A Game for Assassins (The Redaction Chronicles Book 1) (32 page)

The Burrowers, over the past three months of being on duty for Operation MACE, had fallen into a weary slump, something which was instantly recognizable as the start of mission fatigue. They were tired, exhausted and not a little fraught with the possibility of the killers having slipped through their fingers.

Toby's team had also started to resemble a 'burrower' from the animal kingdom, such as a vole, weasel or mole. They were in to work early, stayed late into the night, and were constantly scurrying from one meeting to another, conducting covert trips to the new registry at Century House to clarify a new lead, or to plead a case to some unseen intelligence committee for extra resources. They were also rarely seen to speak to and the only evidence of their continued existence was the light in their office space, which burned late into the night.

For Toby, as the team's investigative lead, the stress of the operation was taking its toll too. Working hard, rarely seeing his family. It was a grind of travel to work, files, operations orders, work late into the night, travel back home, not see the kids, not eat properly and get a frosty reception from Caroline. Repeat, repeat, repeat.

So it came as a boost for the Burrowers, when three days after the unsuccessful hit on the hotel in Marseilles, a big fat parcel of intelligence was haughtily slammed down onto Toby's desk and gave the team a new lease of life. He sat at his desk, a half-finished cup of tea in his hand, and stared at the macabre jigsaw puzzle that lay before him.

The CIA had seemingly gone wild, a retired contract agent and killer on the loose, the murder of several people spread out across Europe, the use of 'outside' resources by the hit-team – and not to mention the breaking with known CIA operational protocols.

Plausible deniability was one thing, everybody did that to some degree, but this was unprecedented. It was almost as if the Agency had a bee in its bonnet about giving its operation
any
assistance, no matter how small.
No, something didn't fit right with this picture at all,
thought Toby. Masterman had touched on it fleetingly during the initial briefing and Toby as the lead desk officer and analyst of Operation MACE was inclined to agree with him.

The question was, what was it? What would cause the CIA to suddenly have a personality transplant and start what was the term the Americans used in the gangster movies – 'whacking' out the opposition? The relevant files to the case were laid out neatly before him, in the shape of a star. He knew he was missing something, and despite the treasure trove of information that the Redaction Agents Gorilla and Trench had managed to salvage from the attack in Marseilles, he suspected the real 'meat' of the intelligence was yet to be made available.

The trick now was to give a best estimate, a likely guess, as to which target the killers would be aiming at next. If Toby and his team deciphered the intelligence correctly, there was a very good chance the Redaction team could swoop on in there and halt the killers at the source. The Burrowers had checked their leads and read through the material brought back from Marseilles and on the face of it, certainly from a proximity viewpoint; the next target should have been in Paris. A quick drive or train journey from the south up to the north and take out the 'Soldier'.

There was even a growing cabal within the senior doors of SIS, led primarily by Barton the Vice-Chief, that wanted to send all their resources straight back to Paris to protect the agent known as
Cirius
and wait for the killers there. Sooner or later they would have to come out the woodwork, wouldn't they, argued the naysayers. It seemed like an open and shut case and a less experienced counter-intelligence officer might have easily put two and two together and come up with five.

But not Toby Burrow's.

Toby's mind, for all its academic traits had a streak of criminality about it. At times, it was as if he could put himself inside the mind of the person he was tracking. He'd been that way since childhood when he would reason out where his mum kept the chocolate biscuits which were his favorites. Not the biscuit barrel, that was far too obvious. He had made several false guesses – the pantry, behind the kettle, even on top of the cooker – until he'd finally figured it out. Not high up where little hands couldn't reach, but actually lower down were little minds wouldn't think of. The pots and pans cupboard under the cooker.

The rest had been a daring liberation of the said chocolate biscuits and happy indulgence… that is, until his mother had caught him, face smeared with chocolate and biscuit crumbs, and had sent him to his room without supper for the remainder of the night. Still, you live and learn.

The 'Marseilles Intelligence' gave references to a place called Scarrick Point in Cornwall. From reading the background files on the agents, Scarrick Point was the home of the man the killers knew as the 'Engineer', but who was better known to Toby by his codename of
Scorpius
. So they had a target and a location. Now they needed to know when and how the killers would get there.

The other piece of intelligence was a map with a circle around the Falmouth area and 'Scarrick Point' written in ink in large letters. There was a connecting line which stretched across the channel and stopped at another circled point somewhere around the Cherbourg region. It was headed by a word: 'March' and along the line the same hand had written 'Thamilia'.

But what exactly was Thamilia? Was it a codename? Perhaps the codename of a UK-based contract killer who the assassins were going to use?

But no, everything about what they'd done so far pointed to the fact that this hit-team was keeping the actual killing to themselves. They were using outside contractors for certain things; the German who Gorilla and Nicole had disposed of in Marseilles being a case in point. But on the whole, it was their show.

So how would they get to Scarrick Point, which wasn't the most accessible place from mainland France; boat, car or plane? It had to be one of those. Toby had quickly rung around his contacts in SIS's Naval Intelligence liaison, SIS Air Liaison and a contact of his in the port authorities' liaison office. He gave them all the same request: Find me something, anything that relates to the word 'Thamilia'.

Here he was the 'Ace-Detective' of the British Secret Service, hunter of spies and traitors, and he'd been confounded by a word he'd never heard before.

He had his answer the very next day, from Commander Rix, the SIS Naval Liaison. “Sorry we took our time on that one. We're all at sixes and sevens in the move over to Century from Broadway. Anyway, the 'Thamilia' is a French-registered vessel, a thirty-two-footer, no less. The owner is one Albert Verhoeven. The information came from my French navy contact. Well, you know the French are now in the counter-gun running business, stopping arms from Europe making their way to North Africa. It seems Verhoeven had been flagged as a possible gunrunner at some point over the past few years, but the French couldn't catch him in the act.”

So a boat was the method of entry; the question was, where was it now? He'd put in a priority request to the French Desk, who in turn put in an order for the same Hawkeye team that had been so successful in Marseilles to take a trip down to the Cherbourg region and do some devilling about in the harbors and fishing ports, to see if they could track down the Thamilia.

The agents spread out across the area, operating under the cover of French holidaymakers exploring the coastal region and perhaps looking to hire a boat for a day or two of coastal exploration. For nearly a week, Toby heard nothing, and then a surprise phone call to his desk had spurred him into action. Not only had the Hawkeye agents managed to track down where the boat was moored, but they'd also been able to capture a few grainy, black and white photographs.

Johnson, the Hawkeye team leader, had phoned the Burrowers' office and relayed the information directly to Toby. “It's currently, as of this morning, moored in a small fishing village called Barfleur, which is about twenty-seven kilometers east of Cherbourg,” said the dour surveillance expert.

“And it hasn't moved?” asked Toby.

“Not according to our man on the ground there. He's booked into a little hotel overlooking the harbor and he's got constant surveillance on it. There's been some coming and going over the past day or so, moving some type of equipment on board. Then yesterday, the skipper had a visit from a couple of hard cases. They went inside for a pow-wow, stayed an hour or so and then buggered off.”

Toby's excitement was almost palpable. “If it moves, I need to know about it. We may only have a few hours to stop it.”

The call finally came early on the Saturday morning. It was Roger who took it – it was his shift – but he immediately relayed it to Toby at home. “It's bloody well on the move. It's been kitted out with some kind of equipment, we have to assume relating to the hit, and it has four men on board; the Captain and the three hitters.”

“Why three?” asked Toby, crunching down on a piece of toast. It had been a rare chance for a family breakfast together. That is, until the telephone rang.

“Who knows, maybe after Marseilles they're being overcautious,” suggested Roger.

“What's their expected ETA in Falmouth?”

Toby heard the ruffling of papers from the other end of the line and then Roger said, “Best estimate if the conditions stay fair, they can make about eight knots in eight hours, twelve hours slowest. I've just checked the weather report and there's a bit of rough weather due in down there over the next day or so. I reckon they'll be there late tomorrow night. Obviously they're working to a deadline, or they'd just reschedule.”

“Alright Rog', well done. I'm coming back into the office after I've notified Redaction. Have everything ready for me on my desk.” Toby and his team had gone forward, gone backward and gone every which way. He had been sure it was Cornwall and the target was Scorpius and the intelligence had borne him out. Satisfied, he picked up the telephone and dialed the direct line for Masterman and got a “Yes?” almost at once.

“Sir, it's Toby Burrows. I think I have something.” Toby briefed Masterman on the details of the material from Marseilles. Cornwall, the boat, the timeframe of the hit and the harbor they would sail from.

“Clever move on their part, that,” said Masterman. “Going for the more abstract target, rather than one already in their neck of the woods. Even now, they're trying to wrong foot any potential trackers.”

“I agree. The secret to good counter-intelligence work is to see a pattern within the madness, and by attacking the targets randomly, rather than geographically, it's making it harder for anyone to track them.”

“Well, let's hope these fellows have a successful trip across the channel, then,” said Masterman.

“Excuse me for speaking out of turn, Colonel, but couldn't we just send the Royal Navy to intercept them once they enter British waters? Cut them off?”

Masterman thought about whether to answer and then decided to give the young desk officer the full facts. He was, after all, responsible for tracing the boat and the targets. “Yes, we could Toby. Most certainly, we could. But you see, the rules of the game have changed slightly, it's suddenly become much more complex.”

“So what are we going to do?”

“Why, that's simple. We're going to let them come to us. I'll need to get Gorilla back here on the first available flight.”

Toby was about to say something to challenge his superior officer, something about calling in Special Branch to pick them up when they landed, but then thought better of it. As he listened down the telephone line, he was sure he heard a touch of pleasure in Masterman's voice. It was the sound of the huntsman starting to sniff out his quarry for the first time and sending the dogs in for the kill.

* * *

An hour earlier,
The Thamilia
had eased out of the small, crook-shaped harbor of Barfleur and gently ambled out to sea. Inside relaxing, David Gioradze and his two sub-contractors were playing poker for loose coins. It was to be a long journey, at least ten hours. The Captain, Verhoeven, had been told to take his time. No rushing to get there, just let the boat putter along at a gentle cruising speed. Gioradze wanted to hit the Cornish coast somewhere late on the Saturday night, the later the better.

Darkness was going to be their friend.

He gently moved the canvas bag at his feet and told one of the French sub-contractors to put it in the storage hold ready for arrival in English waters. Better to have things out of sight, just in case they happened to be boarded by either the French or British Royal Navy. After all, the bag contained their tools for this particular job; three fully loaded Israeli-made Uzi 9mm's with folding stocks.

The Israeli weapon had been chosen on purpose. Gioradze did like to have the very best weapons for his contracts, which in this case, was something short and powerful with a rapid rate of fire. The hope was that when the British authorities finally arrived on the scene and found the Uzis, they would assume that some Israeli hit-team had finally managed to track down another aging Nazi and handed out justice. Gioradze knew that if nothing else, it would buy them a little time to carry out the rest of the contracts on their list. While the British police were looking in one direction, they would be moving off in another. It was brilliantly planned. Something that Marquez excelled at.

Since the incident in Marseilles, they had moved quickly to keep the momentum going at the pace of the hits. Marquez had headed to the safe-house in Auvers sur-Oise while he'd made his way down the country to place the finishing touches on the 'Engineer' hit.

He looked at his hand of cards – a pair. Shit!
Better to fold
, he thought, and threw the cards down onto the table. The Frenchman across the table from him laughed, revealing a gold tooth, and swept the cards and the coins into a big meaty hand. “Not your day, eh David?” he said.

Gioradze shrugged. It was only a game of cards, fuck it; as long as it wasn't an omen for the coming night's events he would be fine. Yes, he would be fine.