A Game for Assassins (The Redaction Chronicles Book 1) (9 page)

“Seems reasonable, I don't blame you. If it helps, I left them a little present inside the briefcase containing the ransom money.” A smile touched the corners of Marquez's mouth.

Gioradze looked at him quizzically. His friend Lucien looked back at him with a cold smile, a callous smile. “The case is lined with plastique. On a timer, the moment they spring open the lock well, let's just say that they'd better spend that money soon. I'm just sorry that we couldn't see the explosion. It's the very least I could do; we do, after all, have something in common.”

A confused look crossed the little man's face. Lucien leaned in closer and whispered; “We have the same employer, David.”

There was a pause as Gioradze began to work out exactly what the man meant. “What…the Americans…but how?”

Marquez shrugged as if it was a matter of no concern. “Different departments employ us certainly, but it amounts to the same. We both do the Agency's dirty work. Your Agency codename is ROGUE. In truth you are David Gioradze, former soldier, mercenary and bank robber, according to the local CIA man at the Embassy who briefed me. Is that correct?”

Gioradze leaned back in the seat and nodded.

“Well then, allow me to introduce myself, my true self should I say. I am Juan Raul Marquez, Agency cryptonym, WIN.”

“Two CIA operators in the same place, but the odds of us meeting must be huge!”

“Really, do you think so? The CIA is nothing if not prolific and does tend to scatter its money and its agents profusely. I was sent here on one mission, you were sent here to do a different one, but we are both of the same ilk. It isn't
that
surprising that we would come into contact eventually, Europeans in a strange land do tend to gravitate towards each other.”

Gioradze let the implication of the night's events sink in.

“Besides, I recognized you for what you are straight away; a spy, like me. Your rather embarrassing attempt to 'recruit' me only confirmed it,” teased Marquez.

Gioradze began to cough and wheeze, the sucking of the air into his lungs was no longer to help him breathe, it was to give out great bellows of laughter. “Oh… that… is so… good! Of all the people to try to recruit and it turns out to be a fellow agent… well, that's my contract with the Yankees over and done with.”

“Um, not quite. If I have learned one thing about working with the Americans, it's that they don't throw away good resources at the drop of a hat,” said Marquez.

“What do you mean?”

“It seems, or so I have been informed by my case officer, that they have further use for both of us. The situation has altered while you have been locked away. The Congo is no longer on their radar; it seems that the Congo crisis has been resolved. Lumumba has been captured; hence your assassination operation is now void.”

“Captured or killed?”

“For the moment, let's say captured, but from what I hear he won't see the next forty-eight hours out. Firing squad, I hear. The Americans will have their man Mobutu in place, the Russians have been kicked out of the country and normality for the CIA has been restored.”

“So where does that leave us?”

“In quite a fortuitous position actually. Despite your rather inept agent recruitment methods and your exasperating skills at organizing a covert attack team, I have been singing your praises to the CIA.”

“Why?”

“Because you are, I believe someone that I could work with, so long as we understand the chain of command,” replied Marquez.

Gioradze knew what that meant. He knew how the chain of command worked. “In other words, you're in charge,” he said.

“Let's just say I'll be the first among equals,” purred Marquez.

Gioradze thought for a moment. “Okay, I can live with that. Besides, I owe you for getting me out of that hell hole. What's the plan?”

Marquez nodded, satisfied that his plan had worked out as he expected it would. “Good. The Agency has decided that we are to be partnered up. They have big plans for us and the word from the man in Washington is that they have plenty of work for us to do.”

“Such as?”

“The details are a little sketchy at the moment, but broadly speaking, the CIA want us to do what we do best, covert action, assassination, sabotage and kidnappings. The benefit for them is that they will have two experienced covert agents running their operations for them.”

“I could see how that would be attractive to them,” said Gioradze.

“Our first job starts as soon as we get back to Florida. There is a little problem in the Dominican Republic that the CIA wants us to take care of as soon as possible. Interested?”

“Okay, fine, but first I need a cognac. Better make it a double.” Gioradze turned away and looked out the car window at the dark night sky.

In the distance a faint light hinted at landing lights where a small plane might land, for example. Could he trust this man, let alone work with him? He was an enigma certainly, but Gioradze took seriously the risks that this killer had taken to save him from certain death. It was a life debt and one that he would honor.

In that respect he knew he would be Marquez's man for life – or at least until he was killed, or Marquez found someone better to work with. But that was alright, Gioradze had survived on far worse odds than that in the past.

Vienna – December 1964

Now, four years after their first meeting, the two killers and former partners sat once again face-to-face over coffee and pastries in Viennese cafe society.

Since their time in the Congo, they had worked in Africa, Latin America and had latterly been part of the operations against Castro's Cuba. All had been deniable and all had been successful. However, following the assassination of President Kennedy last year, the two men had been 'retired' as contract agents for the CIA. It was hardly surprising given that, with their own President having been the victim of a political assassination, senior CIA officers would want all links to their own assassination operations and operatives removed and hidden from sight. In fairness, the Agency had paid them well and commended them before cutting them both loose.

“How have you been, Juan, busy? You look well,” said Gioradze shaking the other man's hand.

They had last met nearly a year ago on a private contract which Marquez had found for them: the kidnapping of a Turkish drug importer who had double crossed one of the major players in the Middle East heroin distribution network. They had lifted the man in Marrakech, torturing him for several days before the man finally relented and told them that the rest of the money had been spent. Marquez had shot him in the head and then burned the body. Job done.

Marquez nodded. “I did some work for the Corsicans a few months back. Nothing terribly difficult, a small job really. Besides, I have my investments and business back home to keep me busy. And you David, all goes well with you?”

Gioradze smiled and leaned back in his chair. “I too have become a legitimate businessman,” he said proudly. “Nothing in your league, but the bar turns a profit, the weather is pleasant and I have a woman to keep me warm at night.”

“It sounds… glorious,” said Marquez, sipping his coffee and trying his best to sound impressed.

Gioradze nodded, not believing the man's kind words for a moment. Marquez was cut from a different cloth and Gioradze knew that the thought of domestic bliss, especially one with a woman, would have filled the Catalan with revulsion. “It is. I love it. But that's not why you dragged me away from it, all the way to the freezing, pissing rain in Vienna. Something's happened, I can see it in your eyes, Is it a problem? Is someone after us?”

Marquez shook his head. “No, nothing like that, not at all. In fact, it is exactly the opposite. How would you like to get back into the game?”

That statement captured the Georgian's attention immediately and the Catalan spent the next thirty minutes outlining the broad details of their new 'contract'.” Marquez had spent the previous day with Mr. Knight giving his American controller the broad outline of how he would conduct the contract. What he would need, what his time frame would be and in which order the contract would be completed.

Never the
full
details of course – never – for no contract man alive ever tells his case officer everything. It is partly borne of a long mistrust of officers safely back home and tied to a desk, but also because Marquez wanted to keep a certain level of control over the running of the operation.

The two killers spent the next hour discussing in detail – as only men of a certain profession can do in their chosen trade – the logistics, tactics and pitfalls of such a unique contract. By the end of the hour Gioradze had made some suggestions which Marquez had decided to incorporate into the planning phase. He knew it had been the right thing to do to bring the little Georgian on board; the man was a natural soldier and spotted an easier way to carry out several of the killings.

“I think we need to talk in more detail back at my hotel,” said Marquez.

Gioradze nodded, began to push his cup aside and started to remove his gloves from his coat pocket. Marquez, however, remained locked in his seat. “You will need to close up shop back home for the next few months David,” he said.

“I'll get Maria to take over running the bar. It's no problem.”

“Good. Hmm… but here in Vienna we have a problem.”

Gioradze cocked his head quizzically and returned to his seat. “We do?”

Marquez nodded. “The American wants us to take care of a small administrative issue, to tie up a few loose ends.”

“Tell me more.”

“There is a man who has been helping the American, running errands, translating, that sort of thing. He knows what the American looks like and he knows what I look like.”

Gioradze smiled. “Ah, I see my friend. I'm glad to see that you haven't lost your cautious streak.”

Marquez shrugged. “I'm just being prudent. Why risk the success of this operation or indeed our liberty on the say so of a man of no importance? It protects the Americans and it protects us.”

“And you, of course, want me to take care of it,” said Gioradze, his mind clicking back into his old ways.

“It shows that you are committed to this contract, a sign of good faith. Besides the target has never seen you, so it will be like shooting a rat in a barrel.”

“A fitting analogy. Okay, when and where?”

“Tonight. Here take this photograph of him that I got from the American,” said Marquez. He slipped a small piece of paper across the table to the Georgian, who quickly glanced at it and placed it inside his glove for future reference. “He is expecting to meet me in front of the Parliament Building at nine o'clock for what he believes is a final payment for his services. When I don't show up, he'll know to go home and wait for a phone call from me as a backup. He will simply think I've been delayed and will wait for a re-schedule time. Follow him.”

“So follow him, finish him.” It was a statement, not a question from the Georgian.

Marquez moved his eyes searchingly over his partner, looking for a clue to his next question. “You are armed?”

“Of course, always,” replied the Georgian.

“Okay. Good. I don't want to know the details, just deal with him.”

“And then?”

“Then meet me at my hotel so we can go over the next stage of the plan. The Hotel Imperial, room number 229. I'll be waiting. If you don't arrive by 11.30, I'll assume that you've been captured or killed. In that eventuality I'll be out of Vienna within the hour.”

The Georgian stood and made ready to leave, pulling his gloves tighter. “Don't worry, I won't fail. I'll be back as quickly as I can.”

Marquez nodded and watched the little mercenary make his way to the door of the Cafe, and for a brief moment he felt a pang of pity for the man who would be the target of the Georgian killer tonight. A brief pang only, before the moment passed.

* * *

Max Dobos, wearing a black cap, polo neck and knee length leather coat, stood freezing in the dark, beneath the statue of Pallas Athene, the Greek goddess of wisdom, strategy, war and peace, in front of the Parliament Building on the Ringstrasse.

The time was 8.55pm by his old and tattered wristwatch and he had five minutes to wait before he met Marquez for his final payment for the 'American job'. It would, he hoped, be a brief meeting as the less time he spent in the Catalan killer's company, the better. This would be the third time he would have met Marquez in person.

The first was when he had been recruited by the American, Mr. Knight, and he had made a personal visit to the little antiques store that was the 'front' for the assassin's more lucrative business. He had not liked the man from the moment he had set eyes on him. Cold and aloof, he turned Max Dobos's blood to ice.

The next time had been when he was in charge of security during Marquez and Mr. Knight's meeting in Clervaux. He had liked him even less then; again the eyes looked at you as though they were figuring out the most effective way to kill you.

But tonight was to be the last. A brush past meeting with minimal conversation and after that he would never work with them again. If his little plan worked out well this would be his last job in the intelligence marketplace for a very long time.
If
his plan worked out. But in the meantime, he waited.

Waiting! Waiting was the bane of intelligence work, he decided. You made an arrangement, you went, you waited. Your guest didn't show, so you went for the fall back location. Then sometimes they didn't make that meeting and you had to start the whole thing all over again. He glanced at his watch again. 8.58pm.

The other rule of the waiting game was that you didn't give them a few minutes after the allotted time. That was bad security and could turn out to be lethal, as so many had found out to their cost. But not Max Dobos. When the time was up it was up. So you gave them, up to and including the minute that had been agreed upon, then you simply walked away ready for the next rendezvous.

He had been working as a peddler of intelligence information since the end of the war, when as a displaced person he had been allowed to settle in Austria, and thus far he had made a successful career moving information around from one spy service to the other. And while it was true that he was something of a whore in who he worked for, he had always had a close affinity with the British station in Vienna.

The Americans were good payers, certainly, the Germans were thorough and demanded respect, even the Russians provided him with the odd chores, but it was the British that he had chosen to make his first among equals. They had picked him up after the war and employed him, first as a translator and had pulled the necessary strings to enable him to live a relatively unmolested life in Vienna. Over time they had used him more and more, latterly as an informant and taught him the ropes of working at the coal face of the intelligence game.

He slowly paced up and down in front of the statue, impatience irritating him and the cold seeping into his lame leg that was travelling carelessly behind him. The leg! That and his eye were remnants of the war when he had been beaten mercilessly by a sadistic SS officer in an interrogation cell who, wrongly, assumed that he had some long forgotten piece of information.

He had worked first for the fascist government of Hungary as a communications technician, but as a Jew, he had no doubt that the Germans would soon implement the same treatment to Hungarians as they were doing to the rest of Europe. He was right and in 1944 he found himself in the hellhole that was Auschwitz.

The beating had left him blind in his right eye and lame in his left leg; an awkward combination in anyone's book. When he looked in the mirror these days he saw an old, old man and though his age was actually fifty, most mornings he looked nearer to seventy.
A harsh life can take its toll most certainly,
he thought.

But he was a survivor. He had survived the fascist politics of early Second World War Hungary, the hunting down and subsequent incarceration of the death camps of Auschwitz and the new war between the Soviet and western forces. He stayed below the radar, he was invisible and he thrived.

He gave another look at the watch. 9.01pm.

That's it,
he decided. Head back home and wait for the call for the backup rendezvous. Despite his misgivings regarding the Catalan, he hoped that nothing had happened to him. If Marquez was caught, captured or even killed, then the last of the money was gone forever.

So he walked, determined to get home quickly and put as much space between himself and the Parliament Building rendezvous.

In truth, he was sick and tired of peddling intelligence to the great and good of Vienna's covert marketplace, sick of his menial job working at the university as a repairman, and tired of Vienna. What had once seemed like a vast stage for him to work on was now in his eyes, a crowded Babel that he had long since become weary of. He dreamed of an apartment in Paris, warm nights, a simple life with no looking over your shoulder or wondering where the next double cross was coming from. He had gone the length of the rope with this phase of his life and he knew that he needed to reinvent himself or risk becoming an outdated player. So Paris sounded just the right spot to while away his days.

The kernel of an idea for his retirement had come when he had been approached by the American, Mr. Knight. He knew the moment that the CIA man had offered him a well-funded stipend that whatever it was he was planning; it was going to be big. This was more than double his usual fee and experience told him that with a well-funded purse came an operation of great importance – and risk, of course, as risk was an elemental part of the trade.

Information is power, he knew, and the only questions to be asked were what the meeting was about and who was this intelligence useful to? But without solid evidence, the head spies would throw him out. A little fishing trip was needed, nothing too technical, simple electronics really, a little eavesdropping perhaps. After all, he had responsibility for the security at the meeting in Luxembourg, so it wouldn't be too difficult to rig up some self-made surveillance equipment. Not for Max Dobos, oh dear me no.

The device he had decided on was a Stuzzi Portable Reel to Reel Tape Recorder which was made in Vienna. It was commercially available, relatively cheap to buy, and being the size of a small toaster, fitted snugly in his overnight case. He had bought it directly from a contact who provided discreet surveillance equipment to private investigators. The Stuzzi also came with an adapted eight-foot-long string-like microphone wire, which Dobos hoped would be adequate to fit into the safe-house.

He had travelled to Luxembourg several days before to make all the arrangements, such as the approach to the Catalan killer, securing the 'safe-house' in Clervaux and to rig up his elementary recording device.

When the Catalan and the American had gone into their meeting, he had quickly rushed down to the basement, uncovered the recorder from behind the mattress and pressed the PLAY/RECORD button. The tape whirred slowly and Dobos listened intently through the headphones. What he heard only confirmed his suspicions about the American operation. This was no mere information gathering exercise. This was a list of agents being targeted for 'termination' and outside of the Catalan and his American case officer, only he knew about it. And that made it very valuable information, very valuable indeed to the right recipient.