OF ASSASSINATION & GITANES

gitanes

 ‘No other capital city in the world can do grey quite like London,’ her passing thought. A thought dismissed almost as soon as it arrived. For as of now, there was the little matter of the naked Ambassador lying as prone as prone could be, upon his back atop a plainly hideously expensive Afghan rug to attend to. Clearly, her stiletto heel dug into his pudgy chest bone was causing the gratifying discomfort intended. Moreover, that he knew exactly what was coming next. Not that he needed a clue, the silencer affixed to her pistol and aimed at his forehead was, regardless, the giveaway. Was that a tear in his eye? Mattered not. She wondered how he might beg for mercy had it been the case that he had not been adeptly gagged.  How so naked? Her trademark of course, her panache, her cultivated style.

“Gosh it’s so very bitter outside. I truly thought I’d die of cold walking The Embankment on my way here. Still, your office is so lovely and warm.” Her English was perfect. She paused, took a good look at him one last time, “Heart or head…decisions, decisions?” A dull thud, a trickle of blood, a ruined carpet, job done.

Cool as a cucumber, she took the grand old Victorian lift, an original by the look of it, down to the lobby of the embassy, gave the Cheshire cat grinning boy behind the desk her sexiest smile, checked her reflection in the reinforced glass of the elegant doorway and was gone.

By nightfall, she found herself in a bath of bubbles in a swanky hotel in Deauville, occupied France. It was with an element of regret that she had had to ditch the bleached blond wig of human hair in a City of London cast iron litter bin. Albeit tarty, she had grown fond of the covert article of disguise, was rather smitten with it. Whatever, now ensconced in Women in Love, Lawrence’s masterpiece, a bottle of bubbly at her side, a small fortune in Nazi gold confirmed transferred to her Swiss bank account, all was well in her world. The prospect of the casino downstairs had some appeal for later.

One could only hazard a guess as to whether it was the grandest come-hither canyon of her cleavage or the ridiculous measure of her winnings that had the croupier in such a ruffled state. Likely both. In any event I had guessed correctly that I would find her here, she the undeniable dazzling, sultry legend no matter what side of the warring nations one was positioned. The Abwehr claimed as one of their own, the pride of the German intelligence agency, yet this gal, albeit much fabled, was in truth a freelance operator.

To a backdrop of a La Môme Piaf cabaret sound-alike singing ‘Mon coeur est au coin d’une rue’ we shared fine cognac and smoked unfiltered Gitanes in the Art Deco signature bar. She reminded me that ‘gitanes’ English translation was ‘gypsy women’.

“What’s in it for me?” A fair enough question. 

“Well, you get to live a whole lot longer and have carte blanche to work for whomsoever you wish…we’ll leave you well and truly alone…until the next time, of course!”

There was the look of doubt on her face, “No fee?”

Afraid not this time, you’ve been pushing your luck recently as the London Evening Standard has already confirmed…an Ambassador of all people! Really, what were you thinking of? Still, if it helps seal the deal, your welcome the return of this wig. You looked ever so reluctant to part with it in the City this morning.” As they say in the East End, the return of the wig was ‘the clincher’.

“You followed me?”  

“All the way.”

“So, it’s off to Coyoacán, Mexico for me then? Why on earth do you Brits want rid of this Leon chap? What interest do you have in him?” 

“I don’t recall saying I was MI5 my dear!”  

 

 

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64 thoughts on “OF ASSASSINATION & GITANES

  1. I could not ask for a more intriguing and brilliant scenario Mike. Captivating from start to finish, love the stiletto in the pudgy chest bone. If I had my way you would continue on with this masterpiece, a splendid tale, the “clincher” begs for more!

    1. Cheers. Praise from a great wordsmith such as your good self always make this old fool happy. A little of this tale is within a longer piece (well, my attempt at a book) presently. I got side-lined and thought a swift post was due!

      1. I was so hoping that is the case, I hesitated to say, the story line is surely worthy of and has the strength to be expanded into a very fine book!

      2. Thanks. I only cut it short as 600 words is on the cusp of being too many words for a blog post. Whatever, young lady, my thanks again…truly appreciated.

    1. It is in the book that I talk about but never finish…well a different version, yet in essence the same. I’ve just noticed I’m wearing a different sock on each foot…this will never do! Or will it?

  2. My cell phone changed my words and am not quite sure but think I was going to say, “she’ll be a legend in her time.” The next “hit” or “job” will head her off to Mexico to take out Leon. 🙂

    1. Those wretched phones…they’re my curse. It’s bad enough having to spell words from a dyslexic perspective and have them all checked before I post, but that predictive text thing sends me insane. Possibly Mexico, but I’m not sure this gal would work for free. I have an idea though!

    1. Thank you. That rather cheers me up as I’ve just managed to aim a tube of tomato puree at myself and presently look like a victim of a violent attack. Funny, the odd things of life!

      1. Very true. My dear wife has made me a laughing stock on Facebook because a little later that same day I, when shopping, I managed to break a bottle of red wine in the boot of our brand new car…she has put me up for sale for just £1! Cheek of it.

    1. Cheers Ms Carolee. This victorious gal first appeared from nowhere when I began the tome I’ve been working on (talking about a lot, yet until recent weeks getting nowhere with) since last May. She arrived to a flurry of activity and I wanted to make her different. Dragon tattoos and such like had already been done so I made her an albino (although in this piece I make no mention of that aspect). Back before my Brexit depression I was knocking out words by the ton. I blogged about her then…a poem, Dazed Violet Eyes, the last half decent bit of writing I managed until months later when I cleared my head. And here she is once more…I’m rather taken with her feistiness. Writing the odd cameo tale about her helps consolidate her presence. Indeed, this very day a prequel to this post will be posted. They really do assist my main project; keep me focused. God I do go on a bit. Manners, Steeden, manners! How are you? What projects are yours presently?

      1. I’m glad you’re able to return to writing about your lady assassin. As for me, I’m working on a short story about a cute animal shape-shifter as well as a fantasy romance, like a Lord of the Rings but much more naughty. I had kind of a hiatus as well around the time Brexit happened strangely enough. Maybe that’s what affected my publishing house, but I didn’t hear from them for ages. Finally, it sounds like things may be moving forward with more publications.

      2. Even now, when I overthink Brexit an anger rises. Still, while I’ll fight the concept of this wretched stupidity until the day I must remember that even though they seek to take my European identity away they haven’t yet stolen my keyboard (yet)! Amazing you can write two things at once. That is a skill quite beyond me and impressive to a bloke who can’t walk and chew gum at the same time.

    1. Thanks…you know likely better than me, (for I am a self-confessed idiot)that once a tale, a theme, anything really, that arrives in the head, it’s somehow got to be given a home.

  3. Reblogged this on Diary of an Internet Nobody. and commented:
    The last of my opening salvo of reblogs this week is from a man with a truly unique style. His blog, The Drivellings of Twattersley Fromage is a glorious mixture of fiction, poetry and the sort of outright nonsense that Edward Lear would be proud of.

    Here is a slice of wartime intrigue, from the always artfully articulate Mr Mike Steeden…

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