eyes he could still feel lingering on his body. He cleared his mind with an effort of will, now was really not the time to be entertaining distracting thoughts of that kind.
"David, we have little time so listen closely. I appreciate this is unusual, but all of the details are held in my briefcase as well as mission outline and case briefing, which I can't go into here. You will, of course, memorise them before destroying them" began Stephan, making sure he was almost facing towards the tree to ensure that lip reading would be impossible, or as near as he could get to it.
"To be clear, ESCHELON has picked up communications chatter coming out of Berlin and London concerning a man the Company has wanted dealt with for some time. A minor miracle of sorts, given he travels closed-file and never leaves a paper trail, but this time someone made the mistake of a telephone call using a Code the NSA cracked not that long ago at all, so nobody knows about it. When resolved, the Code revealed a partial travel destination inventory, which gave us enough to put markers on the suspected route. Long story short, he tripped two of them and the second one was on the way in here. We know where he is, were sending you to deal with it. The rest is in the paperwork. Questions?" asked Stephan.
"Just one. Does anyone else even possibly know about this? I work best when I have opponents as opposed to rivals" replied Webb, looking Stephan straight in the eye. Stephan just shook his head.
"Nobody, this is a hot-off-the-wire less than twenty-four hour intercept. For anyone else to know they'd have to have an Agent in his company or risk blowing a very senior asset at the NSA and believe me, its been tried. It failed. Do what you have to do and good luck" said Stephan, before handing over the briefcase, turning and almost waddling off at some speed without saying goodbye-again.
Webb sighed, back to work as usual. As he began to walk away, he thought of Monica again, looked back to get one last good look at that fantasy figure of a woman-and almost paused, confused. A man had appeared from nowhere and sat down in the seat across from her, a man who was holding what looked like a very ornate cross in his left hand which seemed to be holding her attention like a gun in the face would. He was speaking to her, but her face was blank and her eyes almost mirrored, nothing like he'd have expected to see based on just his few stolen moments with her. She'd been as full of life and possibility as anyone he'd ever met, which was saying something. Just what was the man saying to her that was hitting her like that?
He didn't wait to find out. He was a professional, too.
Y
Six hours later he'd read through the documentation, memorised what he needed, shredded everything and tossed the remains in the hotel incinerator after an unseen trip there and back. The case he'd cleaned to remove any evidence and would leave behind when he checked out. No need for any extras.
He reviewed the targets details. Josef Illyich Kukarin, sixty-seven years old, ex-KGB now international Arms Dealer, Drug Smuggler, Racketeer-and Killing Merchant, a cheap way of saying he set up contact between injured parties and the required hired help to permanently remove whatever problem had arisen, could or might be caused. The first three problems the Company could handle and even manipulate if needed, the last problem was very much another matter. People like Josef, who had contacts going back to the old USSR before the fall, could and often did have links with old-school professionals out of KGB Assassination Squads and Spetsnaz killer elites who were out of work with their former masters long gone. These were all very highly trained, very well disciplined, very efficient killing machines who would take any job which paid them enough money to live the way they wanted to.
The people of the world who could afford their rates tended to be the billionaires of industry and politics, a large number of who lived in America. With people like Josef as the middle man expressions like making a killing in the Boardroom took on literal and very bloody meaning, not to mention small but important acts like the CEO's of rival companies suddenly withdrawing hostile bids or retracting derogatory comments when an inexplicable automobile accident hospitalised the Wife and children. That, though, was just in America.
Far less than fussy about clients as long as the money was good, ex-Soviet soldiers, intelligence Agents and other personnel had turned up in Iraq, Afghanistan, the War Zone that the Middle East really was these days and in just about every significant trouble spot around the world. Every time they'd been fighting against American, UN or NATO forces, more often than not they'd also been training guerrillas and terrorists in Special Forces and Intelligence War skills.
Captured Mercenaries and Agents had all seemed to have at least heard of Josef Illyich Kukarin, which meant he was very quickly on the CIA's "Talk to" list, where conversations could often be painful in the extreme for the whole long time they lasted. What had gotten him put on the "Black Book" lists, an Assassination List with TEP marked in large red letters on every file included in a List which did not officially or unofficially exist, was what had happened in Camp Pendleton in Afghanistan mere weeks earlier.
The local CIA Chief had had his head blown off from half a mile away by an assassin using a very specialised Snipers Rifle while he was out on his morning run around the inside of the perimeter fence. The same day, a twelve-Agent CIA team sent to capture or kill a suspected influential Taliban fighter with links to Al'Quaeda had been ambushed and effectively wiped out-two Agents had disappeared without trace. Not long afterwards at all, the same Taliban fighter the Agents had been after had been captured by a Navy SEAL snatch and steal team who had put him on plane to Guantanamo Bay the same day. A month later, he'd finally cracked and one of the first names he'd given up was Josef's.
It hadn't been hard after that to work out that not only was Josef Illyich Kukarin supplying terrorists with weapons and equipment, he was also supplying experienced personnel to train and even lead parts of the groups in question. CIA Analysts had run down all the information they had and come to the conclusion that Josef was doing everything he could to hurt the USA, specifically the CIA, to achieve what little revenge he could hope to with what little time he had left to live. Incredibly embittered by the fall of the USSR in battle with the USA, at least as he saw it, he had tried and failed to move on and was, now an old man, doing what he could to remind everyone that he and his ex-Communist kind had once been a force to be reckoned with.
If Webb had cared at all, he would have found it sad. Stupid, almost pathetic old man raging against the course of history itself, making such feeble efforts to damage the cause of something so much bigger than him and what he could imagine that he was unlikely to ever even realise just how hopeless his cause was. Always had been, if all the cards were down on the table. The only real threat the USSR had ever presented was in Military strength due to its incompetent, disorganised Government and chaotic economy at the best of times. Then the disastrous War in Afghanistan had removed even that threat in real terms. If the massive nation hadn't had nukes and seven million men under arms, not to mention a viciously effective intelligence organisation in the KGB, it would have been just a bigger North Korea.
Webb studied the picture of the old man, black and white on a computer screen, a snapped shot taken five months ago when the CIA had briefly managed to track down Josef, who was exceptionally careful to conceal and distort even his means of transport, let alone the when and the where. Buzz-cut grey hair cut right down to the scalp outlined a large head, big grey spectacles adorned a wrinkled thin face with sharp eyes and thin lips. Josef was naturally thin, tall and bony and probably an athlete in his youth, but now he just looked very, very old-and ill.
In fact, although it couldn't be confirmed, in all likelihood Josef was ill. Seriously ill, since he had been linked with several very highly skilled Doctors who were not easy to reach in Europe and Asia, all of who had tended towards dealing with life-threatening illnesses. Again, an Analysts note added detail based on all available information: most likely, Josef Illyich Kukarin had Brain Cancer which was literally taking his mind away from him a piece at a time, and it was this which had driven him to such extreme actions against the CIA and US forces as long-suppressed rage exploded out of the old mans decaying mind into the world he lived in.
The Analysts could keep the basic Psychological analysis, it was utterly irrelevant to Webb beyond what it told him about Josef's state of mind and likely actions and reactions to any given situation. What the information he had gave him were certain useful facts: Josef would have an arsenal immediately available wherever his Safe House in Paris was, men like him always did. He would as likely make irrational as rational decisions given his damaged and decaying psychological state. Extreme Paranoia was a given, especially with the KGB background added in. His Bodyguards would be well-paid professionals who would be armed with top of the range weapons coming from a man like Josef, men who would likely number from four to six in total.
There was more, plenty more, but he'd made out his mental checklist and had the vital points circled in red in his minds eye. No mission had room for errors or mistakes, this even less than most since if he was somehow taken alive there was no telling what Josef would do or have done to him. But that was why he didn't make any, it was why Project: Treadstone had been reactivated in the first place. People said the CIA had Agents who did its dirty work especially-and they were right. But that missed out people like him, the one's who passed by the ghosts without a whisper and never left the shadows to get the job done.
The Projects whole reason for and purpose in existing was to permanently deal with and remove, by whatever means necessary, as finally as possible, any threat or threats at all to CIA and US interests, in that order, he understood that. He was good at that. The best, even, or so all his trainers and evaluations had said-even Conklin himself.
If he could just remember his real name, maybe he could have convinced himself it was all worthwhile rather than just ultimately necessary. He wasn't "David Webb" any more than he was "Jason Bourne", not really, but Morris Panov had done too good a job on his mind and he began to feel nauseous, even threw up sometimes, whenever he tried to think back to who and what he'd been before the Project. The fact was he'd been left shivering, shaking and so nauseous he couldn't eat, move or talk for over an hour after his one serious attempt to break through the Conditioning and Behavioural Modification he'd been subjected to, an effort nobody but nobody bar him knew about. He hadn't tried again since, it was better that way.
He'd been assigned the name "David Webb" and told this was his off-duty name now, while Jason Bourne was the man he really was. Who was he to argue? Whatever they'd done, whatever they'd turned him into to make him who and what he was, it had worked. Why argue with success?
The existence of people like Josef Illyich Kukarin was the reason for his existence. This was what he did. It was time to get to work.
He'd checked out all three of the possible hotels Josef could stay at given what had been intercepted about his travel details and itinerary. All of them were five-star, elegant and richly appointed abodes of the kind only the very rich or those who were never seen or heard stayed in with guaranteed good security and very discreet staff. Josef could have gone to any of them and, since he couldn't be in three places at once, he'd worked out a plan. For a few Francs, quite a few Francs, it was amazing how a word in the right ear could get you the attention of the relevant people. A man in every hotel who would be in the right place at the right time had made certain promises in return for a certain amount of hard cash and no questions, people he was certain were reliable. Once he knew for sure, he could move. Now, all he had to do was wait-and prepare.
Out of interest, he pulled out the piece of paper Monica Messolina had given him and checked out on his Laptop where her hotel actually was. When he did, he couldn't help but feel a slight sense of surprise. She was actually closer to all three of his target hotels than he was in his Paris apartment. He could hardly stash his gear and weaponry somewhere nearby while he paid a social visit, though-or could he? Nicky would be keeping tabs on him, of course, but he could work around that. The fact was, Josef wasn't due to arrive at his destination until midnight at the earliest, which gave him almost six hours to kill.
Could he do this? He couldn't possibly compromise the mission, but he was hardly going to be left incapable after just few hours of passion with a woman, even one like Monica, surely? Besides, if he wanted to relax before the mission, what better way to do it? This would be less physically and mentally stressful than even just a workout on his personal fitness equipment or a run around the streets to clear his mind and let him focus.
Enough. No more excuses or putting it off. The fact was, his job was to eliminate Josef and his Bodyguards, along with any inconvenient Witnesses. Then, rip out the Hard Drive of Josef's computer and get it back to Nicky, his Handler, who would get it back to Treadstone HQ and then the CIA proper who would break through Josef's encryptions, passwords and safeguards before utilising all of the information contained as they saw fit. With all of that clear added to the Intel he had, all he needed was a time and a place. He could do this, no question.
First things first, though. He needed to know he was dealing with, for certain, before he did anything else. She'd mentioned she was a Lawyer, he knew she was Italian, so he'd start there.
Thirty minutes later, despite some unexpected developments, particularly just who and what her father was, he was sure she was clean. It was never, ever "safe" for him to relax, as such, but he could fall into the arms of a willing woman very happily and just enjoy himself. Now was the time, in any case.
So thinking, he picked up his "Webb" Mobile and called the number she'd left him. It rang once, then she answered in Italian.
"Sorry, I don't speak Italian, but I'm sure we have plenty to talk about anyway. This is David Webb. You gave me your number in-?" he began, but she cut him off.
"The Green Leaf café, I remember. So, David, if I can call you that, I presume this is you taking me up on my invitation to try my Linguini?" Monica replied, her voice a sultry purr in his ear, a sound which made the short hairs on his neck stand on end. A few choice fantasies flashed past his minds eye, but he forced them all out of his head after a very short seconds thought. After all, how likely was it a woman he'd never met before was looking for more than a roll in the hay with some good looking young man she didn't know, probably just for the excitement? Not very likely, at all.
"Yes, yes I am and you can, call me David that is, if your invitation is still open?" he replied, trying and almost failing to keep his voice under control. If he was like this just talking to her, what was he going to be like around her physically? He wanted to find out.
"I'm a woman of my word, David, trust me on that. I hope to see you in ten minutes, my door will be open, no one will ask questions. You, by the way, can call me Monica" she said, before adding something in Italian that he grasped enough of the gist of it made him blush. That was practically a first, all by itself...
"I'll be there" he managed to say, then hung up as tinkling laughter, delicious as her remarkable voice, came at him down the line. This, was going to be interesting.
Y
When he got to the hotel he first noticed its size. A full ten floors, opulent but not millionaire-scale expensive, lots of windows, big double entrance doors with two Doormen in hotel uniforms who probably doubled as Security Guards, lots of people visible. A restaurant sat towards the back right of the building, where people were having dinner, drinking wine and even singing on stage as a professional band cheerfully ignored the customers lack of talent and played good music throughout. It looked like a place where the very well off but not "Rich" stayed, which made it very obvious that Monica wasn't short of money.
A quick question and answer with the desk clerk let him know her room was on the ninth floor, so he thanked the man and got into the elevator, deciding to save his strength. He made a point as the elevator rose of setting his watch alarm and checking that his Mobile was turned on, then double-checked to be sure. You could over-think a plan of action and even get yourself killed if you acted with or without thought at the wrong time, but once you had a plan the key was to stick to it and deal with the situation as it presented itself within the confines of that plan.
If you ever had to tear everything up and start over or even wing it in the beginning, middle or end of an mission, you were almost certainly dead. Improvisation was one thing, inspired lunacy was another altogether. James Bond would only ever be a film hero for that reason.
Nine times out of ten every professional knew that doing whatever "felt right" at the time, going with "instincts", would leave you dead, gone and lost before you ever knew what had hit you. Instincts were good for keeping you alive and letting you know when someone else was near who shouldn't be, they could sometimes be vital in letting you know if you were right or wrong, but to let them rule your reason was fatal. The mind put together the mission, the body carried it out, anything outside of those two was surplus to requirements and therefore condemned as pointless.
The elevator reached the ninth floor and opened with a ding to signal the fact. He took a deep breath, stepped out and, spotting Monica's room number quickly, walked slowly but steadily towards it...
He walked up to the door, noticed it wasn't completely shut, as promised, pushed it open without knocking and walked inside, closing it behind him with a firm click. It was a large main room with tables, chairs and sofas, a big T.V. with DVD and video players attached and an impressive sound system with wall-mounted speakers.
A Bar was set off to the left, a big flat-top proper wooden effort with shelves of wines and beers behind it as well as a chiller containing more. To his right immediately was a door leading to what was obviously a bathroom, while beyond that was a closed door which had to lead to a bedroom. He could feel a damp heat in the air, which told him that the shower had been used very recently.
However, he couldn't see or tell any more than that easily since the room was in darkness, even with the curtains open, the fader transparent blinds being pulled across to make the outside view blurry at best. Night was falling quickly, as it tended to in the big cities, which only meant that the real day was going to be starting soon for the younger people out to enjoy themselves-and the crazies, like him. The best he could tell from the dimming sunlight was that dark clouds were rolling in, gathering around and about everywhere, growing more threatening every time he looked at a different patch of sky. There was a storm coming in, a big one...
"Paris is supposed to be the most romantic city in the world, David, or so I'm told. Great city, remarkable places to see and go to like the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, Notre Dame, the Catacombs if you don't mind old death...? Personally, I think its all wasted on people like us" said Monica, speaking from one of the chairs facing the windows suddenly, actually managing to startle him.
Avoiding his notice, that was no minor trick. He could walk into a room full of people and give a description of every one in photofit detail if he had to, sometimes had, he recognised and remembered people and places like most remembered the most unforgettable day of their lives every time, for reasons good and bad. He hadn't even been sure she was in the room...
She stood up and faced the window, long hair down loose and fresh-washed spread over a black gown that reached down to her knees, up to the edge of her neck. He didn't need to guess to know that she was wearing precisely nothing underneath it and was probably still slick with damp from her recent shower. That body in his arms, smooth, sensual and slick as a wash of water still warm from the tap...his mouth watered.
"People like me, like you? We live in the moment, we own ourselves inside and out, we do what we want when we want, take what we want, live hard and fast, die young laughing and bleeding as the chances we took catch up with us. History is for those who want to live or make it, I want the here and now" said Monica, before turning to face him for the first time. Her gown wasn't belted tightly at the front, the dark valleys and edges of curves it revealed promised any, every Earthly delight...
"How about you?" she asked, looking him in the eyes. His response was less than verbal as he almost charged across the room, lifting her clean off of her feet as he pinned her against the windows, lips locked together like molten metal being welded to his and poured down his throat, fingernails like claws tearing at his clothes as sharp teeth nipped at his tongue and lips. Her legs wrapped around his waist and back with the kind of physical strength that made it very clear to him she was far stronger than she looked as he felt his ribs creak, but so was he, proved as he literally tore away one shoulder of her gown, frustrated with even the loose knot not really holding her gown on her. He wanted her, all of her, now...
Y
In the event, he was wrong on two counts. Monica Messolina, he discovered with remarkable speed and no small sense of delight, wasn't like anyone else he'd ever known in bed or in person. Someone, something far beyond insatiable, a creature of pure lust and possibilities beyond imagination, she had such an extensive inventory of ideas and acts she wanted to try out, with him and on him, that he was more than half convinced she would literally break him more than once.
He wrenched parts of his body he hadn't even known how to really use before, pushed every muscle he had to its ultimate extreme, discovered that his stamina most certainly was not exceptional-at least compared to hers-and learnt all about every single one of his physical limits in more detail than he could easily take in. They tore the sheets of her bed to pieces, smashed and cracked furniture, almost brought the curtain rail down on both their heads and came close to drowning in a full-blast shower as they held one another under. They put on loud music to cover the screams and, he suspected, ruined all of the carpets...
By remarkable timing, just as they paused for a minute or two to catch their breath, his watch alarm went off. He was, at that moment, washing Monica's hair as they both stood under the shower, standing so close together that the soap and water pressed into both their bodies as they leaned into each other as closely as they could. With an unfettered view and very, very extensive first-hand experience of just what she looked and felt like, intimately, every single one of his fantasies and deepest, most perverted desires were no longer enough. Fantasy? Dream? Goddess? Possibility of only a Writer or an Artists mind? None of these were enough to describe her, none of them went far enough or said anything close to the truth of the woman. Monica Messolina was as unique in possibility and existence as a star in the sky flaring bright and alive for a second before you missed her forever. Truly one of a kind...
As her body twined itself tighter and ever tighter around his, he couldn't help but notice she was giggling like a schoolgirl. Somehow, the sound made him think of things that, even now, he really knew he shouldn't. He wouldn't survive a night with her if he did, he didn't believe that he'd be able to keep up.
He'd been wrong about two things. The first was that just a few hours with a beautiful woman wouldn't leave him exhausted-he already felt shattered, although he had no doubt he could still get the job done. The second was that she'd been looking for just a quick fling with a handsome young man.
In reality, he was sure she had been, but just the physical damage they'd inflicted on their surroundings, what they'd done to each other, the supernova "spark" that had left them clawing at each other as though there was no longer any such thing as too much? The way she was tight against him now, so close that water couldn't get between them, the silken threads of her hair drifting across his shoulders, neck, face and chest, curling around both hands as he delicately washed her hair? What she was doing with her hands and legs? She no longer wanted him to leave.
As he registered the sound of his watch alarm going off, he abruptly noticed his Mobile ringing. For maybe the first time in his professional life he paused, for a moment-then he cursed, shoved open the shower and sprinted for the phone, Monica's grab at his arm slipping off of a combination of soap and water. She snapped out something in Italian which didn't sound pleasant, but he still couldn't understand her so let it pass him by.
"Webb" he barked into the phone, knowing what the call would be about and not wanting to waste time. Fortunately, the person he was talking to didn't either.
"This is Pierre Monat, monsieur Webb, the man you were looking for has just arrived at the Rista Hotel and his baggage is being unloaded as we speak. Three cars, one with him, a driver and two men I presume are Bodyguards, the other two with four men in each, all of who I judge as ex-Military. His men are advancing through the entire building step by step ahead of him and miss nothing, even staff are being forced clear of him in case. If you still want to talk to him, I would suggest you get here before he settles in or you are more likely to be having a conversation with a gun barrel. Is there anything more?" asked Pierre.
"Just one thing, thanks Pierre. Can you give me his room number?" replied Webb, trying to sound as neutrally interested as possible.
"Of course. Room 620, the Penthouse. The cheque is in the mail then, I presume, monsieur?" replied Pierre, his voice making him sound extremely self-satisfied. Of course, he had good reason to be, the sum agreed on was enough to get most people whose earnings were in the thousands attention. Of course, the money would be coming from Project: Treadstone, not him personally, so it actually didn't matter to him at all.
"Of course, thanks and goodbye Pierre" he replied, then hung up. It was time to move, he had work to do.
A soaking wet hand landed on his shoulder and wrenched him backwards so hard he lost his balance and collapsed into Monica's arms. She caught him effortlessly, span him around to face her and took his head by the chin in one hand with a grip which could have cracked bone if she'd pressed just a little harder. He found himself staring straight into those mesmerising eyes again-and his will to force himself to leave melted away like ice in the summer sun. She studied him for a moment, then smiled slowly. He had no doubt at all that she knew exactly what was going through his head concerning her...
"If you have to leave, David" she said, that remarkable voice alone almost dragging him back to her bed, kicking and screaming, "Then you at least have time to finish my hair first. More to the point, you will have to come back, understood?" she said, the steel in her voice and the way she said it letting him know in no uncertain terms that when she spoke like that, people did exactly what they were told.
He smiled, he didn't need to force it in the arms of a woman like this. "Yes, ma'am" he said, well aware that he would have to keep a very low profile in Paris after this night, possibly for weeks, which meant never seeing her again in reality. He'd also, of course, have to cut any lines of communication she might try to track him down through, including Stephan if it came to it.
Fortunately, he could live with that for one very good reason. Just the memory of what they'd done together here, over just a few hours, would keep him warm and satisfied for years to come.
He was actually looking forwards to it as he let her lead him back into the hot shower, rather than just looking forwards to the sex as he usually did with some anonymous Prostitute. With her natural liquid grace and agility, he could have just stood and watched her move all day and enjoyed it immensely. He was a connoisseur of the human form and physique, he had to be in his profession, which let him know without hesitation of any sort that this was a woman for whom exquisite was too weak a word. As he felt her press into his body again, felt the silken strands of her hair in his hands, he could only conclude that she was a creature of almost supernatural allure and gifts who had, by some unforeseen act of God, been dropped in his lap for however long he had with her as some kind of reward...
Y
The Rista hotel was two floors taller and even more gaudily opulent than Monica's, he discovered after spending ten more minutes with Monica before racing back to his hotel, getting his gear, jumping into his Hire Car and getting to the Rista in twenty minutes.
He arrived to see all of the Penthouse lights on and blazing despite the late hour, demonstrating accurately the fact that Josef had just arrived. Parking his car around a corner where no one would spot it, he swarmed up the fire escape of a nearby apartment building with a sure-footed skill and perfectly deployed natural agility that made no sound before reaching the roof. Pulling his binoculars from around his neck, he centred on the main room of the apartment and scanned room-to-room.
He rapidly identified eleven separate men, all big, solid-looking types who he would have placed good money as ex-Special Forces, most likely Spetsnaz given Josef's background and history. Not good, Josef could afford the best and the Russian army taught its Specials to be utter savages who were capable of anything to win a fight, unlike the more polite SAS from Britain who would apologise while garrotting you with Piano wire or US Delta Force troops who would fill an enemy with enough lead to let one write a book using a pencil before making sure your remains were treated respectfully.
In both cases, of course, if you'd done anything to piss off the people in question or their bosses before hand, then all bets were off and you might take weeks to die, if you were even allowed to. The Spetsnaz, though, were just like that all the time. He'd read still-Classified Top Secret CIA accounts of what Agents on the ground had witnessed the Spetsnaz doing to Mujahideen during the Soviet Unions ten-year War with the population of Afghanistan. Having done so, once he'd been sure he wasn't going to throw up everywhere or kill someone to get the images out of his head, he'd made a mental note to always, always shoot first and ask questions later with the Spetsnaz. His smile was ice cold, certainly he could make good on that here.
Point of egress? The Lobby was out, he'd be recognised even if he wasn't caught on CCTV again-he could only get away with that once, since he lived in Paris anyway. Same for back or side doors. He couldn't convincingly masquerade as a member of staff in a place as secure as this without hours in make-up and an extensive Hacking job since he was sure the hotel electronically logged in and out everyone who worked there. This job simply didn't call for such extensive measures.
Roof egress? Possible, but none of the surrounding buildings within easy distance were tall enough to let him manage more than a crawling climb up to it before working his way down to it. Unnecessary risk, he could conceivably be spotted on the way in by anyone and it would only take one to see him dead.
Which left the direct approach, grapnel gun to a point directly over a main window, hard penetration of the forced entrance fast, take out the lights with a EMP Fuse Bomb which would temporarily shut down the hotel, Silenced kills quick and clean, no fuss little mess. That, he could do. That, he was good at.
He made sure the roof access door for the apartment building he was on was secured first, then went back to his car and got his gear in large bags, making sure he had everything he'd need. That done, he easily made his way back to the roof and prepared.
Dark-black heat killer full-body suit, complete with gloves and full head mask? Check. Starlight goggles for the eyes? Check. Utility belt with possibly necessary electronics gear and chemical agents? Check. Well-secured Terabyte computer memory stick? Check. Twin Silenced and Cleaned 9MM pistols with Armour-Piercing loads plus two magazines for reloads? Check. Twin HALO combat knives strapped one to each forearm? Check. Incendiary bomb to ensure destruction of apartment and any evidence, secured in special miniaturised Backpack? Check. First-Aid Kit for emergencies? Check. Lightweight Kevlar vest? Check. He was ready.
He fired the Grapnel gun using a computer-estimated distance and angle, struck clean and true with his first shot, the Grapnel snapping out and into place with a thump of penetration and locking into place that was inaudible to him and failed to alert anyone in the Penthouse. Leaving his goggles up until he was ready he mounted his motorised Zip-cord on the high-tensile line, braced his hands and feet in the holds and activated it. It took less than thirty seconds to get to the Rista, so when he did he mounted the EMP on the wall, set it for five minutes-a surprise only he knew about was always a good thing-then pulled out a pistol. Three expertly placed shots weakened the glass, failing to attract any attention along the way, so he swung down for one last look,
Glancing around, even just a quick look made him frown. He couldn't see any movement, men just seemed to be slouched around on chairs watching the big T.V., drinking at the bar or in the bedrooms-or the bathroom. Given the kind of enemies Josef had, given that these were Spetsnaz, a silent warning sounded in the mind of the man whose real name, now, was Jason Bourne.
There was no way Josef's men would be this sloppy, let alone this careless, even in a fortified area if they were any sort of professionals. Something was wrong...
He span around and away to build some momentum, kicked off hard for a second time and crashed through the window with a crack of splintering glass, as opposed to the horrendous crash there would have been if the window hadn't already been so damaged. He landed smooth and quick, rolled to his feet and shot all four men in sight in the head. Not one of them reacted, at all. Nor did anyone else. This was very, very far from good.
Just as he stood up, the lights went out without a flicker of warning. In less than a second he had his Starlight lens on and active, but there was still nothing out of place. Nobody had moved or reacted. What the Hell was this-?!
It took a few seconds, but the larger situation came to his attention quickly too. No light at all, even from the corridor beyond, not from the outside or lower floors. Whatever had made this apartment dark had affected the entire building, he could hear shouts, the occasional scream, hear people running elsewhere. He had good ears, but right now they were telling him things he didn't want to know. The entire hotel had already been taken down, almost certainly from this room, by someone other than him. He'd been beaten to the act by what had to be an enemy Agent whose agenda he couldn't even guess at.
He moved forwards silently and quickly, checked the dead men-they'd been dead when he'd "killed" them. Two had slit throats, precise and clean, done with a blade at least as sharp as a surgical Scalpel. The third had lost an eye and more than a little blood to a knife through the left eye socket which had penetrated the brain and caused brain death before he'd actually died. The last must have been the last to die, the stunned expression on his face said he'd watched his friends die but not had time to do anything before the killer came after him too. His neck had been broken so completely his head was at a right angle to his body-someone strong had done this, either a dedicated man like him or an truly exceptional woman given the Spetsnaz mans heavy musculature.
Bourne advanced into the next room, five more men were there. Not a mark on them, but they were all dead. Poison, deployed through their drinks, very fast-acting and extremely expert in application. From their postures of relaxation, they'd been watching someone or something in particular all of them could stare at and enjoy when it caught up with them. A woman? More than likely. Was she still here or had she left when they all "fell asleep"? If she was still about, she was most likely dead. If she was still about but not dead, she was excess baggage. It was never personal, he just had a job to do.
He advanced into what passed for a kitchen, not that the Penthouse needed one with the hotel possessing an efficient restaurant, but at this level of wealth they tended to possess all of the amenities, just in case. Behind the kitchen table a tenth man lay dead, bruised and choked and very dead. Bourne had to choke back his bile for all the death he'd seen and caused over the years on seeing just how this man had died, some rare things were just more than he could easily handle. This was one of those things.
The man had been subdued with a severe physical assault which had to have left him barely alive, but he'd clearly been fully conscious when he'd died given the awful expression on his face, the terrifying look in his eyes. Whoever had killed him had disembowelled him, then rammed his intestines into his mouth while strangling him with several feet of slippery, wet red rope. The man had been forced to bite down on his own guts, the blood around his mouth and on his lips told that story.
In the bathroom, the last but one unchecked room, the killer had taken his or her time. The last Bodyguard, another big, physically powerful man, had been in the Jacuzzi when somebody had evidently joined him. He'd then been tied out spread-eagle and gagged inside the Jacuzzi after a blow to the head before being...opened, from gullet to groin. His killer had then reached inside him and evidently started...pulling out whatever was easily to hand, internal organs which now floated freely in the deep-red coloured water that was still bubbling around him, thick red blood filling the pool like a ghastly, lurid dye straight from Hell.
Only Josef was left-and he had to be in the bedroom, very likely with the killer. Bourne no longer cared who or why or what. Nobody bar Paedophiles, Rapists and utter scum of the Earth deserved to die like this. These killings had every sign of a sadistic killer taking his or her time, a professional, exceptionally expert killer who was seriously damaged in the head. Well, he could fix that-permanently.
He crept up to the bedroom door, silent as death itself, so careful he wouldn't have alerted a man with his back turned, primed himself-and kicked open the door. He stopped and swore, suddenly sure there was no one there.
Josef was tied to the bed, spread-eagle-and terribly tortured. Burn wounds were all over his body, skin had been flayed from his chest, arms, hands and face in long strips. Blood was running from both empty eye sockets, the missing eyes sitting on the tabletop next to the bed, while both cheeks had been slit open from the edges of the lips right to the ears, exposing teeth and bone in a terrible deaths head rictus. All of his fingers and toes were broken, every extremity bar his head had been savagely mutilated, including his genitals. Whoever had done this had taken their time and been frighteningly thorough, made sure to get everything. Josef's chest rose and fell, so he was, awfully, still alive-
An electronic glow snapped his head around. A Laptop, active and running-what was it doing? He stepped closer to have a good look-the hotels Emergency generators kicked in, flaring lights suddenly blinding him. He had to stop, tear off his Starlight goggles-the knife cut into his left upper arm rather than his throat as his unexpected movement saved his life.
He sensed the presence behind him with no time to imagine how he could possibly have missed someone and kicked backwards hard, colliding with the figure with enough force to knock them both over. Woman, he identified, as his body made contact with a curvy figure which made that very clear. A startled grunt was the only response he got out of her, though, before he span and launched a high kick-which was expertly parried with a forearm before an elbow slammed into his midriff.
Air was blasted out of his lungs by the stunning impact, but he stayed upright and replied with a brutal head butt which connected with a solid crack. The woman staggered backwards shaking her head, but was out the door and running before he could do any more than snap off a single shot which missed her by an inch as he hit the door frame. Forced to catch his breath for a few long seconds, he got out the door five seconds later, just in time to meet a knife thrown at his head, spinning end over end at his face. He ducked fast, but the tip of the blade drew a thin line of blood across his scalp anyway. He aimed towards the attacker, but there was no one there.
He turned sharply again-and took a table to the back of the head which shattered with such force it put him on his knees. A knee slammed to his chin nearly broke his neck and span him over backwards, but he rolled fast and dodged the follow-up kick which would have shattered his skull. He lashed out with a spinning kick counter designed to take out the attackers legs, but she somersaulted backwards and clear with a remarkable grace which was almost...familiar? He snap-kicked to his feet and tossed his pistols, safeties on and locked-a special little extra he built into every weapon he used, nobody could use his weapons but him-before drawing both HALO knives and assuming a CQC combat stance.
Whoever she was, the woman was simply too good, too quick to waste any more time with using firearms he had no time to aim. If that meant hard and sharp, he had absolutely no problem with that. He got a glimpse of a darkly dressed figure moving fast in the area of the room containing the big T.V. now showing fog signals with no sound before charging in himself, hurdling the table and coming straight at his opponent.
She span in to meet him, trying to get under his blades. She didn't quite make it, his left-side knife scoring a small cut across her ribs on the lower right, but she was faster than he was and her right-hand knife drew a line of blood across his upper chest that just failed to crease his ribs as he slammed a kick against her left leg, throwing her off-balance. She was coming at him almost faster than he could follow with two knives of her own, sparks flared as knives struck and blocked, stabbed and slashed at cloth, nicking skin, all so fast he couldn't get a good look at her face or her at his he was sure.
She ended it, though, with an impossible manoeuvre that he wouldn't have believed if he hadn't seen it. From less than a foot away, she took both feet off of the floor with agility no human being should have had and hit him full in the chest, then the head, with rising kicks, her entire strength and weight behind both blows. It was like being punched with a sledgehammer, he was literally blasted from his feet and catapulted a good six feet away from point of impact before he even hit the floor again, knives spinning away in the air uselessly.
Then, for the first time, she said something-or, rather, shouted it in Russian, complete with strong Russian accent, a language which he did speak. She'd just called him capitalist whore-mongering scum-who thought up these insults? Didn't they know the point had disappeared along with the Soviet Union in 1991? More to the point, why was her voice so familiar?
Then, barely able to open his eyes, let alone move, unable to fight, he finally got a good look at her face. At that moment in time, as he took in the impossible with eyes which told him he was already dead, he could have been killed by a loud noise he was so shocked.
"MONICA!? What the HELL is this-?!" he shouted, not even thinking that someone apart from her might hear him and identify his American accent. There was no way, no way, that this was happening-!
"Niet, not Monica, whoever you are, man I do not know. I am Talia, daughter of Death. No more talk, stranger. You are dead now" replied Talia, before raising both her knives high and coming at him fast.
He could see it in her eyes, a total lack of recognition, a glee at the thought of inflicting pain that he knew Monica didn't have in her. No, Monica was all about the pleasure.
...Talia and Monica Messolina were different people in one mind and body...
Even as that impossible fact burned its way into his brain, his EMP went off, plunging the hotel into darkness all over again. All he could see was the glint of faint, far-away electrical lights shining on the silver steel of the blades she was wielding against him...
Los Angeles, four days ago
"I really don't know how I happened to remember it, Pamela, but I did and I want to know more. I don't know why, but I get the definite feeling that this Talia, Monica, whoever she is, holds the key to who and what I am. I have to find her, but I can't do it by myself. I need your help and, more importantly, I need it quietly. Will you do this for me? I need a direct answer, yes or no" said Jason Bourne, staring straight into the angry eyes of Pamela Landy as she sat in the chair opposite him in her own home, Nicky's body lying on the floor between them.
"Your unbelievable. You kill a friend and co-worker of mine in my home like this and expect me to help you?! If I could, I'd reach across this table and kill you with my bare hands!" snapped Landy, glaring daggers at him but obviously afraid to move.
"This, despite the fact that I made sure she'd be unmarked and can be given a burial with full honours when, given what she'd done, I could have cut her to pieces and left her blood on every wall of this house? Pamela, I did her a favour, now I'm doing you one by trying this again. You have some idea where I'm going and what I'm doing, but you don't know anything about why. If Talia knows me as well as I think she does, she'll be able to make the connection for you. Also, she's a professional assassin...and she's in this country, I happen to know? Still unwilling?" asked Bourne, with a smile which let her know he was offering her too much on a plate to be ignored.
Landy paused, then sighed. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but all right, yes. No guarantees and, be clear, if I get her first I'm keeping her, but we can work something out I should think. Now go, before I change my mind. Remember, by the way, this is not over..." she replied, staring down at Nicky again.
"Done" said Bourne, then he left. Landy just sat staring down at the dead body of her friend, in her home, for some time after that...
/End of Chapter 11. All Reviews welcomed./