The Housewife Assassin's Ghost Protocol Page 3

“I think I know her—but I can’t put my finger on it,” I point out to Jack. “How about you?”

  “You’re right. I wish we had a better shot of her. Jean-Pierre, can you move to a different security feed?”

  With a click of a button, we watch as they reach the door to their cabana. As it turns out, it’s just two away from ours.

  Pinky Ring’s hand alights on the woman’s shoulder. She shrugs it off.

  All this time the bellboy has been waiting patiently behind them, suitcases in tow. His mouth rises into a smirk.

  Angered that the bellboy witnessed the rebuff, Pinky Ring waits until the bellman puts their bags into the room before tipping him at the door: a single Euro.

  The bellman waits until the door closes, then proffers the greatest insult: hitting his bicep with a Spanish slap.

  And yes, the valise that held the bomb was among Pinky Ring’s things.

  Case closed.

  Jack shakes his head, still stunned. Finally, he turns to Jean-Pierre. “This is the footage where they arrive at the hotel, am I right?”

  “Oui, Monsieur.”

  Jack taps Jean-Pierre on the shoulder. “Pull up the security camera at the time of their departure.”

  Jean-Pierre nods. It takes a few moments to find the approximate timestamp in the feed, but soon he has it up.

  Pinky Ring has changed into a tuxedo. However, he is sunburned looking now, much like a lobster plucked from the sea. He trails his lady friend down the steps of the hotel, toward the curb.

  Both he and his date wear Venetian facemasks. Her beige armless skintight sheath is sheer, but a spray of diamonds meanders over her breasts and down the center of the dress, front and back, providing some semblance of modesty. It also has a high slit on either side. Her head is wrapped in a matching turban, obscuring any idea of her hair color or its length.

  There is certainly something familiar about her. I wish I could put my finger on it…

  The bellman struggles with their bags. The one holding the bomb is not among them.

  A limo pulls up. The driver jumps out in order to hold the door for the couple, then pops the trunk so that the bellman can stow their bags.

  This time, the bellman gets nary a farthing for his efforts.

  He lifts his right hand. Two of its fingers are raised into a backward V: the international symbol for “vuck off.”

  They drive off, but slow when they are level to the ruckus on the beach. Jean-Pierre frowns at the thought that he may have been set up.

  The limo goes another half-mile before turning left onto a cross street. I tap the screen. “There! Why didn’t they turn right, toward the airport?”

  “Good point,” Jack murmurs. “Jean-Pierre, where does the left side of the street take them?”

  “To the beach pier.”

  Jack grimaces. “So that they can access a taxi yacht, to go to, say, the party on the Divide and Conquer?”

  I smile. “I’ve always wanted to crash one of Biarritz’s renowned society soirees.”

  “But not this one, Madame! The women who attend are strictly there for the pleasure of Monsieur al-Sadah and a select group of his friends, all of whom have ‘la dependence amoureuse.’”

  “A love addiction?” Jack’s mouth draws into a smirk.

  I can’t help but laugh out loud. “When it comes to al-Sadah, I know how to nip it in the bud.” With, say, another bullet. This time, in the head. It may be messier, but there should be no doubting the result.

  Jean-Pierre shakes his head. “I am putting it politely. Every guest brings a putain. She is expected to…er, ‘perform,’ either with the gentleman whom she accompanies, or another guest of his choosing.”

  “Orgies?” I try not to laugh. “How perfectly retro!” Well, if that’s the case, my shorts and a T-shirt won’t get me any further than the gangplank. “If we’re going to crash Salem’s party, all I need right now is a gown.”

  “You plan on attending?” The question comes at me from both Jack and Jean-Pierre.

  “Nicolette was last seen heading for the Divide and Conquer. Her friends may still be there. And now Jack’s pal, Pinky Ring, is on his way there too. When all roads lead to Rome, why not? I assume the hotel’s couture salon is already closed?”

  “Yes! I have a key, if you want to make a purchase.” Jean-Pierre looks confused.

  “Can you also get us into the hotel’s pharmacy?” Jack asks.

  Jean-Pierre nods.

  “Good, because we’ll need a few syringes, and some Rohypnol. If we’re going to bring them to justice, we have to take them alive”—Jack grins—“but not necessarily conscious. When they wake up, we’ll get our answers as to how they rose from the dead.”

  Jean-Pierre scowls. “If this man—Pinky Ring—is a friend of Monsieur al-Sadah, he will never be brought to justice! As you saw for yourself, the police here bow and scrape to billionaires.”

  Jack pats his arm. “Both men are international terrorists. Their crimes are numerous.” Turning to me, Jack adds, “I’m calling Ryan to tell him that we’ll be facing off with a couple of dangerous suspects. I’m sure his move will be to alert Interpol for back-up.”

  “If what Inspector Clouseau—I mean Duclos said is true, al-Sadah is shipping out in the morning; we’ve got to move fast, with or without back-up,” I remind him.

  “But, if one of those men killed Nicolette…” Jean-Pierre’s eyes open wide. “Madame, you must not be left alone with either of them!”

  “Don’t worry, Jean-Pierre; Donna can more than take care of herself. And besides, I’ll have her back.” Jack puts his arm around me.

  “So will I.” Jean-Pierre’s face hardens with resolve. He turns to me. “If it will help to find your fantôme and bring Monsieur Smith to justice for Nicolette’s murder, I will make sure you get on that yacht.”

  He grabs the keys we need from the hotel manager’s desk and we’re off.

  Jack dials Ryan’s phone number. Goodbye to any more mindless sun-filled days spent sipping great martinis while making slow, intoxicating love.

  Do we really need to poke the hornet’s nest of reality?

  Too late. Ryan picks up with a click. “Why the call, when you’ve got another seventy-two hours of nuptial bliss coming to you?” His words are playful, but I detect a bit of wariness in his voice.

  He knows us too well.

  “We’ve stumbled into a situation here, boss,” Jack replies.

  Ryan sighs. “If I remember correctly, the last time you were in the south of France, the ‘situation’ involved three blondes, a chimpanzee, and a lobby boy from the Cannes de Croissette.”

  Well, this little never-before-divulged tidbit in Jack’s past has certainly gotten my full attention.

  Jack turns bright red. “Um…yeah, well, this is a bit more serious than that.” I guess he realizes that if there was ever a time to change the topic it’s now. “By coincidence, we’ve sighted a couple of apparitions.”

  Ryan is silent for too long. Finally: “We must have a bad connection. Could you repeat that?”

  “Dead men walking—two, to be precise: Salem al-Sadah and Pinky Ring.”

  “What the…No way in hell! Jack, you were there at both exterminations, and Donna was there for one of them as well!” Even with an ocean and a continent separating us, I can easily envision Ryan’s reaction to our unwelcome news: lumbering back and forth in front of his mirrored window walls while running his hand through the invisible hair on his long-bald head. “This isn’t the Day of the Dead!”

  “Ryan, trust me, if we hadn’t seen this with our own eyes…” I hate that my voice trembles as I say this. “An Acme crew did Salem’s wet work. I presume they confirmed the kill before fixing it to look like natural causes.”

  “Affirmative.” Ryan still sounds shocked as he mulls over the possible repercussions to this predicament.

  “At some point, Salem’s body had to have been discovered by his bodyguards, am I right?” Jack asks.

/>   Ryan thinks for a moment. “We broke the news to POTUS the very next day—your wedding day. Salem’s family departed POTUS’s West Coast compound immediately. But now that you mention it, I don’t remember a formal announcement, either through diplomatic channels, or in the media.” There is a rustling sound on Ryan’s end as he covers the phone with his hand. It barely mutes his muffled yell: “Emma! Pull up everything you can on Salem al-Sadah since his untimely demise—and then get in here pronto. Bring Arnie with you!”

  Emma Honeycutt Locklear handles our mission team’s communications intelligence. Her husband, Arnie, heads up tech ops. As always, glad they have our backs.

  It’s time that someone shed more light on the man of the hour. “What about this Pinky Ring person’s body?” I ask. “Do we know where it ended up?”

  “A pauper’s grave, somewhere outside of London, if I remember correctly,” Ryan replies. “Your illustrious British team member, Dominic Fleming, is there now, to receive the Order of the Bath. I’ll get him to verify the death and burial, and pull DNA samples that can be tested in Acme’s lab.”

  “A knighthood? That wanker?” Jack is practically stuttering.

  “He’s got to have something on one of the Royals,” I mutter, just loud enough for Jack to hear me. In any event, it’s time to get this show on the road. “Ryan, the party on the Divide and Conquer is taking place now. With your blessing, we’ll infiltrate Salem’s shindig—and if necessary, we’ll secure the suspects.”

  “Do it,” Ryan commands. “But have your cellphones with you at all times. That way, Arnie can use your phones’ GPS to track you. He can also hot mic them too, so we can listen in. If one of you gets in trouble, we’ll relay intel to the other.”

  “If you can get ahold of a couple of mini Bluetooths, we’ll be able to give you voice commands,” Emma points out.

  “Good thought,” Jack replies.

  “I’ve pulled up the Divide and Conquer’s deck plan,” Arnie announces. “There are two diesel and two electric motors coupled with gas turbines. Its hull holds a Bentley Azure T and a Hummer, as well as a Hustler 41Razor speedboat. Hey well, whattaya know? Salem’s super yacht also has Green Star certification because its design gives it low power consumption and reduced emissions—”

  Emma snorts at this. “One of the world’s biggest arms dealers is into saving the planet? Horse hockey.” She pauses then adds, “Hey, do you think you can get a computer close enough to the superyacht’s WiFi? If so, we may be able to hack its security system in order to guide you through the ship, and to monitor Salem’s guards.”

  “Pardonez moi, Mademoiselle Emma,” Jean-Pierre chimes in. “I bring my laptop with us on the hotel’s yacht. You could guide me from there on how to do so.”

  “Merci beaucoup, Jean-Pierre,” Emma purrs.

  “Donna, since more than likely you’ll be apprehending Salem, please remember: we can’t get intel from a dead man,” Ryan warns me.

  In other words, bring the suspects in alive.

  Like Pinky Ring’s and his date’s, the masks Jack and I choose hide only our eyes.

  Mine is gold lamé, like the slip of a dress I now wear: sheer, tight, backless, with a front slit that leaves little to the imagination.

  I’ve chosen a short platinum blond wig, the exact color and cut of Nicolette’s gamine bob. My goal is to elicit a double-take or two—from her lover, and her killer.

  Are they one and the same? I’m bound and determined to find out.

  Has my most recent nemesis come back to life? It’s yet another question I hope to have answered tonight.

  I spot a gold lamé wristlet clutch that matches the dress. I slip three syringes filled with Rohypnol and my cellphone into it, nodding to Jean-Pierre to indicate that he should put it on our tab…

  I guess I should look at the price tag—

  Over a thousand dollars?

  Yowza.

  Solution…

  Got it! I’ll put it on my Acme expense report.

  Granted, Ryan will go into cardiac arrest, but hey, the clutch matches the dress so it’s a must-have, right?

  Besides, if I bring Salem and Pinky Ring in alive, he’ll be only too happy to let me keep it.

  Considering that both targets have proven to be difficult to kill off in the first place, that shouldn’t be so hard.

  Chapter 3

  Body Parts

  When you’re dead, you may not care that biomedical companies wouldn’t mind getting a piece of you: specifically, your skin and bones.

  And because they offer around a thousand dollars for some of either, your family might be interested too. (A good reason to stipulate in your will that every inch of you is laid to rest before your estate is distributed to your greedy little beneficiaries.)

  By the way, while you’re alive, it is legal to sell off some of your body parts.

  These figures are at the very top of the market, so if you’re in need of a little cash, you may want to consider parting with some regenerative…er, parts, such as blood ($120), hair ($3,000), plasma ($4,800), sperm ($12,000), ovarian eggs ($24,000), and bone marrow ($18,000).

  There is also a market for breast milk ($23,000) and (prepare to gag…or better yet, bag) feces ($13,000).

  However, the big bucks go for certain organs that are illegal to sell. Case in point: kidneys go for as much as $200,000 per on the black market in many countries, including the United States.

  Now, ask yourself, is the money truly worth it? I mean, God forbid, should the twin of the sold organ fail, where would that leave you?

  The sad but true answer: resting in pieces.

  Jean-Pierre docks the hotel’s forty-nine-foot Ferretti 480 alongside the Divide and Conquer’s gangplank. With the party already underway, there is no line to speak of: just a couple of male guests, dressed in tuxedos, who are accompanied by breathtakingly gorgeous paid escorts.

  “This is a lot bigger than the yacht POTUS wanted to sell to Salem,” I mutter. I know this because I was on Salem’s tour of the vessel while it was docked outside of President Lee Chiffray’s bayside villa on Balboa Island, California.

  Salem passed on the yacht. Instead, he propositioned me.

  Jack claims that it was exactly what Lee wanted all along.

  I beg to differ. In any event, it gave me an opportunity to abscond with Salem’s ring—something worn by all leaders of the Quorum. Underneath its crest was intel on his plan to infiltrate the summit.

  Jack bumps into one of the men who is much too busy frisking his date for any hidden treasure that might be stowed where the sun don’t shine to notice my husband’s sleight of hand inside Frisky’s jacket pocket.

  Jack’s prize: the invitation that will get us beyond Salem’s goon squad.

  Jack proffers the invitation to one of the goombahs, who checks it against the guest manifest before offering Jack a small clear packet of tiny beige pills. Jack takes it in stride, slipping it into the upper inside pocket of his tuxedo.

  The dude also hands me a filled champagne flute. I smile slyly as I take it.

  We saunter into the party while Frisky argues with one of the security detail over his right to join the rest of the Masters of the Universe on the Good Ship al-Sadah.

  Jean-Pierre sails off, but not too far. He kills the engine and his lights while still close enough to grab the Divide & Conquer’s WiFi signal. I’ve noticed that he’s in a very dark mood. I think it’s finally dawned on him that Nicolette is gone forever.

  Nothing we can do will bring her back.

  If only the same could have been said for Salem and this Pinky Ring guy.

  From my own intimate knowledge of Salem, this party is his best wet dream come true.

  On the middle level in the yacht’s three-story ballroom, a female deejay, nude except for a Hello Kitty mask and sky-high platform pumps, is gyrating to Beyoncé’s Formation, as if it’s the perfect national anthem for all the women onboard—

  As if being at a john’s beck
and call is the epitome of female empowerment.

  The yacht is filled with wall-to-wall bodies, most of which are in some form of slap-and-tickle clinch if not outright public fornication.

  The women have made it easy for their dates, having shed their clothing along with their inhibitions. Only masks and heels remain.

  Apparently, voyeurism is also a big a turn-on to this crowd. Those who don’t partake in the amoral antics have no qualms in watching and gauging the joy, pain, and ecstasy of others.

  I’m about to take a sip of champagne when Jack takes it out of my hand. “Something is off,” he mutters. “Look at the women.”

  He’s right. These ladies are much too placid. Some are so limp that they are barely standing up on their own. Their masks can’t conceal the blank gazes in their eyes.

  They have been drugged.

  Jack slips the champagne flute onto the tray of waiter inching his way through the crowd.

  Considering how many men are popping pills from their tiny swag packets, they must be drugged too—but whatever they’ve taken gives them the opposite effect. Granted, sexual desire is always a strong motivator. But these guys think nothing of grabbing, pinching, and rubbing any body part within reach.

  When you have enough money to match your libido, partnerships are easily renegotiated. One woman is interchangeable with the next. We watch as one guy actually tosses in his Bulgari Magsonic Tourbillon to sweeten the deal.

  “Gee, what a sport,” Jack growls.

  We may not be putting on a show, but we’re being watched.

  I look at the top deck to see that Salem al-Sadah’s eyes roam the crowd below him.

  Yes, I am positive it is he. I’d recognize that face anywhere: dark skin, the arched nose flanked on each side by high, sharp cheekbones. As tall as he is, his straight-backed stance gives him a regal air.

  Evil should not be so handsome.

  How is it that he is still alive?

  He has an arm around two women with long auburn hair—twins, who are naked except for the strands of pearls around their necks. While the woman on his left fondles his nipple underneath his dress shirt, the one on the right kisses his neck.