The International Assassin A Sexy Times Crime Thriller Read Free

up a relationship with someone our friend would prefer she wasn’t involved with.”
    “Who is it?”
    “He’s a music artist,” Johnny replied. “If you can call it music…” he added disdainfully.  
    Johnny liked Tosca so I deduced the musician in question was probably a rapper.
    “Lives in Hackney. A hateful place. It’s like Mogadishu. Without the prospect of UN intervention.”
    I smiled at Johnny. He could be most amusingly Etonian in his disdain for the proletariat.
    “If it’s allowed to continue it would cause something of a scandal. Before he was famous he used to be a car thief and a supplier of recreational pharmaceuticals.”
    Johnny having finished the bacon set to work on the pork and herb sausages.
    “Sounds a delightful chap,” I replied.
    “All very distasteful. Has a rather unflattering tattoo on his face,” said Johnny with a sneer. I nodded.  Johnny abandoned the sausage and picked up the Champagne and looked at me. “Still lives in a council tower block. Needs to look like a suicide. I’d like you to throw him out of a window,” he said with the matter of fact casualness of asking me to take his suit to the dry cleaners. “I appreciate that might be somewhat complicated,” he added “For you.” 
    Johnny was being polite. Being a little over five-foot seven inches and with a build my mother would describe as elfin the prospect of throwing a well built east-end warbler off his council flat balcony presented certain challenges no matter how much time I spent in the gym at Chelsea harbour. 
     
    I considered Johnny’s request. 
     
    He was implying that I might wish to ask for his involvement. This was unusual for Johnny, and certainly the notion of a MI6 agent risking his cover to throw a minor league celebrity off a balcony was a surprise. The result of him being caught in such an involvement given he supposedly worked in a organisation concerned with international espionage not the disposal of troublesome working class musicians would be somewhat serious.
    “I can take care of it,” I told him. 
    “Are you sure?” he asked nursing his Champagne.
    “Of course,” I replied confidently. He nodded and toasted my glass before downing the Champagne.
    “We better buy you a hoody,” he suggested. “You can’t go to Hackney dressed in Prada. At least not genuine Prada.”
    “Maybe a little fake Burberry,” I added. 
    “No need to go that far darling,” he smiled.
    He needn’t have bothered, committing murder was one thing but wearing fake designer tat was beyond any morally acceptable boundaries for me. I would sooner be caught red-handed with a blood soaked dagger than be photographed by Hello! Paparazzi wearing market stall rags.
    “I should bloody think so,” I told him curtly reminding him there was a line in the sand for Queen, Country and even Johnny.
    The hotel concierge approached us.
    “Mr. Van Sant? There is a phone call for you,” he said.
    Johnny looked slightly surprised for a second. Why on earth would anyone be calling him here?
    “Really?” asked Johnny, more statement than question.
    “Yes Sir. They said it’s urgent. A family emergency.” Johnny looked at the waiter suspiciously.
    “I think you have the wrong person,” he replied before drinking his Champagne.
    “Very sorry to disturb you Mr. Van Sant. There’s probably been a mistake.”
    Johnny nodded.
    “I’m sure they have the wrong number. Tell them to try the Ritz.”
    “Yes Sir,” the waiter departed. I looked at Johnny but his face betrayed no answers and he offered no explanation -fabricated or otherwise.
    We returned to my home after breakfast. We lived in an apartment on the first floor of a red brick mansion block overlooking Cadogan Gardens. I had acquired a mews house behind the block to house Johnny’s most prized possession, his Quantum Grey Aston Martin DBS that I had bought for his birthday the previous year. Of course it might not have actually been his birthday but