A Game for Assassins (The Redaction Chronicles Book 1) (4 page)

The American seemed satisfied with the answer. He clicked his pen to retract the ballpoint, returned it to his pocket and sat once more staring directly at his guest. They had reached a point of no return and, from this moment on, the operation would either go forward or be stillborn.

“So who are these targets? Until I have an understanding of precisely who and what they are, I cannot give you an accurate assessment of success feasibility,” said the Catalan.

Mr. Knight pulled another manila folder from his briefcase, and with a quick flick through the pages with his fingers, he handed a single, typewritten sheet of paper to the Catalan. The words 'TOP SECRET' were emblazoned in red diagonally across the page. He evidently had his own copy as he immediately turned his attention to the folder resting across his lap and began to speak. “I think for brevity's sake, for the moment we should refer to them by their professional titles,” said Mr. Knight.

The Catalan nodded his agreement and returned his gaze to the briefing document, while Mr. Knight cleared his throat and assumed the mantle of a teacher conducting a lecture.

“So we have the
Soldier
, an army colonel currently assigned as his country's liaison officer to NATO headquarters in Paris. There is the
Diplomat
, who is operating out of an embassy in Hamburg; he is part of a diplomatic policy think-tank for creating strategies to counter Soviet expansion. The man is also a closet homosexual.”

Mr. Knight ran his finger down the page until he reached the next targets on the list. “The
Engineer
is a senior scientist currently believed to be seconded to a project designing a new missile delivery system. The man was a leading light in the Nazi war machine during the war, a protégé of Werner Von Braun, no less. Then we have the
Financier
who is a senior banking official with a noted Swiss banking house in Zurich. He has direct access to various government funds and is an expert in re-routing and hiding KGB monies in the West.

“The
Politician
is Special Advisor to the current UN Secretary-General and a former member of the Italian parliament. She is very influential, with many friends across Europe and the USA, apparently also has the ear of the current Chief of Staff in Washington. Finally, we have the
Quartermaster
; a respected businessman who runs a secret sideline, procuring illegal arms for Soviet-backed operations across Africa.”

The Catalan sat quiet for a moment. It was an impressive list, no doubt, but there were several nagging doubts running through his mind, not the least of which he decided to voice. “Would it not be better to try to turn these agents? I know from my own experiences during the war that the perceived wisdom is to use agents to catch more agents. Killing them merely leaves you with a dead end.”

Mr. Knight sighed. He'd expected this reply at some point and his carefully constructed response had been prepared in advance. “That is the usual way of doing things, certainly, and as a professional I agree with what you're saying. But this operation is just one part of a bigger project. The reasons don't concern you, only the conditions.”

The Catalan frowned. “There are only six names on this list; you said there were seven targets.”

Mr. Knight cleared his throat and placed his hands carefully on his knees, almost as if he didn't trust them to remain still. When he spoke, his words were clipped. “The seventh target is, we believe, the KGB controller who runs these agents personally. At the moment, we only have limited information about him. That will change over the coming months. We know that he's currently active in Europe somewhere. As soon as we find him, we will pass you the information.”

Both men stared openly at each other for a moment, weighing up their options. It was the American who finally spoke. “So we have now reached a line in the sand. I think I need a clear answer.” There was a deliberate pause before he spoke again. “Are you able to handle this operation?”

Was he able to handle the murder of seven people, seven people who made up a Russian intelligence network?

Oh, he was more than capable. In his time he had caused – either directly or indirectly – the deaths of more than a dozen people, for just as some people are born to be academics, surgeons or musicians of the highest order, so the Catalan was a natural in the art of murder. He had, after all, spent half his life engaged in the dangerous world of espionage, criminality and professional terrorism.

Juan Raul Marquez –aka the Catalan; the man from Luxembourg; the Killer – had been born forty-five years earlier in the Catalonian region of Northern Spain. His affluent family background had been a melting pot of Catalan extremism, and while the political firebrand of his youth had long since left him, what had remained was the wisdom and experience of the born survivor. The life blood of intrigue coursed through his veins, and like all natural survivors who have walked through the constantly shifting sands of the secret world, he played the game superbly.

As a young man he had travelled extensively around Europe, affiliating himself with all manner of revolutionary and counter-revolutionary groups. He was like many of his generation, outwardly wealthy, cultured but still struggling with his fortunate place in the world. He had so much, while many had so little.

So he raged; raged against the elitist European royalty, the corrupt governments, the puppet politicians, the lies of communism, and it was this anger and this searching that led him into contact with his first underground political cell.

In truth, it had been his infatuation – perhaps even love – for the cell's leader, a charismatic and handsome Swiss doctor named Michel who was eager to stem the rise of communism, which had led him to being one of the bomb throwers in an attempted assassination of a visiting communist party leader to Geneva. Unfortunately for the fledgling terrorists, both bombs had failed to ignite and Marquez and his cohort were quickly arrested by the authorities.

Prison, even a Swiss one, had brutalized him. The beatings, the rapes, the hard labor were bad enough; but six months into a ten year sentence he had learned through the underground network the harsh reality of the secret world. His beloved Michel had been an
Agent Provocateur
for the Swiss authorities. It had been a trap designed to roll up a cell which had been getting too well known.

People take to prison in many ways, some acquiesce, some blend in, and some fight back. For Marquez, it was the latter. Following months of abuse and the final cut of betrayal, he'd proven to be a difficult prisoner for the guards to handle. The beatings increased and solitary confinement seemed to be his way of life. Fortunately, for both himself and the guards, he was handed an early release from prison, thanks to the intervention of influential, and very rich, friends from his social circle who were able to hand a hefty bribe to the Swiss authorities. That, and the promise that he would never return to Geneva again, seemed to be a fair deal.

The experience had left him with a clear understanding of several things. Namely, that he would no longer be fooled into believing the lie of political ideology. They were fools the lot of them, ready to commit to a baseless system and yet so easily brought down by human fallibility. How weak.

He decided that in the future, he would be responsible for his own planning. He spent most of his twenties hiring himself out as a smuggler and thief and eventually moved to Paris.

He moved in wealthy circles, had tempestuous affairs with several men, and cultivated friendships with those in power. He was fast becoming a power player.

With the outbreak of war, Marquez fell firmly on the side of the Petain government and had many patrons inside the Vichy regime. He soon came to the attention of the
Abwher
, German military intelligence, and earned his credentials in the early part of the war by spying on his French hosts. He was caught
in flagrante
by the French authorities, spying on a munitions factory, and given a prison sentence for his trouble.

Fortune was once more on his side however, and he was released by the intervention of his friends in the Vichy regime, not least being Pierre Laval, the new head of government. Once he had regained his liberty, he went straight back to the spying game, this time in Bordeaux working as an intelligence agent for the
Sicherheitendienst, also known as the
SD – the Nazi intelligence organization. Capture, murder and torture were his stock in trade and he used them to excess.

By 1943, and sensing that victory was turning in the Allies' direction, Marquez offered his services as a double agent to a British intelligence network operating in Paris. He also had a lucrative sideline, smuggling expensive works of art and diamonds stolen from wealthy Jewish families to Lisbon. He used this 'route' to pass sensitive information he had gleaned from his inside position in the Nazi intelligence service in France, to the British SIS and American OSS stations in neutral Portugal.

In the intelligence war, however, there are no old and bold spies and it was only a matter of time before a rare mistake was made by Marquez. He lasted a year before he came under suspicion by the Gestapo; he was hauled into the interrogation center at the Avenue Foch and questioned for days. Through good luck and a cast-iron cover story, he was able to soothe the German's concerns, at least initially. He was released and placed under surveillance by the Gestapo, who waited to see if he would make contact with anyone from the Allied spy networks.

Marquez, with his trademark cunning, knew when he had been compromised and did nothing except sit in his Paris apartment drinking expensive wine and entertaining several young men. After a month's worth of surveillance, the Germans, being no fools, decided that he was too much of a risk and chose to exile him from France. The knock on the door one December morning by two heavily armed Gestapo agents who were under orders to 'escort' him to southern Luxembourg confirmed that his espionage career was over. Marquez, if asked, would simply state that it was part of the great game; the risk, the thrill, and the elegant blood rush of danger that made him become embroiled in such intrigues. He traded the lives of men and women as a stockbroker might play the market, with ruthlessness and cold calculation. He never looked back, only forward.

By 1945, the Germans were on the run and the Americans were rounding up all manner of former German agents, spies and operatives. Marquez was hauled out of Luxembourg and placed before a British Colonel with responsibilities for intelligence work. The stern Colonel assured Marquez that his valuable work as a double agent would certainly go in his favor, if he could “just give us a few more details about his former compatriots.”

Marquez spent the remainder of the year giving as much evidence as he could about German and Vichy intelligence operations to investigators and prosecutors at the Nuremburg trials. With the war over and his freedom assured, he moved back to a civilian life in Luxembourg. He opened a small art dealership and antiques business, and to the casual observer, lived a quiet and unremarkable life. It provided him with excellent cover for his much more lucrative secret life consisting of international smuggling operations, both in precious minerals and narcotics, as well as working as a freelance agent for the French, Belgian and West German Intelligence Services.

And so a decade after the end of the war, Juan Raul Marquez had once again returned to his chosen trade of smuggling, espionage and murder. It was a trade in which he excelled, and a trade which sooner rather than later would bring him to the almost omnipotent attention of the CIA.

Marquez stood at the window and gently peeled back the curtain, so only the smallest aperture was made allowing him to view the frozen scene outside. He scanned the street for any sign of a threat, but saw only the empty streets below him. He turned to the American. “Who would be my contact?”

“You would work directly with me. No contact, either overt or covert, with the American Embassy or the local CIA stations where you are operating. You work at arm's length, independently, with no chaperoning. You try knocking on Agency doors, they'll tell you to take a hike and that they don't know what you're talking about. I will give you a series of telephone numbers and you will be required to check in regularly, to give and receive up-to-date intelligence. After each successful hit, I will release a designated amount to a personal bank account of your choice. You don't complete the contracts; you don't get paid. Questions?” said Mr. Knight.

“I would need several weeks of planning, to organize my team and work out how we would complete the operation.”

“Of course,” Mr. Knight agreed.

“Monies are to be paid directly into my private account at the Banque International de Luxembourg. I will distribute the funds as and when I require them.”

“Absolutely.”

“I will look over your intelligence and planning so far. If it can't be done, I will say so. I will not waste our time. If that is the case I would require $5000 as a severance payout. My time is precious, you understand.”

“Agreed.”

Marquez gave the scenery outside one final look before turning to the American. “Then if all that is acceptable, I would say you have a contractor.”

* * *

“Max. Our guest is leaving, please fetch his coat.” The call went out to the factotum, down the stairs in the lower level of the building. A distant “Yes, Herr Knight,” was the reply.

With the successful reactivation of Marquez, Mr. Knight, ever the practical intelligence officer, had a more pressing problem, namely the tying up of loose ends. Conversely, it was also a fine way to test the Catalan killer's loyalty to the operation and to see if his skills had diminished in any way over the years since he had last been employed by the Agency.

“Herr Marquez,” he whispered as the man stood to smooth down the creases in his tailored suit. “I suggest that we meet one week from today in Vienna. There I will hand you all the biographical details of the targets, funds and a list of resources available to you. I would also like to go over your plan at the same time.” The American reached into his inside jacket pocket and removed an envelope. “Here is a ticket to Vienna, some expenses and an itinerary.”

Marquez pocketed them; he would read through them later. “What about my cryptonym?” he asked.

“Well, I think if you are agreeable, we will stick with your original Agency codenames; QJ/WIN and WI/ROGUE. Is that satisfactory?”

Marquez nodded his approval. He knew that the CIA used cryptonyms that began with a two-digit prefix called a digraph. This digraph usually denoted the locale where the agent had first been recruited. In his own case QJ stood for Luxembourg, the place of his initial recruitment. His partner's digraph of WI represented the Congo, the place of his first operation and the country that had brought them together.

The latter part of the cryptonym was usually something random, or that fitted together to make a complete word. However, in the case of WIN and ROGUE, there was always a sneaking suspicion on Marquez's part that some anonymous CIA officer had judged their personalities well: one a ruthless winner, the other a risk taking criminal. He smiled. It felt like he was back where he belonged, safely inside the protection of a CIA sponsored operation. This contract, possibly his greatest challenge, he was sure would also be his greatest masterpiece.

* * *

The following week was a whirlwind of activity for Marquez. He temporarily closed down his little antiques business in Luxembourg, citing the need to visit an elderly relative in Spain and warning his customers he may not be back for weeks, possibly even a month or two.

He also made discreet contact with several members of the European underworld, with whom he had worked in the past. Each was a specialist in their chosen field. They were expensive, but well worth the price that their expertise brought. Finally, he locked himself away in his beautifully furnished apartment above his little shop and set to work. By the second day, he had the workings of a plan and a strategy of how he would complete this most challenging of contracts.

His plan was simple. Take out the easier targets first, without arousing the suspicions of the KGB. Accidents were always good as they weren't as obvious as a bullet to the head. They bought the assassin time to escape and didn't alert any investigators to the fact that foul play had been used.

Experience also told him that the higher profile the target was, the less likely the use of 'accidents' was, of being an option. Their security was invariably higher and therefore they had a level of protection that made it much harder for the erstwhile assassin to get intimately close to the target. Close quarters work may be an option in this case, but he doubted it. Besides, he would know more once he had a chance to read through the American's intelligence assessments on the targets.

The devil is in the details,
he told himself. He sat back in his chair, stretched, then reached across to the telephone sitting on his desk. He heard the click of the operator picking up and asked her to connect him to the private number of a bar in Portugal, which belonged to his former partner.

* * *

The meeting of the two European killers took place at a small cafe located on the Stallburgrasse 2 in the old town area of Vienna, exactly eight days after Marquez and the American had first met. It was discreet, off the beaten track, away from its flashier rivals and a perfect place for two old friends and business partners to reacquaint themselves.

It was commented on by the SIS intelligence analysts who later reviewed the case, that this momentous meeting was a pivotal point in the operation; as much hinged on the successful recruitment of the Georgian killer. It had been a good length of time since the two men had last worked together and much could have changed in the little killer's attitudes. He had, after all, found a new country, a woman and a lifestyle.

The SIS analysts also felt that if he had turned down the offer of a lucrative contract, it would have signaled his imminent death sentence. Contract killers, especially top level ones, despise being turned down by former partners as they are invariably seen as security risks or even worse; there are fears they may try to undercut the original contractor. Hell hath no fury like a deceived assassin, it would seem.

However, on this occasion the analysts and naysayers needn't have worried. The killer had reverted to type and just as a leopard is said to never change his spots, so it was for the small Georgian – he would never turn down a lucrative contract sponsored by his old partner.

David Gioradze, the Georgian, arrived at the cafe at the appointed time. He was dressed in a thick, fur-lined coat, gloves and a hat to keep the cold at bay. He had spent the past few years enjoying the warmer climate of Portugal where he had made his erstwhile home, running a small bar and enjoying the many pleasures of that country, not least, the wine and the women. Having to travel to Vienna during the winter months did not exactly fill him with pleasure.

He made his way through the tables to the counter, ordered a
Kleiner Schwarzer
, the Austrian name for a small black coffee without milk, and pointed the waitress to the corner table in the shadows, where the unmistakable figure of his former partner reposed. He took in the man's long aquiline face, his perfectly groomed hair, his cultured manner, his fashionable, yet conservative clothes made by the finest tailors in Italy. This seemingly cultured and urbane businessman was one of the best contract killers in Europe. Inwardly, he sneered. In truth, he disliked the man, hated his aloofness, his penchant for young men, his sometimes effete manner. They were not friends, never would be, and the fact that they came from different social classes only widened the gap. But on occasion, the two men would come together to form a symbiotic relationship. The iron hand in the velvet glove was how they had once been described; Marquez the planner, Gioradze the hammer.

“It's been a long time since Leopoldville,” said Gioradze, shaking the other man's hand.

They had first met in 1960, when both had been working, separately at first, for the CIA in Africa. To the CIA officers who ran them, and to the headquarters staff at Langley, these two Cold War mercenaries were better known by their registered codenames, the ones that would be used in confidential communiqués. Gioradze was known, perhaps in reference to his penchant for taking risks and daring nature, as WI/ROGUE, while Marquez, in reference to his single mindedness and commitment to finishing a job successfully, was known as QJ/WIN.

Marquez smiled back at his partner.
He still has that ice cold smile,
thought Gioradze,
the smile that invites you into its embrace, just as he plunges a dagger into your back.

“Indeed,” said Marquez. “Not to mention Mexico, Brazil and Bolivia. Come, my friend, sit down. We can talk about the old times, once we have discussed our bright and prosperous future.”