A Game for Assassins (The Redaction Chronicles Book 1) (3 page)

Closely behind the runner, although with no chance of ever catching his quarry, was Stefan, the oldest member of the surveillance team, sporting a bloodied nose. Poor old Stefan had one hand pressed to his nose, trying in vain to stem the flow of blood, and the other swinging, in an effort to propel him forward faster. It appeared the spy hadn't wanted to be taken and had fought back.

Then all the whistles seemed to be blowing at once, alerting the rest of the team to move in, and it was then that Bajek seized his chance. He wasn't a natural runner, nor was he particularly fit despite his youth, but he did have one vital advantage. He was standing at a 45-degree angle to where the spy would be in a matter of moments. If he could cut across the grass he would be able to intersect the runner's route, blindside him and bring the man down with a body charge. Bajek's bulk would be no match for the thinner man; he would simply knock him off his feet.

The pram which had been his surveillance partner for the past few hours was flung, discarded, toy baby and all, and he was off! Pumping his arms, thrusting his legs along to propel him forward, he caught sight of the man from the corner of his eye. It was a race for survival. Bajek for his chances of promotion and escape from his prison-like desk; the spy, he was sure, for his life and liberty. Ten seconds to go, he was sure he could make it…

Five seconds to collision. Bajek, the hero of the service, the man who brought down a ruthless western spy… blood is pumping in his ears… the only sound he can hear is the noise of his heart thundering…

He can see the man clearly; young, certainly, but with a tough, handsome face… three seconds, almost…

But then something strange happened. The man seemed to trip, stumble, but then regained his balance. Bajek nearly has a hand on the spy's jacket collar when he finally hears the report.

At first, Bajek becomes aware of the Russian shouting, in fact, screaming would be a more accurate description. Then the crash of numerous rounds being fired, the 'whizz' of bullets passing by him, the screech of the caged animals as they react with fear. Then the spy seems to stagger – at least to Bajek – but still the gunfire continues.
Who the hell had a gun on the team?
Bajek thinks.
I thought we all had whistles.

The final few bullets seemed to explode into the running spy. One to the shoulder, and the final one – the most serious – took him in the rear of the skull, providing him, momentarily, with a pretty red halo before he crashed unceremoniously to the ground. The world seemed to stop, a breath held in anticipation of more to come. But no more do come. The bullets have done their work. The spy was splayed out face down, his arms and legs twisted at odd angles so that he resembled a child's rag doll, tossed aside in a fit of pique.

Bajek knelt down to examine the wounded man. There was a mass of blood and grey matter, caked all over the concrete path.

The left side of his head had been blown away, a fatal wound, but to the man's credit, he was still clinging to the last remnants of life. His body twitched every few seconds, his eyes rolling wildly and his jaw worked as though he was trying to speak.

Bajek moved closer, so that his ear was almost touching the man's lips. At first there was nothing, then with a massive effort a word came out in a hoarse whisper… to be repeated again and again and again. Each time, the strain on the dying man took its toll, but still he expelled the same word until finally he had nothing left to give. His eyes rolled back into his head and he slipped away. Bajek closed the man's eyes and raised himself to one knee.

The rest of the team stood stock still, like mourners at a funeral, which in a way they were, Bajek supposed, providing a cordon to keep the public onlookers away. And there at the back of them all stood that bastard bloody Russian, the so-called professional, the big man from the KGB, who had fired the fatal shots.

The Russian stood now like a child chastised, hands at his side, pistol still in his right hand, a guilty look, a look of shame in his expression. His eyes cast around the Polish team and he dismissed the shooting with a shrug. It was then that Bajek, the junior officer, who was only a rung up from the office cleaner, snapped and lunged at the man. No deception, no thought or planning, just a straight charge and jump to reach the Russian's throat.

“I almost had him… you… you…
butcher
!”

Both men went down in a tangle, the pistol dropping to the floor as Bajek started beating at the KGB man with fists, elbows and feet. Bajek found himself being pulled back hurriedly and restrained. He was pulled one way while Jan, the team leader, picked up the Russian, dusted him down, and began to apologize, moving him in the opposite direction.

“I'm sorry about that, Major. You have my word, he will be punished, he is a junior officer with little experience of how operations in the field work. He is young. The shooting? Accidents happen. No, of course you didn't intend to kill him. A tragic accident. The man should not have run. Please, let's get you back to base; my team can sort this out, so that we can prepare our reports together.”

Bajek was aware of the Russian storming back toward the vehicles that would spirit him away from the scene. The rest of the team were re-grouping, calling in the 'meat-wagon' to take the body away, dispersing those members of the public who were brave enough, or stupid enough, to continue showing an interest.

Bajek slumped down against the wall of the Black Bear enclosure. Jan, the team leader, came to stand over him, hands on his hips. “Do you know how much trouble you're in? You'll be lucky if you don't get kicked out of the service for this.”

“That stupid Russian panicked. He blew the whole operation,” growled Bajek, his anger still prevalent, but slowly receding with the increasing realization of what he'd just done.

“So what? It's his head on the line, or at least it was, until you waded in with your fists. Now you've embarrassed the service and made an enemy of a Major in the KGB. Well done.”

“I thought the KGB were supposed to be the professionals and we're just the poor country cousins? If that's their best, God help them,” Bajek complained.

Jan shook his head, appearing resigned to what he had to do. “We
are
the poor cousins. Let's be realistic, we can't operate without the Russians' help. They own us. The deal was, we got the local agents of this network and the Russians get the Western case officer running them. I'll have to escort you back to base, Tomasz. The Director will want to read you the riot act, before he decides which dark hole he's going to drop you down.”

Bajek staggered to his feet. Jan gently gripped his arm and started to lead him away. “What did he say anyway?” he questioned.

“Huh?” Bajek flicked a look back over his shoulder to where the body of the western spy lay. One of the team had draped a coat over the body, trying to conceal it until the meat wagon arrived. The zoo animals had started to react, perhaps due to the odor of the dead man's blood that wafted upon the air, invigorating their primal senses. Bajek paused for a moment, deep in thought.

“Well,” Jan pressed. “What did he say? Are you deaf? It might be important.”

“He said nothing, nothing at all, he was probably just trying to breathe.”

It was only later, when he sat at his desk, sweating while the senior officers of the Service decided his fate that Bajek allowed himself to recall what the man had whispered again and again. He'd repeated one word, in English, in his last dying moments. At the time Bajek wasn't sure what the man was trying to say. So once back at headquarters, he had picked up the well-thumbed office copy of the English/Polish dictionary and rifled through its pages until he had found a match for the word the man kept repeating.

In Polish the word was 'Tata'. In English the man, in his dying breaths, had repeated and repeated and repeated; “Dad… Dad… Dad…”

Luxembourg – November 1964

The recruitment of the first European killer, who would later go on to be the operational field controller on the ground, took place on a freezing cold evening in Luxembourg in a small and privately run villa called the 'St. Hubert' in the pretty town of Clervaux. It was a fairy-like house situated in a fairytale hamlet.

The 'Man from Luxembourg' as the Catalan-born killer was colloquially known within the international mercenary milieu, was greeted at the door of the small villa by Max Dobos, the American's Hungarian factotum, contact man and cut-out. The Hungarian was also there to ensure that the Catalan and the American were not disturbed and that their meeting would remain 'Sub Rosa'.

“He's waiting. Been in town since lunchtime. I have to search you, it's routine,” said Dobos.

A frisk, and a pat down – good, but not up to the Catalan's standards by any means. Then a disrobing of his winter coat and a quick-paced climb up a winding staircase to a first floor landing, and a closed, heavy wooden door. A rap on the door and a muffled “Enter” sounded from within.

The door opened up into a sparsely dressed room with an oak table, several comfortable-looking couches, and at its center, two upholstered leather reading chairs facing each other. The large windows were curtained to prevent any outside surveillance, but the Catalan knew that the view of the valley outside would have been breathtaking.

“Allow me to introduce Herr Knight,” said Max Dobos to the Catalan, overseeing the formal shaking of hands. They were using English, the common language that bonded them all, and with the introductions complete the American was keen to take charge.

“Max, if you would be so good as to leave us and make sure that we aren't disturbed. Thank you.”

The Hungarian middle man gave a curt nod, and exited swiftly. A click of the door and the distant sound of him scampering down the flight of stairs ensured they were alone. With the chaperone gone from the proceedings, the American and the Catalan appraised each other as only men of a certain confidence and experience can do; with professional respect and a little wariness.

The American was known only as 'Mr. Knight', no first name given, and as with all aspects of his tradecraft he had performed perfectly and planned everything down to the last detail. He was medium everything. Medium height, middle aged, salt and pepper hair, middle-ranking business suit. He exuded ordinariness, except for the eyes. The eyes had a hard coldness to them that could, on occasion, change from an icy glare to a fiery rage. They were the eyes of a zealot.

To the American, the Catalan was tall and patrician, with slicked, jet black hair that had horns of grey streaking the temples. He was well dressed and well presented. Yet the American wasn't fooled for a moment. This European was dangerous and an experienced killer of men. His reputation preceded him.

“Shall we perhaps sit and make ourselves more comfortable?” suggested the American, keen to control the pace of the meeting, as agent runners are always apt to do with possible future agents.

And so they sat, face to face across a living room, hands resting comfortably on their respective laps, with only the American's briefcase between them.

Elsewhere in the villa, and unbeknownst to either the Killer or the Spy, a tape machine slowly began to turn, covertly recording every word…

* * *

“You did some exceptional work for us in the past. I've studied your file. Very capable, very professional, especially that operation in the Dominican Republic, taking down Trujillo.”

The Catalan merely smiled a self-deprecating smile and shrugged. “I was glad to have been of service. Your organization was very generous… while it lasted.” The Catalan's voice was thick and deep.

“I know, I know, believe me. The people in charge of operations back then had their backs to the wall, especially following the assassination of President Kennedy. A lot of senators and public bodies decided they wanted to clip the Agency's wings. We had to step back and cut contact with anyone who was involved in what they would class as even mildly contentious activities. We're sorry about that. Let's move on.”

The Catalan nodded his sympathy. “Such is the way of our trade and we are all at the mercy of those higher than us. But obviously things have changed, otherwise you wouldn't have travelled all the way from Langley to make contact with me.”

Mr. Knight leaned forward, bringing his guest closer into the fold. “Even politicians are pragmatists in this day and age. We are fighting a Cold War, whether we like it or not, and in order to conduct operations against the Soviets, we need soldiers. Capable men such as you, men not afraid to get their hands dirty. Not 'Wild Cards' – far from it, but professional operators who know how to run an operation.”

“You are very kind.”

“No, I am not kind, far from it. But I am honest and I like to tell it straight. The cull after the murder of the President was a blip, nothing more. Now we have serious work to do and I would like to have you working with us. How do you feel about that?”

The Catalan inhaled and pondered the raindrops drying on his leather shoes. “I have other business interests these days that take up much of my time. If I were to work with your people again, I would need a strong incentive.”

In truth, he was keen to work with the Americans again. Since his enforced retirement as a contract agent, he had confined himself to his legitimate business enterprise, the running of an art and antiques store here in the center of Luxembourg. After operating around the world, he'd decided he needed a refuge; somewhere small, discreet, quiet and cultured. Luxembourg, for him, had fitted the bill perfectly. Despite his lifestyle as a small businessman, he had also been a part of several not-so-legitimate enterprises, namely the funding of several small-scale heroin smuggling operations across the Mediterranean, which, while making him a tidy profit, had failed to provide him with the adrenaline rush of his previous work for the Americans.

Mr. Knight locked eyes with him, his stare direct. “My friend, if you sign up for this operation, I can assure you that the resources available and the remuneration will exceed anything that we offered you before; on that you have my word. There's a new broom heading the Agency and he wants to sweep away the crap that the Soviets have been hitting us with, while we've been distracted by being raked over the coals. At this juncture, I am merely enquiring to see if you would be interested in principle. If that is the case, then we will move on with the details of the project, if not, well… then we shake hands, you go your way, I go mine, and you never contact or work for the Agency again.”

The Catalan held the American's gaze for a brief moment, weighing up his options. To commit or to refuse; both held advantages and disadvantages, and when all things were considered, it really didn't come down to the money, welcome as it was. It was more the desire to be an active part of the great game that he had been a part of for most of his adult life.

So, the decision was clear, to carry on being a small-time smuggler on the fringes of the European underworld, or to take on the challenge and be a major player in the Cold War? It was always useful to have powerful allies such as the Americans, especially if his less-than-legal enterprises and investments turned sour. He smiled a sad smile of resignation and acquiescence. Really, there was never any doubt.

“Mr. Knight, please, tell me more about this operation. It intrigues me. How can I be of service?”

* * *

The American poured them both a shot glass of schnapps, a taste for which he'd acquired during his time in Germany after the war. It was a nice opportunity to halt the 'pitch to the Catalan.
Leave him dangling, keep him off balance and lets me set the pace,
thought Mr. Knight.

But the hiatus in the conversation had to be timed correctly. Too keen with the details and the Catalan may be scared off, too much of a pause and he wouldn't take it seriously. Mr. Knight knew from experience of handling agents in the past that the trick was never to go directly to the matter at hand. Instead the wisdom was to start out wide and gradually bring it in to a narrow focus, hence the offer of the schnapps and his next preamble.

“Following the death of Kennedy, the Soviet intelligence apparatus and their satellite services began to test the boundaries of what they could get away with in operations against any number of Western intelligence services. They'd already had success penetrating French, British and German intelligence, but the CIA was proving a tougher nut to crack. So they decided to take advantage of our inability to conduct covert action operations and chose to up the stakes, by eliminating several of our agents and operatives in Europe and Asia. When the politicians closed down our Executive Action capability, they also threw out its operations chief. Without him, his assets and his planning skills we were left effectively unarmed. A bit like a gun without the bullets.”

The Catalan nodded his understanding. He'd met the Chief Operations Officer of the CIA's covert action capability several times, mostly in Italy. An overweight drunk who had gone to seed a little bit, but still a man of great experience and an excellent covert operator, none the less. Both men raised a silent toast to the absent CIA man and downed their schnapps.

Mr. Knight continued sipping at his drink. “Damn… that's good. Anyway, the Agency put up with this for as long as it could stand it, then it started to fight back. Oh, not against the Russians, hell, that would have been the easy part. No against the damned politicians, oversight committees, and shit heels that know as much about running covert ops as they do about astrophysics! Our argument to them was clear. Some very high up people in the Agency formed a quorum and approached several sympathetic congressmen, some of whom had helped us out during the war and knew where we were coming from. Good men, lovers of freedom and democracy.”

Mr. Knight poured himself another shot of schnapps and downed it. “Look, we know we got a bit carried away recruiting and running all kinds of assets in some very unsavory parts of the world. Our people said to them, 'We fucked up. But if you guys want to win this Cold War of ours for all the freedom loving people of the world, then for the love of God take the gloves off so that we can at least hit back from time to time!' ”

“Very commendable,” said the Catalan, eager to get to the nub of this American's proposal. “So, what is the contract? Which dictator are we to neutralize this time?” The Catalan noticed a frown pass across Mr. Knight's face.
Maybe I have misunderstood the proposal,
he thought. Then, just as quickly, the cloud passed and the American regained his composure.

“No, not a dictator. Not this time. Not some African butcher, or some Latin American hard man. The Agency has very wisely decided that we are not in the dictator-removal business anymore. We've had our fingers burned too many times,” explained Mr. Knight.

There was a frown this time from the Killer. “Then I am confused. In our previous contracts, we were always directed toward such targets, that was our specialty?”

“Oh, I can assure you, your skills will not be wasted, otherwise why else would we have chosen to re-activate you? No, not a high profile target such as a head of state, but important enough to this operation to warrant your attention. Seven people… excuse me seven 'targets'… to be eliminated within a given time frame. They are scattered across Europe, have minimal or no protection and are totally unaware that they are being targeted,” Mr. Knight explained calmly.

“Soviets?”

“Of course. Soviet agents to be more precise, but it amounts to the same thing. I'm afraid you will be off the KGB's Christmas card list for the foreseeable future.”

The Catalan nodded. He was not unduly worried; he knew how to cover his tracks. “And the fee?”

“Double the usual monthly retainer from your previous employment with us, with a $25,000 bonus upon satisfactory completion of the contract, plus the usual expenses and resources available.”

The normally poker-faced killer raised an eyebrow at that. A payoff of $25,000 would set him up for the rest of his life and would easily see him into retirement. The Americans must want these agents removed very badly indeed.

“We already have much of the plumbing in place, but we can go over that in more detail at our next meeting,” the American continued.

Plumbing, the Catalan knew, was the Agency's euphemism for pre-operational planning. Before any job was given the green light, the case officer in charge had to provide the necessary resources to actually make the operation viable.

“However, because of the deniable nature of this contract you will need to source certain things for yourself. We want everything done at arm's length, to keep the facade of plausible deniability in place. Passports, vehicles, specialist equipment and so forth. Is that a problem?”

“No, not at all. I have a good man that I use in Antwerp for false documentation. He is very professional, very discreet. However, I will need assistance to help me execute this contract. Suitable personnel. Qualified people.”

Mr. Knight leaned down and lifted a manila folder from his briefcase, opened it and made a small notation with his pen. “Yes of course. We would in no way expect you to carry this out on your own. We were rather hoping that you would take it upon yourself to perhaps approach and recruit your former partner on our behalf. Is that acceptable?”

“Certainly. He is a fine operator, and one of the few men I would trust to work with,” said the Catalan smoothly.

“I understand he can be a little reckless at times. A little wild?”

The Catalan thought back to his time working with the Georgian. The little man
was
both reckless and ruthless at times, but remarkably, he had always been able to rein him in and control him. “He does have that reputation, but not with me. If you wish me to take this contract, and I'm guessing that you have gone to a lot of trouble to arrange this meeting, then I want the Georgian as my back-up man. This is not negotiable.”