The Faint Taint of Deceit #5

November 15, 2011

Oh, hello. You’re back for more. I thought you might be. On we press with the exclusive serialisation of my new novel ‘The Faint Taint of Deceit’. Since we’ve begun, John Garrison has travelled back in time to 1957 and been ordered to fly to the Bahamas and assassinate a prominent Communist, Dimitri Dimitrov. When we last checked in, he was at the controls of a nose-diving private jet, headed straight into the Caribbean Sea. Did he survive? Yes. Yes he did.

Chapter Five: ‘Snake Thighs’

The lobby was alive with life. John Garrison stepped out of the elevator, his tuxedo bunching uncomfortably around his crotch. He had left his own specially tailored tuxedo back in 2011, so this was an irritation he would have to live with. Garrison, or ‘Harrison’ as he was to call himself on this mission, crossed the lobby and entered the hotel casino. He looked across the room, over the neatly pressed tuxes and the immaculate cocktail dresses with their sparkly accompanying diamondry. ‘So this is the sweet life?’ he thought, but all he could smell was the putrid sour stench of corruption and greed.

Garrison sat down at the Baccarat table, directly opposite a man he recognised well. He was hunched and pale, his greasy hair slicked back over his elongated head. He looked like a duck would look if a duck dressed up convincingly as a man. His small dead eyes darted upwards and the rank stink of four day old vodka wafted across the green felt towards Garrison. Everything about this man was repulsive, but he was still surrounded by beautiful women. This man was Dimitri Dimitrov, the man he was here to kill.

Garrison had spent hours upon hours in CIA headquarters practicing Baccarat, perfecting a cool facade and studying intricate strategies. Some of the top players in the world were brought in to teach him to determine odds and maximise his chances. After three intensive weeks they declared John Garrison now to be one of the top five Baccarat players in the world. He was ready. His mission was to take Dimitrov on in the hotel casino, convince him that he was millionaire businessman in the Bahamas on vacation, earn his respect by beating him at Baccarat, have Dimitrov invite him into his inner sanctum and then, when he eventually let his guard down, strangle him with his own shoe lace. It was perfect.
“Good evening Mister, eh?” sneered Dimitrov.

Garrison smiled warmly at the Russian and opened his mouth to reply, but then just shot him in the face with his gun.

Garrison had been feeling a little under the weather following dinner. He suspected that he might have eaten a bad prawn or something, so he didn’t feel up for a long night of cards and espionage. Why he hadn’t just thought of this as a plan before was beyond him.

“Ah well” he thought as he holstered his gun, gathered up his chips and headed wearily off to bed.

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