“The assassination failed. What do you want me to do?”
Asked the self-proclaimed “tracer” Maatu. The three-hundred-years old spy for hire spoke in hushed tones, on the triple-encrypted phone.
The real diamond-encrusted one-of-a-kind 14-carat gold phone had been hand-delivered to Maatu via a brush pass two days ago, shortly after Maatu had left a handwritten signal on the massive flower pot in the seven-star hotel’s lobby.
The signal informed his mystery Internet client that he had located Isabella (Navigator) in Dubai.
From Maatu’s expert surveillance, he had uncovered that Isabella was at the Burj Al Arab hotel on a mission to confirm counter-intelligence information that could indite her former boss, Aunt Virginia.
The terse voice on the other end of Maatu’s call replied:
“Bag” her and tag her by leaving this phone on her body. Then, you are done. Your fee will be deposited as agreed.”
Maatu’s conscience gnawed. He did not like it when his target was female. He asked gingerly, knowing that his curiosity would not be satisfied:
“So, what are you planning to do with her?”
“We shall speak no more. Mr. Maatu. Goodbye.”
Maatu placed the Caviar brand cell phone in the waistcoat pocket of his London-tailored three-piece suit holding the phone between his fingertips like a soiled handkerchief.
Not one to be “creeped out” easily but it was the coldness of his mystery Internet client’s voice that jabbed Maatu in his gut and loins like someone had poured a bucket of ice cubes down his underwear crotch and held them tightly on his privates.
Maatu shook off his fear. It was fear that he had felt once before—when he did a job for Him and his Rogue’s Gallery of minions, a long time ago.
Maatu composed himself and walked out of the shadows of the Burj Al Arab outside grounds. He stood motionless. He centered himself and gathered his consciousness around him like a cloak.
Then, he sniffed the air with deliberately timed inhaled breaths to awaken his uncommon ability.
Suddenly floating overhead, visible to him alone, a brilliant globe appeared radiating with billions of yellow lights…human spirits and their, invisible to normal eyesight, DNA trails.
With little effort, Maatu quickly picked up Isabella’s DNA tracks in the scene before him.
Wasting little time, he made a dash for his Denali four-by-four Jeep in the nearby parking lot, carefully avoiding the throng of Emergency vehicles, now busy at work putting out the fire in an Off-Road Jeep Wrangler (owned by assassin-for-hire Mr. Tomb).
Meanwhile a few kilometers away from the Burj Al Arab’s parking lot…
Mr. Tomb sped huffing and puffing. His shoulders were haunched as he wheezed inhaling deeply trying to outrun his fear. He ran through the almost barren Dubai city streets shrouded in Dawn’s gloam, stumbling as his leg muscles burned from lactic acid buildup.
Suddenly, having convinced himself that he was far enough away from peril, he slowed down to a jog, catching his breath.
His mind raced. He needed transportation and some cover. He had his wallet and his phone.
Mr. Tomb wondered in his mind, almost in a panic. “Should I risk using my credit cards or phone at this time? And, if I did use them who might be alerted that I am still alive?”
In a moment of clarity sparked by the rare epiphany that comes as a still small voice. Mr. Tomb’s thoughts whispered to him:
“Why don’t you just stay ‘dead?’ Get out while you can from the assassin-for-hire trade. Few ever get this chance, you know!”
Mr. Tomb froze. He considered the voice in his head’s wisdom and inexplicably, he began to weep…
Meanwhile, outside the city from the desert…
…A sandstorm was coming…
But, the “sandstorm” was not what it seemed…
That “door” which Isabella had opened with forbidden enchanted dark magic, a desperate measure for a desperate situation a few hours earlier, had she closed it?
Elsewhere in Dubai, two o’clock in the morning…
Isabella, trudging barefoot alongside Old Sisyphus, broke the silence in their eerily quiet three kilometer hike:
“Our employer has a reserved suite in that hotel up ahead, a sort of “safe house.” It might not be safe; however, we could weather the sandstorm there. Sound good?”
“.mmm…yeah sounds good….” Old Sisyphus replied.
His tone seemed distracted, delivering none of its usual sparks. Isabella noticed. However, she kept her observations to herself.
Suddenly as the two spies arrived at the front door of the Jumeirah Al Naseem Southeby’s Hotel, a Denali four-by-four Jeep barrelled towards them on a collision course and attempted to ram into them.
Isabella spun out of the way to the right of the Jeep and crouched low waiting… while Old Sisyphus dove headlong into the hotel’s main entrance.
The Denali four-by-four Jeep screeched to a halt as Maatu fired the taser at Isabella’s legs. He missed.
Old Sisyphus using his body like a javelin raced towards Maatu now disembarking from the still-running engine of the Denali four-by-four, taser in hand.
Maatu swerved out of Old Sisyphus’s path.
But like two lions stalking and psyching out their prey. Old Sisyphus was faking an advance towards Maatu, seeking to expose weaknesses. While Isabella skulked about in behind Maatu watching his behaviour, and waiting for an opportunity to exploit.
Therefore, while Maatu was briefly distracted by Old Sisyphus’s intentional move;
Isabella came up from behind Maatu and in one decisive move, clocked him in the back of the head with the pair of stiletto heels, she had been carrying in her hand. Maatu’s body slumped to the carpeted entry to the Jumeirah Al Naseem hotel. He was out cold.
Isabella and Old Sisyphus jumped into Maatu’s Denali four-by-four Jeep and sped off into the early morning…
****To Be Continued Next Sunday****