It was a case of the best-laid plans of mice and men.

I was never quite sure why mice were involved, but over time, I began to think someone knew and was not telling anyone.

The problem with being in a death or glory job, all too often it ends in death and very little of the thing called glory.

Too many times, things went sideways, with either unintended consequences or consequences that were untenable.

That’s why, one day, too many years past my use-by date, I was sitting at a small table outside a Parisian Street Cafe contemplating what retirement might look like, when someone walked past and bumped into me.

My immediate thought, a Russian assassin was about to, or just had, jab me with poison.

I reached out and grabbed the hand of the would-be assassin, and dragged that person around, checking that hand then the other for a weapon, and realising in the same instant it was a woman, not a man, and definitely not Russian.

She gave me a very painful, if not angry, expression.

I let her go.  “I’m sorry.  I thought you were someone else.”

She regained her composure, and the two other customers who had taken an interest in what might have become an altercation went back to their coffee.

“Do you do that to everyone who bumps accidentally into you?” She asked, rubbing her arm where I had grabbed her.

I probably would, but I didn’t think that was a justifying answer for my actions.  Even so, I was still wary.  An assassin didn’t have to be Russian, but conversely, she could be well-versed in Western ways.

“No, but I have had a previous bad experience from someone who didn’t bump into me accidentally.” It sounded lame for an excuse, but I didn’t have a lot of time to come up with something better.

“I’m sorry to hear that, but it was accidental, I assure you.  Tell you what, buy me coffee, and you can explain what it is you have against people bumping into you.”

She sat opposite me.  I called the waiter, and she ordered.  When he went back inside, I sat but not before my suspicious mind had started analysing her.

Mid-thirties, American, or perhaps that was based more on the fact she may have spent a lot of time there.  She had the accent, but I suspect she had been born in England if not somewhere in Europe.

Dressed smartly, not summery, so there for work, and the business suit suggested one of those tertiaries educated professions, doctor, accountant, executive, or at worst, a lawyer.

It seemed then it was unlikely she was an assassin because what she was wearing would make her stand out in a crowd.  Or perhaps that was just her.  What made me notice her was the brunette hair with subtle blonde streaks.

I shook my head.  Where did that come from?

“In Paris for business?”  Not my best opening line.

“Long story short, my husband just dumped me by text.”

Perhaps the angry look wasn’t just reserved for me, and perhaps, the bumping was accidental because now I thought about it, she had been looking at her cell phone.

“That’s pretty dumb,” I said without thinking.

She looked up sharply at me, perhaps wondering if I was referring to her or to the husband, then relaxed a little.  “That’s what I thought.  And yet I also wanted to believe he asked me to come here, spend the week with him, and try to smooth things over.  A second honeymoon, so to speak.  God knows the first one wasn’t anything to write home about.”

What had I just walked into the middle of?  “And alas, it’s not to be, I’m guessing.  Is he here in Paris?”

“He was.  I arrived last night.  We had dinner, then he had to go to Brussels for an early morning meeting, and when I asked him when he would be back, he said it was over.  He said he was going to end it last night but couldn’t tell me to my face.”

Her coffee arrived.

While she took a sip, then another, the thought struck me she didn’t look too upset about it.  Nor had she protested enough about what amounted to assault and battery.

Then, before I thought about it, I asked why she was not more upset.  Sometimes, I forgot discretion was the better part of valour.

“I had my suspicions.  A friend told me she had seen him with another woman, and he simply said it was one of his clients,” she said.

I noticed that she subtly gave me a quick study, perhaps to determine if I was an axe murderer. The trouble with that was that I had been called that once after a particularly nasty assignment.  How not to look like one, I did not know.

She shrugged.  “My name is Melissa, by the way.”

“Monty.  It’s better than my real name, and I’m still suffering nightmares from kids who ragged on me over that name.”

“Monty, it will be.”  She finished her coffee.  “Enough about me and my woes.  Thanks for listening.”

She stood.

I didn’t. “Perhaps we’ll meet again,” I said, hoping I wouldn’t.

She smiled.  “Who knows.”

I watched her leave, walking all the way to the metro station and then disappearing into the bowels of the earth.

I was still undecided whether or not she was an assassin or, more likely, the assassin’s apprentice.

My hotel was a small anonymous place in Rue nnnn picked for its quaintness, and unless you knew it was there, it was a very safe place to hide.  I had a choice of five and tried not to stay in the same hotel whenever I was in Paris.

It was one of those unwritten rules written in concrete, never stay in the same place twice, along with never creating traceable patterns.

It was hard work in itself to adhere to that rule, but when your life depended on it, it was worth the effort.

I had taken the time, after she left, to have another cup of tea and ponder what just happened.  A half-hour later, after dismissing the encounter as a coincidence, I had taken the metro to Montmartre and was wandering around the small market near the station when I saw her again.

Melissa.

Once is an accident, twice is not a coincidence. Another unwritten rule is that there’s no such thing as a coincidence.

I considered simply avoiding her and going to the hotel, but she was there for a reason, and I was one of those people whose curiosity would one day get the better of them.

I kept wandering slowly from one vendor to the next until we met.

She appeared to be pleasantly surprised when I accidentally ran into her, but I could see that fractional hesitation before making the appropriate gesture.  She, too, had seen me earlier and had been watching my progress.

It meant she knew where I would be and where I was staying.  It meant the accidental bump was anything but accidental.

My first question was, who was she and what did she want with me.

The next unwritten rule was to keep your friends close but your enemies closer.

“I had no idea you lived near here,” I said.

“Monty, what a pleasant surprise.”  She left off the rest of the question, ‘Do you live near here too’, trying not to be too obvious.

I’d just completed a scan of the marketplace for anything out of the ordinary.  Melissa was the distraction. The real enemy would be lurking close by.

I’d seen a likely suspect, a male, in his mid-forties, well-covered and almost indistinguishable.  He didn’t want to be recognised, and in being so, stood out.  Clever and yet not so clever.

“By yourself,” I asked casually.

She looked at me sharply again, then smiled to cover it.  “Of course.  I thought that after the bastard dumped me, I might as well make the most of it.  Are you here with someone?”

She looked around as if she thought that I should be with a wife or girlfriend.  After all, someone had once told me, that it’s Paris, the city of love.

For some.

“No.  Quite alone.”  I put an inflection into my tone that conveyed a suggestion that if inclined, she might offer to fill that void.

“That’s a shame, but perhaps not.  It’s like serendipity. We keep bumping into each other like this.”

A nice pun.

“Perhaps the universe is trying to tell us something.  Have you been to Paris before?”

“Once or twice, but I’m not the best tourist.  I didn’t have much spare time to see the sights.”

“Then it could be a case of the blind leading the blind if you have the time.”  Then, with an apologetic look, she added, “I’m sorry.  I have no idea if you’re staying or working, and here I am, prattling along, making assumptions.”

If I were any other guy, I would be flattered at the suggestion.  “I hardly know you, and perhaps it’s not the right time after what happened to you.”

I wasn’t an expert on rebound romances, but it was an excuse to make her work harder.

“You’re right, of course.  I’m being an ass.  Maybe some other time.”  With that, she gave me a smile and continued on with her exploration of the marketplace.

Rule number seventy-two, try not to be obvious you’re trying to set up a meeting or date with a target.  Try too hard they get suspicious.  Try to make it their idea, not yours.

Now I knew I was the target.  Why, I intended to find out.  I would not be surprised if she was staying at the same hotel.  It also meant someone either knew a lot about me or knew someone else who did.

That I would have to give some serious consideration.

The following morning arrived, and I was tired.  Several phone calls home to ask questions gave me no answers.  Was everyone lying to me?

Had I become expendable?

There was a time when your worth to the organisation became less because of fatigue, too long in the field, and the cost of retraining outweighed the agents’ worth.

Although the director had said my time was coming to an end, and expressed his surprise I had not been killed when clearly there were times when it was an almost certainty, he had given me a retirement option.

Except agents only ever retired when they were dead.  It was almost the first thing we were told at the induction.  And it was true.  Six of the eight in my intake were gone.  The other ended up in a facility in a coma he was not expected to recover from. 

It gave me no pleasure to be the last man standing

Then there was that other problem, the fact I was a walking encyclopaedia of the organisation’s inner workings, information an enemy could use to destroy us.

Melissa was potentially one of the enemy agents waiting in line to extract that information.  Her, the hidden man. He had disappeared before she had left me and may have confirmed my location.

Yes, paranoia was in overdrive.

I had expected an attack overnight, hence the tiredness and it only served to underline that it was time to get out.  Sleeping with a hand on the gun under your pillow was not the way to live.

It didn’t make me feel any better to find Melissa in the breakfast room when I walked it.  It was not a shock or surprise to find her there, and if she had been by herself, I might have shot her.

She was bright and breezy with the appropriate surprised response.

“Monty.  I had no idea you were staying here.  What a coincidence.”

I held my tongue.  A coincidence, my ass.  I looked around the room, but no one matched the man I’d seen loitering the day before.

She noticed.  “Looking for someone?”

I glared at her.  “Why would you think that?”  It was time to be a bad cop.

The bright breezy expression disappeared, replaced by concern. For me, I doubt it.  But she wisely didn’t answer that question.

“Right.  I’m going to be walking out the front door in about five minutes.  If I see your friend loitering out there, you will discover who I really am.  Just to be clear, I don’t believe in coincidences.”

I left her there. Perhaps the stunned look was real, but she had her mobile phone in her hand before I reached the stairs.

Sprung.  There was no doubt she was the honey trap.  Now I needed to find out who was after me.

When I made it out onto the street, I saw him just disappearing over the road and heading down towards the metro station.

I headed back inside and towards the breakfast room.  She would be very inexperienced if she was still there or incredibly stupid if she thought she could ride this storm out.

It was almost a relief not to find her there.  The idea of having to torture information out of her made me feel ill.  It showed just how far I’d fallen off the mission.  That sort of thing was a matter of rote and should not register any repugnance.

I sighed.  My cover was blown, and my usefulness in this mission was over.  I’d called in a replacement the night before, and he was awaiting the call. I made it.  Now I was free to go home.

Except…

I saw her scuttling out the front door, a complete change of clothes; a blonde wig, large sunglasses, and a backpack.  A student on sabbatical.

Would she check to see if she was being followed or for general surveillance?  She knew her cover had also been blown, so if she was well-trained, self-preservation would be paramount.  And had she checked the area earlier for a plan b escape?  It had been my priority when I first arrived. 

Not so far.  She was heading in the opposite direction to the man, to the gardens a short distance away.  I knew a shortcut, and it would come out ahead of her.  I waited, and then as she passed, I stepped out and said, “What a surprise to see you here?”

Foolishly, she stopped and turned.  In her shoes, I would have run.  I was not going to chase her, remember, don’t bring attention to yourself.

“How…?”

“Check the whole area where you’re staying.  You never know when things will go south.”

Of course, the darting eyes told me why she had stopped, and I had been almost expecting that it was a well-rehearsed trap.  The expression on her face told the story.  It also signed her partner’s death warrant.

Just as he reached out to grab me, I drove the knife in and up, then twisted it.  He was dead before his body could sink to the ground.  I almost carried him back to a doorway a few meters from the street and gently put him down there.  He looked like a drunk sleeping it off.

The face was familiar, I had definitely seen him before, but I couldn’t put a name to it.

She then decided while my back was turned to finish the job she was sent to do, except there was a mirror above the door that showed foot traffic from the street.  I saw her coming and easily disarmed her.

She thought about running but changed her mind.  A knife in the back before she made it to the street wasn’t appealing.

“What now?” she asked.

“A simple question; why?”

“I don’t ask.  To me, it’s just a job.”

“And the fact you failed?”

“It’s not the first time.  It was clumsily conceived.  I told them you’d work out what’s happening, but Benson, the guy you killed, was adamant.”

Benson.  Now, there was a ghost from the past.  Three years before, he was on another botched mission that got his partner killed and left him with severe injuries.  I was not surprised he would hunt me down.  Yet another rule; one should never be motivated by revenge – it was a matter of learning the old saying – first, dig two graves.

“What are you going to do to me?” she asked.

I realised that at that moment, she was still there.  Again, I would have run the minute I seemed distracted.  “Nothing.  Just tell me who he worked for.”

“I don’t know.  I don’t care either.  It’s just a job, my boss tells me where to go, and they tell me what they want.”

“Who trained you?”

“You don’t need to know.  I won’t be coming after you.  Revenge is a waste of time.  And I’m not worth the effort of chasing down if that’s what you’re thinking.  But I did learn a few valuable lessons if that’s any consolation.  I bet you sleep with a gun under your pillow.  I was going to visit you last night, but the fact you look anything but what you are told me that would be very unwise.  Now, if you don’t mind, I have a train to catch.”

“Do you like what you do?  It seems that if it was anyone else, you’d be dead.  If you had become a problem, you would be.  I’m retiring as of now.  I’m over this looking over your shoulder stuff, and it’s something you’re going to have to get used to.”

“And yet I sense a but…”

“I’m not the worst person you could end up with.  And you know I can protect you.”

“You were just a job, Monty.  I like what I do.”

It was a random thought that popped into my head.  I had the funds to disappear and have a very good life if I wanted it.  And I had got a strange sensation from her the moment she bumped into me.  That eye contact had been almost electric.

I shrugged.  “Then go get your train.  If you change your mind, I’ll be at the Charles de Gaulle airport, making up my mind which plane to get on while getting some lunch and champagne.”

She just smiled and shook her head.  There was nothing to say.

I ended up in terminal 3 and hadn’t realised that I’d not given her a more precise location.

It had the Bistro Benoit, the best of the restaurants at the airport, and there I ended up with a glass of champagne and the job of looking through the upcoming departures. 

It literally was much the same as throwing a dart at the world map and going there.  It would be more fun going with someone, but my life had been dedicated to service, and there never had been anyone special.

I’d felt a spark with Melissa, and it would have been fine to explore the possibilities.  Of course, she might take the opportunity to finish the job, no doubt it would be a request from her boss, so I might yet get a surprise.

An hour passed.

That notion that the airport was very large and had several terminals to explore increased the odds exponentially.

At that time my short list of places to go included Uruguay, though I was not sure why, Kenya, because the idea of going on safari appealed, New Zealand, because no one would believe I’d go somewhere so remote, Jamaica, in search of pirate history, or New York, on the way to somewhere more obscure like Montana.

I was buried in a page on Quebec in Canada when I heard the shuffle of a chair and looked up.

Melissa.

“Don’t tell me, your boss asked you to finish the job.”

“He did.”

“And….”

“I told him it might take some time to track you down.  In the meantime, I don’t see why I can’t have a little fun.”  She reached out and took my hand in hers, and there was that spark.  “And you sure look like you need a little fun.  Where are we going?”

“Jamaica.”

“Good.  My samba is a little rusty.”

If nothing else, I was going to die happy.

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©  Charles Heath 2024

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