A Game for Assassins (The Redaction Chronicles Book 1) (15 page)

* * *

David Gioradze sat concealed in his perch and cradled the 'Eagle' in his hands.

The perch was a grey tarpaulin hide that he'd constructed the previous night, made from old hessian sacking. Not enough to provide cover and concealment up close, but from a distance, he would blend into the flat roof of the apartment building.

He had chosen his spot well; it was far enough away to keep from the prying eyes of the locals, but within the effective range of his killing ground. When the time was right, he would simply pop up out of the hide, center on his target and melt back into the landscape before anyone could figure out where the explosion had come from.

The 'Eagle' was the nickname he'd given to the Rocket-Propelled Grenade launcher that was his weapon of choice for this type of long range killing. The RPG-7 was a 40mm warhead that would send a kinetic shockwave through anything it hit. Its main military function was to destroy heavy artillery and vehicles. He knew that against a normal car, its effect would be devastating.

Back in his Legion days, Gioradze had attended a course as part of his basic training, on the tactical battlefield use of rocket propelled weaponry. His instructor had been – before his fresh start with the Legion – a former SS commando who had used the Panzerfaust to great effect on the Eastern front against Soviet tanks. “My boy,” the scarred German veteran had said, “they are the greatest weapons in the world if used correctly and aimed at the right target. They are like the eagle, swooping down, bringing death to the small lamb.”

He knew his target did most of his legitimate business from his company offices located on Stadtle Street, the main thoroughfare in Vaduz. International shipping, so the intelligence files said, which in Gioradze's opinion was a useful business to have when you're buying and selling arms and munitions to the dictators of Africa and Central America. He thought it strange that a committed Communist agent who supplied military hardware to KGB-backed end-users was also in love with money for its own ends. Strange. Who knew, maybe it was the thrill of putting the deals together that was the rush, rather than venal thoughts.

Gioradze had driven the 700 kilometers overnight from France, easily passing over the border in his little camper van with the RPG-7 carefully hidden in the concealed tubing which had been expertly welded to the undercarriage of the vehicle. He had arrived as dawn was breaking over the small town of Vaduz.

His first job had been to scout out the target location, a non-descript, three story office block that was the headquarters of Schon International. Then he'd driven the campervan around the circular one-way street and stored it at the rear of the building which was to be his 'perch' for the next few hours.

Scaling the outside of the buildings had been child's play. It had merely been a case of climbing up one outside metal drain pipe, the RPG broken down into two sections and carried in a fishing bag, and then he'd clambered up onto the roof of a small outhouse. From there, it was like climbing up slowly ascending building blocks, until he reached the second story roof of the restaurant he'd chosen to be his sniper position. With the hide made, there was nothing left to do but shiver against the icy cold and keep the warhead from freezing by snuggling it against his prone body.

He checked his watch regularly. He knew his target would be arriving for work that morning at 8.45am to the minute. Again, the trusted intelligence reports had provided this information. Every morning during the working week, the arms dealer arrived precisely fifteen minutes before the rest of his staff. He would arrive in a grey Mercedes, driven by his chauffeur-bodyguard.

At 8.30am, just as the town of Vaduz was coming to life, Gioradze carefully assembled the two pieces of the RPG and locked the warhead into its firing tube. A small
clunk
and he was satisfied it was secured in place. All he had left to do now was fire. He knew what would happen when he pulled the trigger of the RPG-2. The trigger would send an electrical impulse signal to the rocket motor, which in turn would initiate the propellant, causing the grenade to leave the launcher. The grenade would then 'sprout' seven metallic fins, giving it stability in flight. Basically, Gioradze thought of it as a modern version of an archer's arrow.

He pushed back the sacking from above his head and peered up at the grey sky; a light covering of snow had turned the rooftop white. He craned his neck and chanced a look down onto Stadtle Street. It was just a normal suburban street, a few cars dotted here and there, and many people on their way to work, battling against the increasing snowfall. A check of his watch told him it was now 8.43am.
Keep it together, keep it together,
came the mantra in his head. He locked his gaze on the front of the building; he didn't want to miss the target.

Less than thirty seconds later, the target made his way along the main stretch of the road.
Closer, closer, keep coming,
he told the Mercedes, willing the car along its normal route, begging that today wasn't the day that the target deviated from his normal course of action. The Mercedes, a dark grey, powerful machine, cruised up to the entrance of Schon International. With no other cars parked in the vicinity, the driver brought it right to the door, eager to get as close as possible so that his employer wouldn't be exposed to the elements.

Gioradze heard the engine stop and watched as a large, heavyset man in a business suit climbed out of the driver's seat.
The protection,
laughed Gioradze to himself. But not today
Mon ami.
The bodyguard adjusted his jacket and spryly moved around to the pavement side to open the door for his employer. On the rooftop, Gioradze smoothly folded back the sacking which had been a makeshift blanket and stood, lofting the RPG to his shoulder and clicking the cocking button. He carefully peered through the metal sights, aligning the forward sight with the roof of the Mercedes.

Two things happened simultaneously. A woman, tall and red headed, emerged from the entrance to Schon, just as the target – the arms dealer – exited the car. Gioradze just had time to see the fit-looking arms dealer turn to inspect the street, before the woman appeared in the sights. A smile of recognition spread across the arms dealers' face when the woman came forward to embrace him. Old friends, perhaps? A lover? A wife? It didn't matter. Her death would merely be incidental.

The trigger, pull the trigger!
Gioradze's head screamed.
Now, do it now!
He braced himself, the launcher tight against his shoulder when he pulled the trigger. There was a deafening
whoosh
against his right ear and then the grey morning was illuminated momentarily with a brilliant flash. He watched as the eagle of death flew toward its target.

The grenade took approximately two seconds to reach the car. It hit the vehicle directly, killing the target, the woman and the bodyguard instantly. They were simply vaporized; with the exception of a clothed limb here and there. The Mercedes seemed to be picked up by an invisible hand and then slammed back down onto the road with such force, the doors and wheels seemed to burst outwards from the main bulk of the vehicle. Then there was fire, and a lot of screaming.

Like a child watching a fireworks display, Gioradze let his eyes linger on the violent spectacle that lay below him in the street. It was a myriad of fire, smoke, charred metal, and screams. Then something else flashed into his mind, a remark from the old German who'd taught the boys how to use the 'Eagle' in the Legion.

“And when you've done the killing, don't hang around to admire the roaring fire you've created; you turn and run unless you want some sharp-eyed sniper to target your firing position.”

Gioradze dropped the launcher tube and walked briskly to the rear of the roof. He hurried down, down, down through the buildings until moments later, he reached street level. There was no worry about anyone targeting this building just yet, there would be too much panic on the street and he suspected with the chaos surrounding him, it would be a while before the police arrived. He estimated he had a good ten-minutes of getaway time, which was more than enough, given that his vehicle was literally parked around the corner. From there, he would take the main arterial route out of Vaduz.

He walked out onto the Stadtle, keeping his gaze lowered. He was aware of people behind him, around him, to the side of him. People were running towards the chaos, whilst he walked in the opposite direction. He glanced back, aware of the smoke in the distance, before increasing his pace. A young girl, perhaps a waitress on her way to work a morning breakfast shift, briefly locked eyes with him. He pulled his cap further down, partly to conceal the top half of his face and partly to protect himself from the snow.

Moments later he was back in the campervan. He checked around for witnesses, seeing none, he gently removed the false beard which had been glued in place, and then took of the hat, the wig and the spectacles. They would be dumped on the roadside, as soon as he left Vaduz. He turned the key in the ignition and started the engine and the nondescript little campervan gently ambled out onto the road, heading away from the flames.

'Hit' number two had been completed.

* * *

Over 2000 miles away Mr. Knight, the American, received a letter from Europe. Because of the distance involved, it had taken a little over two weeks to arrive. He sat and breakfasted on coffee and pancakes while he watched the young girls swimming in the hotel's pool below and then he picked up the letter, which had been delivered to his hotel suite. European postmarks. He slit open the envelope and caught the two pieces of paper which fell out. Both were clippings from German newspapers.

One covered the assassination of a respected Liechtenstein resident and businessman, in the quiet town of Vaduz.

The report stated that Vaclav Kader, the Chairman of Schon International Shipping had been assassinated in a targeted attack. His wife and driver had also been killed. The assassins had escaped. It was assumed because of his alleged (and so far unproven) connections to the illegal arms trade that he had been killed by a rival who was trying to muscle in on this deadly and lucrative business. Police were continuing their enquiries.

The other newspaper cutting covered the death of a junior British diplomat, Julian Cowan, who had been found murdered in Hamburg. The British Embassy was vehemently denying claims that Mr. Cowan had been the victim in a homosexual sex game murder. Both articles had barely caused a ripple, relegated to pages nine and ten in the newspapers.

Mr. Knight smiled to himself, feeling very satisfied. He picked up his lighter and set both pieces of paper on fire, dropping them onto his empty plate. Seconds later, there was nothing left but ash. He thought for a few more moments and then made his way to the bedside telephone and placed a call to his bank in Switzerland. He gave the order for the first block of funds to be transferred over to his 'contractor's' bank account in Luxembourg.

With Operation MACE now officially sanctioned by the hierarchy at Broadway, the resources of SIS swung into action. Masterman put in an urgent request to the Registry.
Find me the link,
he told them. Find me the name, the clue or what have you, but get it to me by yesterday!

The intelligence analysts began the long search through the archaic files of the service. What they were looking for even they weren't sure, but Masterman was an experienced hunter of men and knew that even the most careful of killers, especially those who were paid to do it for a living, always left a clue or a residue of information somewhere. It was almost impossible not to.

He gave the archivists a list of what they knew. Professional killers, European, definitely in the Dominican Republic in 1961, CIA linked definitely. Dominican Republic in 1961 equaled the assassination of President Trujillo, something the CIA was rumored to be heavily involved in. The clerks turned their attention directly to the SIS Caribbean Desk for that year.

At first there was nothing and Masterman and his unit had to settle for the silence of the telephone and the moribund action of the telex. Masterman – never one to relax – had ignored the silence and set about working out an operational plan. The intelligence would turn up, he knew sooner or later and when it did, he wanted to have a strategy in place so that he could act. Look further; look deeper, he urged them before going back to his desk in Pimlico and his planning.

And then like a radio signal breaking through static, the information slowly started to filter through… an old report from the SIS station in the Dominican Republic… a fragment, nothing more… report from a junior officer… bar room gossip, nothing more… two men and a known CIA operative… it could be nothing… really.

But to Masterman it was the break he needed. An eye witness; what's more, an eye witness who was assigned to the SIS Station. He sat at his desk in Pimlico, lifted the phone, and made a direct call through to 'Personnel' at Broadway.

“Hello Colin, it's Masterman over at Pimlico. I wondered if you could do me a little favor.”

* * *

The girl rolled off of Jack Grant, body glistening with sweat from the exertions of the past hour, turned onto her front and stretched a hand over to the bedside table, reaching for her cigarettes.

Her breath was still shallow, panting, and her face was flushed with the aftermath of their lovemaking. He lazily stroked the small of her naked back, tracing his finger along the curvature of her spine. He took in the thick black hair which cascaded over her shoulders, her coffee colored skin and long, full figure. “So who's next?” he asked.

The girl laughed as she reached for her watch. It was 9.35 in the morning. “Why, you want me to hang around? Isn't an hour long enough for you… or is it that you're jealous, Jack,” she teased.

He raised an eyebrow at that. Jealous? Never! Well, almost never. He had seen the girl – Coco, that was her working name – he had seen Coco four times over recent months. He always used the same discreet 'Escort Service' from Soho which provided high-class girls for discerning gentlemen. Her accent fluctuated between Jamaican, or possibly Cuban, and East End Cockney, giving it an unusually pleasant lilt.

His employment protocols dictated that she should be checked out by the snoopers at the Security Service and that, if nothing else, their assignations should be at a separate location from his home address.
But screw that,
thought Grant,
he liked his home comforts.
He found her good company; and they had a similar style of love-making – active and intense! She didn't ask too much of him or he of her, and yet he always had this moment of sadness when she was due to leave. Was it guilt, or just the craving for another human being to be with?

“We all have to do things we don't like from time to time,” he said.

“Even you?” she asked.

“Even me.”

“What does an accountant have to do that they don't really want to?”

“Tax forms, love, tax forms. They're a bloody nightmare,” he said, the beginnings of a smile on his lips.

“Hardly the same thing, Jack. Besides, why aren't you at work on a Tuesday morning, it's a bit early to be hiring me.”

“It's never too early for you, Coco.”

A light giggle followed as she rushed to put on her underwear and find her dress. He knew her day job was working at a coffee bar somewhere, the escort work was just a sideline, but she wouldn't tell him where and if he was being honest with himself it would cause more problems if he did know. Better to keep their relationship purely carnal.

She ran her fingers through her hair, straightening out any kinks. “Well, whatever you decide to do, have a lovely day doing it. I've got to go. Will you call soon?”

“No…” he groaned. She laughed at that, knowing full well that he would, the next time he wanted a roll between the sheets. She knew she was that good.

He heard the door slam as she scuttled off to work and he lay there enjoying the sanctuary of an empty bed, stretching, staring at the ceiling and rubbing a hand over the fresh growth of stubble on his chin. Christ, he was bored already; time to get up and move. Day off or not, he hated lying in any later than he had to.

Grant had been on enforced leave for the past month and it was starting to grate on him. Enforced leave was sometimes necessary for agents, who had a tendency to become fatigued on operations and after the length of his last job in Asia, which had run on for several months, he'd been told to take some time off.
Do normal things; take a holiday, fishing, perhaps, a bit of mountain climbing. I hear the lakes are nice this time of year
–
anything, but forget about the office and being operational for a month or two.

But that was not Jack Grant. Not by a long mile.

So he drank, screwed attractive and available women and occasionally took himself to the Flamingo Club in Soho. In truth, he was no lover of jazz, but the company in the club itself – hookers, gangsters, pimps and hop heads – he felt an affinity with. They lived a secret life and asked nothing of their fellow party goers, which suited Grant just fine.

But for him, copious amounts of alcohol and sex equaled one thing; that he was getting bored and he had too much free time on his hands. It was purgatory and he needed to get back to work and quickly, if only for the sake of his liver. He'd spent too many mornings throwing up, after the haze of the previous night's session, and he knew that if the office found out he'd be flogged and put on the static list, destined to push paperwork for time immemorial.

His ability with a firearm and his skills as a tracker of men were his greatest assets and vital to his role in the service, but even the Secret Service had limits as to how much leeway they would offer to one of their best men. So, he hid his excesses from the Service while he was on leave, as best he could. He knew the only one he couldn't hide it from, was himself. He hated himself for his laziness.

The loud peal of the telephone on his bedside table roused him from his gloom. He grabbed the receiver and barked.
“Yes!”
Coco's leaving had gotten to him, despite his protestations. He heard the click of the security line being activated and he knew instantly. It was Masterman.

“It's me and I think you mean, hello
sir
!”

“Sorry, I was… in the middle of something,” he muttered.

“Well, get your clothes on, I've got a little errand for you, something to stop you from being bored.”

“Too late. I've been bored for the past fortnight.”

“Yes, well, we've a new recruit being seconded to our unit and I'd like you to give them the once over, meet them, greet them and then give me your assessment of how it went.”

“Okay, anything to get out of the flat. When and where?”

“Around twelve-thirty. The American Bar at the Savoy, no less,” replied Masterman smoothly.

That caught Grant by surprise. “Very nice. Not normally in my league, that place, I normally get the transport cafe and the ex-squaddie who thinks he can cut it with the big boys.”

“What can I say? It's your lucky day and besides, the Mirabelle would be just too flashy. Just keep the bill down and don't go wild with the wine list, or it's coming out of your pay packet. Get receipts for everything,” said Masterman.

“Okay, fair enough. So who is it who gets the five-star treatment?”

“Oh, just someone we think has value for an upcoming operation. Give them the hairy eyeball, Jack, don't let them have an easy ride, try to trip them up and see if you can unnerve them. We don't want any wilting daisies in our mob.”

“Recognition code?” asked Grant, his mind instantly switching back into operational mode.

“The usual one we use for the greenhorns,” said Masterman. “They've been told to spot the most likely-looking spy in the place and make contact.”

Was that a hint of devilment in Masterman's tone,
thought Grant. “Okay. And then?”

“And then send them on their merry way and report directly to me later today. The usual place, the usual time.”

“I'll get onto it now,” said Grant, already reaching for the bundle of clothes laying by the foot of his bed.

“Oh, and Jack…”

“Yes, sir.”

“Make sure you have a decent shower to get that young lady's perfume off you; I understand that Chanel No. 5 does tend to linger.”

“Sir ?”

“Yes, Jack.”

“You are a bastar—” A click sounded as the phone went dead in Grant's hand.

* * *

Jack Grant, over the years of his career in espionage, had met all manner of agents, traitors and targets in numerous diverse locations. Some he had been trying to recruit. Some had been nothing more than disposable informants and some had been targets who he knew would not survive the meeting. Back alleys, souks, cafe's, cars and even once on a Baltic fishing trawler.

But he was sure – no, he was certain – that none of them, past or present, would ever match the sheer grandeur of his current 'rendezvous' location where he was to meet the as-yet unidentified field agent, namely that of the exclusive Savoy Hotel in London.

Whoever the prospective addition to the Redaction Unit was, they must certainly be special to carry this type of weight, he reasoned. Perhaps a professor or an academic who was accustomed to such elegant surroundings, rather than the working men's pubs that most of the Redaction operatives were used to.

Maybe it was even one of the new breed of Special Forces troopers who Masterman was keen to get his hands on. They were from his old wartime regiment after all, and despite Grant's initial skepticism that they were merely army grunts and therefore not used to operating in an undercover role, he had trained with several of them at their base in Wales and found them to be tough, efficient operators. He had even made a few quid off them in wagers when he'd been talked into running through a CQB pistol shooting session in their killing house. It had been like taking sweets off a nipper.

He just hoped it wasn't some limp-wristed fop, fresh out of academia or it would be a quick interview.

He was absently pondering all this as he strolled leisurely along the Strand on that chilly morning, when he noticed the woman heading directly for him. It was going to be a race to see who could make it to the ornate entrance of the Savoy first.

She was attractive and fashionably dressed in a stylish winter coat of sunburnt orange, one that accentuated her slim figure. Wearing dark sunglasses to keep out the harsh winter sun, a demure headscarf covered long auburn hair, and all the while, she held her head firmly jutted downwards against the cold. The winter disguise meant that her age was both undetermined and mysterious.

As they both headed for the doors, it was almost inevitable that they were going to collide – they were on a direct course, and it was only when the woman stumbled that Grant reached out to stop her falling flat on her face. He was greeted with an “
Oh excusez-moi, monsieur, je Suis tellement désolé
,” as he lifted her upright, feeling the delicate weight of her against him. He began to smile in her direction, trying to make eye contact, but she was already gone, her head once more stuck in her phrase book and heading into the hotel itself and up the staircase straight ahead. He watched her go. It was a literal brief, but beautiful, encounter.

He shook off his daydreaming. The weeks of nothingness had dulled his senses, but he was operational now and he negotiated the revolving doors to the Savoy, nodding to the Commissioner as he did so. He sauntered through the foyer, past the elegant reception and headed up the stairs on his left towards the American Bar. If, the Savoy staff that day had been asked later to describe the visitor who had passed them just after noon, the majority of them would have struggled to even remember him. He had that kind of skill – he could disappear like a ghost.

The more alert members of the hotel's staff might have, between them, remembered a small, stocky man… maybe. Short white blond hair that hinted at his northern European ancestry. A good quality, single breasted suit in a somber grey and a conservatively discreet tie to match… possibly. Of the man's features, any answers would have been even vaguer. Few would remember the whole man. He was, to all intents and purposes, a social ghost.

The American Bar was famous throughout the world as being one of the most exclusive watering holes for the discerning traveler. He was greeted by the Maître d', a small-boned man in black tie and white waiter's jacket, and shown to a table at the far end of the room, seated by the rear corner window with his back to a main wall. He liked that, partly because of his training – it was easier to spot a threat and fight if need be – but more importantly, because he liked to watch the passersby hurrying through the streets of London. He wondered if there was something of the voyeur about him; an observer rather than being the observed.

The bar itself was elegantly furnished with bottle after bottle of world-renowned brand names and the light from the high chandeliers reflected onto the glass and chrome giving it an ethereal feel. The Bar Manager, Joe Gilmore, stood in perfect command of his fiefdom; in the corner, the piano player was musically discreet, keeping the volume to a minimum so as not to disrupt the conversations of the handful of guests who were dotted about the booths and tables.