Kindle Edition
Amazon
Category:
Action/Thriller
Publisher: Leone R Giuliani
Type: Fiction
Pages: 188
Copyright: March 22, 2016
Price: $0.99 (eBook)
Refreshingly different spy novel: short, intelligence and sexy
When the news about a stolen list of Europol's crucial undercover agents hits the global black market, agency's top man Enrico Moretti is sent to Paris to retrieve the list, minimize the damage and capture the traitor. Cliché? Maybe... But this young Italian isn't James Bond - he doesn't know much about fighting, chasing or killing. But he knows something about seducing. And gambling. And drinking. And being a former police negotiator, most of all: storytelling. So when he gets a proper cover story, unlimited amount of money to spend in the City of Lights and teams up with a beautiful but dangerous black-haired girl and tough guys from Balkan's underground, his mission can begin...
Excerpt
…
After drinking two bottles of Dom Perignon, Enrico asked the waiter for a third. Upon receiving the bottle, he asked a waiter if it might be possible to see the owner of this place, and reconfirmed his request by pushing another wrinkled one hundred Euro bill into the man’s trouser pocket. The waiter politely nodded his understanding to his special guest, and disappeared.
Enrico continued having fun with the girls for a bit longer, until a large, mean shadow loomed up in front of him. He pulled his face out of Kiki`s hair where he had been exploring the young lady`s neck and looked up at scary creature. The monster was tall, muscular, with an extremely strong looking neck and a chiselled jaws. A real killer, Enrico thought, with close-cut hair, dressed in a black tailored suit with a white shirt and a modern slim line tie. From under the collar of his jacket a small radio cable travelled up into his left ear. Only a black BMW or Audi was missing from the picture to complete his Transporter image.
The surprised undercover police agent told the giant that there must be some error in communication, because he had asked to see the owner, not his bodyguard.
The Transporter leaned forward and placed his palms on the table. He moved his head close to Enrico`s face and whispered that he was indeed the owner.
23.
"In that case, hmm...” started Enrico. “I have a message for you... About the recent funeral."
The Transporter moved back just a few centimetres, raised his right eyebrow and assumed the mask of a careful listener.
"Well, you know,” Enrico continued, “Uncle Benito wants to let you know that his two sisters, aunts Graciela and Maria of course, would rather not take over the kitchen of the late Maria senior. Hmm… kitchen, yes…" Enrico was feeling very uncomfortable, for he had always laughed at the ridiculous codes that spies used in the movies. He would never have thought that people really speak like this for real. He eagerly anticipated the reaction of the menacing rock in front of him.
The large man looked up and around his club very slowly and then harshly ordered the girls to move away. He did not need to repeat himself; the girls knew enough to leave some issues to the boss.
The two men were left alone.
The moment became increasingly tense.
After a few seconds of staring into each other’s eyes, the tough guy answered:
"Never mind. Sisters Morella and Selena will take it then, right?"
Enrico was visibly relieved. He had gotten the code right.
They shook hands without saying another word and then the owner sat down where one of the pretty girls had been moments earlier. With obvious disgust on his face he pushed away the glass of rosé, an ashtray and a crumpled pack of cigarettes that were on the table in front of him, to liberate space for him to lean his muscular arms. A couple of times he waved his hand over the ashtray which was heaped with cigarette butts, muttering something, before he finally looked right at Enrico.
"I`m listening!" He boomed.
Without any introduction or pleasantries! Enrico was surprised. Was it professional directness or a lack of manners? And that muttering; was that Serbian?
Enrico described to him everything that had happened that evening. From landing at De Gaulle to his encounter at the bridge. He did not omit to mention the crazy party at the old Hausmann house, or anything else. The only thing he forgot to mention was French kissing that wild lady.
The tough guy was listening carefully. He did not interrupt the flow of Enrico`s thoughts, nor his speech.
"They are most likely checking on you now," was the first thing the guy said. "We can assume that they were on the bridge, taking a very good look at you."
"Which means that my photo is already doing the rounds with their informers, right?"
"Of course."
"Great! So what can we expect now?"
"When they figure out that you pose no threat to them, they will try to re-contact you in the next few hours, most likely using Berisha again."
Enrico was amazed by this man’s depth of knowledge of the background story. So Number Four and Renato must seriously trust him.
"And then? Who knows? You are authorized by the top to arrange the handover of the documents. So do it; arrange it. We still don`t know exactly how it pan out, so we’ll have to adapt to the propositions from the other side. You will adapt to it, to be more precise. And you will arrange the place and time of handover. And inform me about it immediately. We`ll take care of everything else. But all of that is already perfectly clear, right?"
"Of course."
Clear? Nothing was clear to Enrico. But it seemed that he was now dealing with professionals. And professionals know how to handle everything. So there is nothing to worry about.
Or is there?
"If there`s nothing more…?"
"No, not at all! So I just wait, right?"
The tough guy just nodded.
Enrico swallowed a mouthful of wine and lit a cigarette. The giant visibly disapproved and waved his hand again, mumbling. He went on.
"So we have an agreement. You have the free hand, a carte blanche for everything you do, just make sure to keep me informed. Is there anything specific you need? Money, weapons, whatever? No? Good."
They both stood up, an action that the girls who were lazily drinking their bottled water at the bar, did not miss. The black girl waved with her straw, flicking some drops behind her. In the glare of the club’s lights and the dancing of shadows, the droplets looked like flying pearls.
The men looked at each other, the tough one going to say something but being interrupted by Enrico.
"Pa, samo da ti kažem Dragane, nisu ti loše ove devojke! (Just let me say one thing, Dragan: those girls you have here aren’t bad at all)."
Dragan was visibly shocked. The icy expression that he liked to use to scare people away melted away. The impending mountain of muscles became gentle and curious.
"Pa ti… ti govoriš po naše? (You... you speak our language)?” He asked humbly.
"Sure! My ancestors from my mother`s side were from Banja Luka."
"Banja Luka? No shit, really? Banja Luka, my Banja Luka?"
Enrico nodded, and Dragan hugged him warmly and fiercely patted him on his back three times. He squeezed his hand really hard while shaking it, nodded again and then ran to the bar, rushing past the surprised girls. He leaned over the bar, took up a brown bottle with no label and two glasses. When he returned to the table, the two men toasted; no excuses allowed. Rakija, a homemade plum brandy that burned the throat and warmed the stomach.
Of course the family of Enrico`s mother came from a far less exotic place. A very insignificant village on the outskirts of Bologna was the actual place, just like his father`s family, and he had learned some basic Serbian from Marija, who was from Novi Sad. That was it—that was the limit of his very minimal connection to anywhere Balkan. He had just needed something to surprise his interlocutor and that seemed to have worked well. He had plucked Banja Luka out of the depths of his mind. With the reasoning that maybe not every Serbian is from Belgrade, and because he could not remember any other Serbian city beside Belgrade or Novi Sad, he had gone with Banja Luka… total bluff.
A few moments later, Dragan informed Enrico that he must not been seen talking with any one guest for more than a few minutes, so he bade him farewell, kissed him three times on the cheeks, and then left.
Enrico was alone now, but in this place not for long. Both the girls quickly came back, and ordered fresh drinks. In this relaxed atmosphere they were having fun, leaning across Enrico, telling jokes and laughing loudly.
Enrico discovered that forty-two girls were currently working in this bar, with only one third of those being French. Two were from Brazil, three from Thailand, and all the others from far eastern Europe. But not his two friends: Kiki was a genuine Parisian, Lulu came from Lille. Why did all the girls, even the eastern European ones, carry those silly French names? The answer is simple: men fantasize about making love with a French girl, either stressed and overworked German businessmen or young Americans on their once-in-a-lifetime Euro trip—everyone wants to get laid with a French girl. And Dragan just helps make their dreams come true. Otherwise, Enrico learned, Dragan treats the girls well, gives them all the freedom they want, not forcing them to do things they don`t want to do. And so they do not complain…
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