A Game for Assassins (The Redaction Chronicles Book 1) (48 page)

But his own was a little vaguer. Of course he also wanted revenge for the murder of one of his officers, even more so, because Daniel Ferrera had been his nephew, his sister's flesh and blood. He had known him since his first day, seen him grow and had been one of the people responsible for bringing him into the Agency.

But more than that, he wanted the chance, probably the final chance in his career, to inflict a grievous wound on his enemies. Turning, arresting or monitoring a Soviet espionage network was all very well, but at this late stage of the game, he wanted to make a stand and wound them deeply. He'd drawn a line in the sand and he was damned if he was going to cross it for the sake of job security.

And if it should all cave in, the operation blown and the Agency hunters on his tail? Well, it wouldn't take long for the investigation team to work out who had assisted Chuck Ferrera in his rogue operation. Chuck would hold out as long as he could, he knew that, but these days, the Agency had access to some very clever people and technical support, namely interrogation drugs, which could open up the mind of even the most resolute of prisoners.

He guessed – no, he knew, that his days at the Agency were numbered anyway. The old guard were out and the new intake, under the new broom of a DCI, were quickly being fast-tracked to senior positions.

And Ferrera? Even at this late stage of the operation, the ordering of the execution of these men didn't sit easy with his conscience. The thought of ordering the killing of men half a world away, like some kind of Roman Emperor, in normal times, would have been abhorrent to him. It went against every moral code he'd been exposed to; first in his Catholic upbringing, and then as a professional intelligence officer.

He wasn't a psychopath, he wasn't a monster, but he recognized he'd made a vow to the memory of his son, and honor had to be restored. So it came as no surprise that during one of their final planning meetings, that Higgins confronted him.

“Chuck, the question, after all these months of reflection and working through your grief, is whether or not you wish to take this further. There's no shame in stopping it dead right here and now. But this is the absolute last chance to abort. If we go on from here, we have to go all the way,” he said.

Ferrera had pondered much the same thing over recent days in the lead up to the final planning stages. He looked back at Higgins. Greyness had invaded his pallor, he looked unwell. By contrast, Ferrera felt more and more invigorated and looked the picture of health. Something had happened in their relationship over the past few months. Their roles had reversed; whereas Higgins was once the leader, now Ferrera, with his single mindedness, had assumed the figure of authority and command.

Ferrera placed a hand on Higgins' shoulder and smiled. “We go all the way, Richard, all the way until they are all dead.”

Three months into the start of their unofficial operation, Charles Ferrera started to get 'the episodes', as he called them.

In truth, the headaches had been there for weeks, in the background and distant. But just recently, they had been growing stronger, blinding almost, so much so that at times he would take himself off to his room, close the curtains during the day and suffer through the intense pain.

At first he thought it was just a buildup of stress from the past year, or possibly a consequence of drying out from the booze. But as the weeks passed, he soon began to realize that this was no 'cold turkey' affliction and he would frequently throw up during these attacks. There was nausea, sickness, and the ever-returning headaches.

All the good work he'd done to attain physical fitness in Vermont was slowly being undone. In the end, he could bear it no longer and made an appointment to see a private physician in New York. The doctors had looked at his medical history, ran the standard tests, and submitted him to a thorough examination and biopsy. Then he was told to return in two weeks' time, when the results would be available.

He knew what it was before he boarded the flight back to New York, fourteen days later. What else could it have been? He'd sat in the doctor's office in Manhattan and listened; a brain tumor, inoperable. “I'm sorry Mr. Ferrera,” said the specialist.

Ferrera brushed the platitudes aside. “How long do I have?”

“Less than a year certainly, but the treatment we have can make it comfortable for you, so maybe a little longer.”

Damn. He'd planned on at least a good year to complete the operation, now he would be lucky to see Svarog's head on a spike. The thought of death didn't frighten him at all, but the thought of not completing his unfinished business terrified him to the core. He would have to move the operation along to hit a new deadline.

The doctor spoke of medication, treatment, hospices. Ferrera ignored all the man's advice. He knew what he had to do and how he was going to live out the rest of his life, and it wouldn't be bedridden and pumped full of drugs. He instantly decided on two courses of action. Firstly, he would not tell Higgins about what he'd just learned and secondly, he was even more determined to push ahead with this revenge operation.

Chuck Ferrera was a tough man and he would, through sheer force of will, stay alive long enough to see his son's killer and his agents dead in the gutter.
Besides,
he thought,
a walking dead man has nothing to lose and that made him a very dangerous adversary.

The specialist made an appointment for him for the following week, to begin his treatment.

He never went back.

* * *

A week later, the man who boarded the morning flight from Washington to London had up until that morning, not officially existed. The name on his passport was Maurice Knight. He was in his early 60's, wore an expensive business suit and appeared to be a senior executive from one of the large corporations that were so vibrant in the States right now.

He was flying direct to London and then taking a connecting flight to Paris. A brief stopover in Paris overnight, before he flew to Vienna the next day. He looked relaxed and in control of his own destiny.

As the airliner made its way skyward across the Atlantic, Mr. Knight sat back in his business class seat, removed his leather wallet from his inside jacket pocket and took out a small, black and white photograph. It was the only concession to his old life.

The picture gave him focus and resolve. It was his compass which kept him going true north. The picture was that of a young boy sitting on a beach somewhere, perhaps on a family vacation. The boy looked to be around ten years old and was holding a catcher's mitt that was way too big for him.

Mexico City – May 1965

It was the phone ringing again that shook him from his reverie. He was once again back in his hotel suite in Mexico City with the heat, the sweat and the noise from the air conditioning. The memories of the past few months had quickly evaporated.

He knew it wasn't Marquez again so soon. The man knew not to break protocol, unless he had something to report. The only other person who had his number and who had been in touch constantly over the last few days, was Higgins. He picked up the handset, knowing who it was before he'd even heard the voice.

“It's me,” said Higgins, down the notoriously bad Mexican telephone line.

“Has it exploded in our face?” asked Ferrera. He could feel the start of a headache, a dull, throbbing pain behind his eye.

“That's the understatement of the year. I can't talk long. There's a good chance they're monitoring my calls. I'm on a payphone.”

“I understand. What have you heard?”

Higgins took a breath. “The Agency knows something. In fact, they know more than they're letting on. I've been hauled in by the goons from the Office of Security to answer questions about you, Dan, the shooting in Poland. I don't think it's quite at full-scale internal investigation level yet, but it soon will be.”

“Perhaps they're just fishing, perhaps in truth they have nothing concrete yet?” suggested Ferrera.

“Chuck, they know it was you, they must do. My guess is that they're on their way to you as we speak. I figure you haven't got long before the local FBI man bursts in with some Mexican
Federales
and shackles you in chains.”

“I'm going nowhere. I'm not running and I'm not hiding. I'm making my last stand here,” said Ferrera.

“But—”

“But nothing. We achieved what we set out to do. We got Dan's murderer and fought the Cold War on our own terms. Mission accomplished. It's time for you to look after yourself, Richard.”

“What will you do?”

“It's better that you don't know. Just look after yourself, deny everything and if they do get too close blame everything on me. Say I duped you into it. Hopefully, that will stop you from receiving any jail time,” said Ferrera calmly.

Higgins held the handset close to his ear, thinking, weighing up the truth of the situation. “I understand, Chuck. Just go easy.”

Ferrera gently replaced the handset. There was no time for sentiment or thanks. That had all been said the last time they'd met.

He would never be taken alive, he knew that. Not only for Higgins' sake, but also for the fact that it was time to leave this world. As the puppet-master of the ultimate game, he had played superbly. He had controlled his pawns, pieces and minions across the globe, tactically moving each into the optimum position to benefit his own ends.

Would he go to hell for his misdemeanors and underhanded practices; the manipulation of the weak and the shedding of blood – all in the name of revenge? He didn't truly know, but he did know he wouldn't have to wait long. He could already hear the screaming whine of the police vehicles in the distance. They could be for another incident nearby, but he doubted it.

He stood and looked out from his balcony. The street below was teeming with the flotsam and jetsam of the city. Everything appeared normal. But were they already here; the Agency watchers and the Bureau, with their surveillance vans, observation points and radios? And what was
their
final endgame; to take him alive, or eliminate him quietly? No, he was sure they would want to question him first, to find out as much as they could about his rogue operation. Only then would he be dropped down a deep hole, never to be seen again.

He knew how he would do it if the roles were reversed. A room service waiter to gain them access, then a four-man snatch team to storm the room and subdue him. He would then be drugged and extracted in a laundry trolley and whisked away to US territory.

Ferrera picked up the .38, thumbed back the hammer. Was this the way?

He had come this far and been ruthless; to kill himself seemed almost admitting defeat. He would never be taken, he knew that, but if he was going to leave the game, then he was certain he was going to take his hunters with him. He threw away the .38 and dressed quickly in his best suit.

Satisfied, he placed a number of items of importance in his inside jacket pocket. These would go with him, wherever he ended up after this adventure. The suitcase, the suitcase was next.

Ferrera lifted it up onto the bed. Inside the case, under a false panel, was what he termed his doomsday equipment. As well as the .38, it had contained several 'cakes' of plastic explosive, wires, detonators and electronic triggers. He had already 'primed' the room with enough plastic explosive to lift the floor off the building. It was sealed around the door and window frames and hidden behind the paintings and mirrors on the walls. It had been his first job, when he'd registered in the hotel suite.

Now it was the electronic trigger switch he removed from the suitcase. He flicked the switch and activated it, hearing a faint hum emanating from it. All that was left to do, was press the button when he was ready. He returned once again to the balcony, enjoying the sights of the city at night. He knew what he was looking for. The dark sedan that suddenly emits several men; men with purpose and uniformity and flanked by a small contingent of the Mexican police, resplendent in their fawn uniforms and their shiny side arm's tucked carelessly into worn leather holsters on the hip.

In his mind's eye, he could see the shapes of several figures running along the corridor of his hotel floor. They would remain covert for as long as possible and they would be armed. They could neither let him escape, or die. They wanted him to talk.

So it came as no surprise when the knock on the hotel room door came, less than five minutes later. He moved to a spot directly in front of the door, like an actor on a theatre stage, about to give a grand performance. His arms were outstretched at shoulder height to his sides; a Christ-like figure on the cross. He was ready and eager to leave this world. “The door's open,” he called. “Let yourself in.”

To hell with them all,
he thought. The CIA, the KGB, and the politicians that run them. Hell, let them butcher one another. He hoped the Cold War would become a Hot War. Many times in the great game, the knight was sacrificed for a better tactical advantage, so why should this time be any different?

He waited for the pause, then slowly the handle turned and the door began to open on its arc, the barrel of an automatic pistol cautiously leading the way. He had enough time to see this before he pressed the button on the detonator and watched as the fizzle of the acid burned away and dropped the plunger into the plastic explosive.

The firestorm of light was almost biblical.

The Director of Central Intelligence was about to pack up his briefcase for the day and call for his driver to bring the car around when his personal line rang. It was his Deputy Director, Webster. “Mr. Director we've just had word from Mexico City. There's been an explosion. Eight confirmed dead, dozens more wounded.”

“Ferrera?”

“Yes sir, he set off a bomb he'd rigged inside his hotel room. Took out himself, our snatch team and several Mexican police officers,” said Webster.

The DCI swore under his breath. “Alright Roy, get up here, we need to manage this situation.”

It was a god-awful mess. The DCI was a father himself, knew how he would have felt, and he certainly would have handled Ferrera's grief much better than his predecessor, who had frankly made the situation worse with his acid tongue and incompetence. However, this didn't make his problem any less tangible. Ferrera was dead now – that at least was a blessing – and even if he had left any evidence behind the Agency would simply make it disappear, or simply deny everything anyway.

No, the real problem now was Higgins. What to do with him? He certainly couldn't be let off. His actions were treasonous, after all. He'd broken a bond of trust that could never be repaired and to give him his liberty was opening the Agency up to possible extortion. And that would not happen, not during his tenure. Higgins was too dangerous to be kept alive and free. What was needed, was a subtle removal to a thorny problem.

Ten minutes later, Roy Webster entered the DCI's office. Both men sat down and looked at each other. Finally, it was the DCI who spoke. “I think we need to make this mess go away, Roy. Go away and trim off any loose ends.”

“I take it you mean Higgins?”

The DCI nodded. “He's the one who holds the balance of power at the moment, the one who could destroy the Agency with a phone call.”

Webster nodded. “I think that's a wise decision, Mr. Director. There's someone we know of who could deal with this problem for us. Quietly, discreetly.”

The DCI was well aware of the gravity of issuing the order to kill an operative. It was both risky and morally askew. And while as a government employee, albeit a very powerful one, he could not sanction an assassination at a political level anymore thanks to the recent Executive Orders from the White House, there was a caveat that allowed him to interject at an operational level if necessary in extreme circumstances. Extreme circumstances like this. “Who, someone on staff?”

“No, it's… complicated. He's a freelancer, effectively. He's very good, exceptional in fact. His cryptonym is Caravaggio,” said Webster.

The DCI raised an eyebrow. “Caravaggio, like the artist? I've heard of this fellow, rumor only, of course.”

“Actually, he's informally known as the 'Master'. They say he's turned wet-work into an art form.”

“Do we have control of him? As an asset, I mean?” asked the DCI.

“No, sir, he's not an agent in the classic sense of the word. He works only for very high rewards and even then, only if the 'job' interests or challenges him. He's been involved in several high-level intelligence operations for a variety of Western agencies, all of them successful. I think it's fair to say he's something of a legend within the intelligence community.”

“Mmm,” the Director mused. He didn't like the thought of not having a source under his control, it was too vague and unwieldy, but he had to admit his options were limited. The Assistant Director of Plans had left him in a precarious situation, both professionally and politically. He had been brought in to take a firm hold of the CIA following the retirement of the previous Director, and he was damned if he was going to be kicked out because one of his senior men had decided to be a part of some stupid revenge crusade. He needed this whole mess to disappear.

He had made up his mind, distasteful as it was, but sometimes ruthless decisions needed to be taken by honorable men. “Can you get in touch with this Caravaggio?”

“I'll try, sir. We can only ask, however, as I say, he only works for the highest bidder and for unique operations.”

“There is no price ceiling on this one. How would it… happen?”

Webster shrugged. “Oh, these things always play out a certain way Mr. Director. We offer Higgins a choice; prosecution or early retirement. He'll fall into line and retire. We then cut him loose from the Agency and have him on a very long leash. In six months, or eight months, or even a year's time from now, just when everyone has forgotten about this affair, that's when our contractor makes his move.”

The Director nodded, satisfied with the DDCI's hypothesis. “Tell him that, and I want it done quietly, an accident maybe.”

“Perhaps a heart attack, sir, middle aged men, stressful job – it's not uncommon,” suggested Webster.

The Director had no doubt that in a few months' time, following the enforced retirement of Richard Higgins, he would receive a report about the man's fate; drowning while swimming, a car accident, a fatal illness, a random shooting while out hunting. Really, the method was irrelevant, only the end result mattered.

Yes, it would be a report that he would read, digest and then burn in the fullness of time.

He could wait. He was a patient man.