A Game for Assassins (The Redaction Chronicles Book 1) (18 page)

“So we can't be seen to upset the Americans by telling them to bugger off,” said Grant.

Masterman nodded. “Exactly. We have to bite our tongue. The harsh reality is that we're the ones with the intelligence begging bowls at the moment, and the Americans are the ones running the officers' mess. We need them more than they need us at the moment.”

“So we have to toe the line, is that what you're saying?”

“Sometimes we have to disrupt the games of our allies in order to save them from themselves,” declared Masterman.

“What, by sabotaging their operations?”

“Precisely. It's a game; they lie to us, and we fool them. That's the way it works. As long as we come out of it with the better portion of the deal, we're quite happy to carry on with the deception,” said Masterman, who had spent his career frustrating both friend and foe.

Grant was determined not to let his boss off the hook that easily. “And we can't move these agents; put a security screen around them? Protect them in some way?”

Masterman shook his head. “The word from the top is a resounding 'No'. The Americans and their contractors would smell a rat straight away, as would the Russians, and the word from the Chief is that this double agent network is in no way to be compromised any more than it already has been. The best defense at the moment is total ignorance. That way, they will carry on as if everything is normal. Besides the removal of a few mercenaries is very, very minor compared to the integrity of a long established intelligence network.”

“Which is where I come in?” asked Grant.

Masterman nodded as they moved over the base of the bridge and headed towards Westminster Abbey. “We want the problem of these American contractors to be quietly removed, with little or no fuss. By that time, the Americans will have lost all enthusiasm for revenge and will simply put it down to experience… that's the hope anyway.”

“How conscious is this double agent network that they're being targeted?” said Grant.

“Not at all. Even more worrying is that I fear we may already have to play catch up rather quickly. There have been reports that two individuals who fit the profiles of the suspected KGB agents on the list were killed last week. One was blown up by a rocket propelled grenade, and the other was garroted.”

“So whoever these contractors are, they're already at work.”

“It would seem so, and what we don't want is for the rest of the network to follow.”

“Um… difficult start point,” Grant mused.

“All is not lost; we do have several aces up our sleeve which can help you in your quest. We have a couple of rumblings of this hit-team's previous work history for the Americans, just rumors, but even rumors generally have a lot of truth in them, which may assist.”

“What kind of rumors?”

Masterman waved a hand, as if the details at this juncture didn't matter. “Oh, stuff in the Caribbean, one or two things in Africa, as well as the possibility of a couple of freelance jobs for some criminal organizations on the continent. As for this particular operation, they think it's an easy contract, soft targets, easy pickings, minimal risk. That will be their downfall, as they won't be expecting you to sneak up behind them and clip their wings!”

“What's the other ace?” asked Grant.

“Ah yes, well, we think we may have a visual I.D. on them.”

Grant turned and looked at Masterman. “Really? What, photographs?”

“Unfortunately, no. We have a spotter, one of our people who was stationed in the Caribbean and saw our two possible suspects meeting with the Americans in the Dominican Republic shortly after Trujillo caught a couple of bullets to his head. They fit the rather limited picture we have of them: one tall and swarthy, the other short and stocky with a bad toupee and a scar.”

“That's it? Not much. Frankly, it describes half the mercenaries in Africa,” said Grant.

Masterman smiled a smile which said, 'Well then, you're going to have to make the best of a bad job, old boy'.

“Okay. I'll need to question your spotter. When can I meet him?”

Masterman stopped and looked up at the spire of the Abbey. “Him, Jack ? Who said anything about it being a him? Besides, you've already met
her
.”

“What…”

Masterman, when he looked down at the other man, was smiling. “That young lady who you met today. She was our officer in the Caribbean and what's more, it's been decided that she'll be going with you on this operation to confirm identification.”

* * *

They had decided to walk along and were sat on a bench watching the boats sail upriver. Masterman had opened up his umbrella and was humming a little Mozart tune softly.

“You can't be serious, Colonel. She'd be a liability; I mean, has she even been on operations, let alone something like this?” said Grant, his voice deepening with anger.

“Calm down, Jack,” said Masterman playfully.

“I am calm!”

“Your volume level says different. Besides, you only ever call me 'Colonel' when you're angry,” Masterman teased.

Grant let out a sigh and continued to stare at his rain spattered shoes. He wished he'd stayed in bed after all.

“Look, she won't be there pulling the trigger with you. We're not stupid. But she has seen these two Europeans, something that not many people have, it seems, and we need a confirmed ID before we can sanction the killing. Apart from anything else, she can be your eyes and ears in places where you can't go. Good for basic surveillance duties, carrying out reconnaissance, passing messages… even a bit of burglary. Think about it,” said Masterman.

Grant conceded that in the predominantly male world of Cold War espionage, a female passes relatively unnoticed: unless she's serving drinks or you want to sleep with her.

“As every part of this operation is to be kept at arm's length away from our stations in Europe, she'll be your cut-out back to us. Besides, I can think of worse ways to earn a living; travelling around Europe with a pretty girl in tow to keep you company,” laughed Masterman.

He knew better than to argue against Masterman. When you're out on the operation certainly, really, there's not much they can do about it then. But at the early planning stage he had learned that it was best to have the top floor set the rules. “So what's the next step?” he asked.

“There's an intelligence briefing pack waiting for you back at the Pimlico office. It has everything you need to know about what we have so far. I suggest you get yourself over there double quick and start getting acquainted with the state of play before tomorrow.”

“Why, what's tomorrow?”

“There is a meeting scheduled after lunch where you get to meet the Constellation Network controller and the rest of your team. So it's back to work for you,” said Masterman.

The rain was getting heavier, the sky darker and Grant sensed that the briefing was coming to an end. Masterman stood up and they made their way at a brisk pace, pausing to look over at the Thames as it flowed like grey steel before them. “As you'll be the Operational Field Controller on this one, I want a blueprint and a shopping list from you as soon as possible. I need your eyes on this one, Jack, your keen mind.”

In Redaction parlance a 'blueprint' was an operational execution plan and a 'shopping list' was the nefarious tools he would need to carry out the killings.

The two men separated without another word, and Masterman began the long walk back to Broadway. He enjoyed the walk around Westminster, through the seat of the British political classes, it helped clear his mind, but today he couldn't help but wonder if the mission he had given to one of his best men was one that he would ever be able to return from.

Zurich, February 1965

The morning had not started well for Willem De Veen. He had risen late, unusual for him, but the lingering remnants of a winter cold he'd been trying to shake off was still sapping his strength.

He had dressed quickly, kissed his family goodbye and grabbed his heavy briefcase before stumbling from their apartment. His day ahead was busy. Not only his work at the bank, dealing with new clients and filing the paperwork at the accounts section, but today he was tasked with leaving a message at a discreet location which was a part of his secret work.

He didn't regard himself as a spy, merely as a conduit in the battle against a greater foe. He had started his career for the British during the war, when he'd been recruited to set up a network in occupied Holland. He'd been dropped in blind by Lysander and was lucky to escape when he discovered that the German intelligence apparatus had effectively gained control of the Dutch resistance. Willem had managed to smuggle himself out of the country and received a medal for his trouble, spending the remainder of the war working as an interrogator for military intelligence, interviewing captured prisoners of war.

To his chagrin, he'd been the spy that never was.

At the end of the war, he returned to his native Holland and began to carve a career in the banking industry; first for a Dutch commercial bank and later, after being headhunted, he relocated to Zurich to work in the established firm of the AGIG Banking House. He'd married his secretary, Ingrid, and they now had a wonderful daughter he doted on. His life was complete and he was happy.

Then one day, several years ago, he'd been approached for a meeting at one of Zurich's finest restaurants by what he thought was a new client, looking to invest some money. The client had turned out to be a funny little chubby fellow, who called himself 'Porter' and was very keen for Mr. De Veen to take up a rather well paid 'consultancy contract' with his former wartime comrades.

“But what would you want me to consult
on,
Mr. Porter?” he had asked in confusion.

The chubby fellow had dabbed at the corners of his mouth with his napkin, wiping away the excesses of the trout he'd devoured for lunch. “How's about we call it wrong footing the red's over the border, working a little mischief in their general direction. How does that grab you?”

De Veen had almost choked with laughter. “It almost sounds as if you want me to get involved in a little cloak and dagger work.”

The chubby man, Porter, had been effusive to the extreme. “No buggering about Willem, that's
exactly
what I want you to do. I want you to step up and return to the role you sadly missed out on during the war. You're keen for it, I can tell by the crafty look in your eye – or are you happy just whiling away your days, salting money away for Swiss millionaires?”

By the end of the luncheon, Willem had accepted the enigmatic Porter's proposal. He had thrived over the years, oh, how he'd thrived, and it had all been so simple to set up. A recommendation from another supposed agent doubling for the British, a little flirting with the Russians and he'd been whisked away for the weekend for several KGB intelligence officers to have a look at him. Evidently they liked what they found – a willing agent, with access to Swiss banking and IMF liaison – because by the end of the following month he'd been 'in play', as Porter liked to say.

He was a double for the British, passing all kinds of doctored material to his KGB contacts in the hope that they believed him. At any moment in those first few months, he'd expected to be exposed. He'd worried over what the retribution from the Russians would be; a shot to the back of the neck, or poison in his drink? The thought made him shudder and Willem had to admit to himself, there were more than a few nights when he'd barely slept. Such is the stress of the spy.

But the bullet and the cyanide never came. In fact, it was quite the reverse. The spy work had started to take on a life of its own, quite distinct from his normal life. He separated them quite comfortably into various boxes; Box One was home and family and work, Box Two was the British, and Box Three was the KGB facade.

Willem glanced at his watch as he hurried down the street. 7.45 am.
Dammit, I'm going to be late,
he thought, picking up his pace. He'd missed the last tram and decided to try to find a taxi along his usual route, but with nothing on the street he decided to continue on foot. He didn't notice the large delivery wagon ambling distantly in the background, slowly crawling along. Nor did he notice the tall figure who was less than ten yards behind him. Why should he? The plans he had for the day were repeating in his mind as he approached the curb to cross the road.

Willem felt a push, although in those last few seconds if he'd had time to correct himself, he would have considered it more of a blast – a force impacting between his shoulder blades and throwing him forward onto the road. His briefcase skittered across the cobblestones and he landed on his knees. One trouser leg was torn and his spectacles had gotten dislodged and balanced precariously on the end of his nose.

He was about to turn and give whoever had jostled him a piece of his mind, when he heard the roar, the gunning of a motor and the squeal of the tires as an engine reached its peak.

Willem had just enough time to move his eyes to the left, before the impact of the truck's bumper smashed directly into the side of his skull. He experienced a dull pain before his body was dragged under the vehicle's heavy wheels. In a haze of semi-consciousness, it felt as if Willem was being thrown around inside a huge washing machine, his body bouncing off the cobblestones and being ripped, then crushed by the heavy rubber tires and undercarriage of the truck.

On the far side of the street, the only witness to the accident was the octogenarian Alberto Fricke, the tobacconist, who was completing his morning routine of stocking shelves and straightening packets. He was up on his rickety stepladder when he heard the roar of a heavy engine and the squeal of tires.

He wasn't meant to be working that morning, it was supposed to be his rest day, but his angry wife had informed him she was visiting friends and as for his lazy great lump of a son… so it was work for Herr Fricke instead of what he should have been doing; enjoying the newspapers over a cafe crème in his favorite chair.

It was the dull thud which made him look. He twisted his head around in time to see the man being dragged under the delivery truck like a rag-doll. Later, Fricke would swear that he'd heard the man's bones, crunching and grinding beneath the wheels of the vehicle.

Herr Fricke flung himself down from his step ladder, no easy feat at his age, and hurried to the shop window to get a better look. He peered through the roller blind which would remain closed until opening time. The truck had stopped twenty feet further on, and the man, the poor wretched man lying on the street was spread-eagled, his limbs placed at unnatural angles.

Oh my God, an accident, a terrible accident,
thought Fricke.

Then something strange happened. Actually, two strange things happened as he would later tell the police. The truck crunched its gears into reverse and accelerated back at high speed, once more trampling over the body. This time there was no crunching of bones, merely a squelching and popping noise as the man's head and internal organs collapsed, and then just as quickly, the truck moved off again, driving over the body for a third time before racing off down the street. The body looked like a scarecrow which had its stuffing removed, then been coated in red paint.

With a hand clutched to his mouth in horror, Fricke noticed the second strange event. A man was standing watching the events. A single man – why hadn't he noticed this man before? He was tall, dark of complexion, and with a trilby hat pulled down to cover his face. Was that a hint of grey streaks at his temples, creating two little horns above his ears?

The man had watched the whole thing, hadn't moved in fact, from the one spot. He'd remained standing on the pavement, exactly where the dead man had fallen onto the road… Herr Fricke's eyes widened in horror. Had this man… had he
pushed
the poor man into the truck's path! No, no surely not! This was Zurich after all, not some crime-ridden backstreet in Berlin or Paris.

The man in the trilby hat appeared to examine the corpse from a distance, before he casually turned and walked away, never once looking back.

Unknown to Herr Fricke, the first legitimate agent of the Constellation network,
ORION
, had been officially terminated.