Baltschug Kempinski Hotel
Sheremetyevo International Airport. I waited in line with the others to pass through the official checkpoint. Rumour had it that all Russian airports swarmed with behaviour detection experts. It was all in the name of fighting terrorism. A tic on your face and they picked you for interrogation, it didn’t matter whether they were wrong or you were just nervous being in another country. Suspects were taken to Gulag prison.
Somewhere on the far side of the official booths and uniforms, my contact in Russia waited. From here everything was going to be dicey.
Sleep was impossible at the Baltschug Kempinski Hotel that night. Wearing my nightgown and nothing beneath I paced the darkened room, occasionally looking out at the city; Moscow, where I was going to commit another murder for the government.
A taxi passed below, a municipal truck, a police car. Tomorrow I was going to be like any other tourist, cavorting with my victim at all known tourist spots.
Tatyana (and no, she’s neither Russian nor Afro-Russian) and I had gone through all the scenarios. She had spent one year in Russia following the Ambassador of Kiambu in Russia. She now slept comfortably on the other bed, snoring softly in her sleep. Her work was now over; I was taking over from here.
So far the ambassador of Kiambu in Russia had been adamant to listen to the warnings he had been given. His actions in Russia undermined the government of Kenya and strained relationships with Russia. A county government could not have an embassy in another country.
Well, he had had his days to redeem himself. Now there was no point of return. He had tried to justify his governor’s preposterous ideas by saying that he was just trying to get investors to invest in his county. He was told to go through the Kenyan embassy in Russia. He ignored the diplomatic bureaucracy. I was now going to kill him.
The following day I changed room. I moved up to the suite where the ambassador lived. He knew I was an Afro-Russian IT investor. That was going to be a major boost to Kiambu. The problem was he also wanted to sleep with me. I had no problem with that. I was going to earn a lot of money from investing in his country.
Whoever said behind every successful man is a woman did not know that behind every suspiciously dead man there is an assassin.
Kiambu had managed to be a technology hub with the success of Tatu City. Now they were gullible for more technology cities. On paper they had three other cities mapped out. I was the investor who would develop one of the cities.
That evening he was on the phone throughout, ignoring me naked for him on the bed. How ungentlemanlike? By the time he was done he had made more money enough to finance the Kenya budget for one year.
Why was I even caring? I had come to Moscow to kill him. My HIV status depended on his being dead or alive.
I had been given immune booster injections before coming to Moscow. They increased my CD4 count to the level of a healthy person, but if I did not go rogue and turn on the government I could be HIV-Negative. That meant I couldn’t feel anything for the victims. They all were enemies of the state.
I did not want to die HIV-positive. But the antiserum was not supposed to be used to threaten people to kill for the government. Well, with time we were going to see about that.
“I have not had enough time with you,” he said after hanging up. “I’m sorry about that…”
“It’s only tonight that I came. The sun is not even up…”
“That is an excuse, not an answer,” the ambassador cut me off. He really was lusty. He was already climbing on top of me, hard and animalistic.
I put a finger to his lips to shut him up. I then wiggled from beneath him and pushed him down on the bed instead. I was warm and dripping wet from the aphrodisiac drugs I had taken, ready for him.
I straddled him, took him into me and felt him fit in my like a key. It was what I did, and I did it well.
I rode the ambassador and then something happened – I started hearing sirens somewhere. It was in my head. I was coming. No, I couldn’t let that happen.
The ambassador was growling like an animal, and when I felt him raise his hips to plunge deeper into me I knew the moment had come.
I played with the rough hairs on his chest, traced a thin line on his stomach and I knew he was ready. He was about to release inside me when all his body went slack. My right hand went for his diaphragm, dug deep and hooked the middle and index finger where it was supposed. I then pulled hard just as the left hand went for his carotid artery. Simultaneous diaphragmatic breaking and cerebral ischemia causes death within minutes.
I cleared the room in Usain Bolt’s record time. I had a plane to catch.