A Game for Assassins (The Redaction Chronicles Book 1) (23 page)

He nodded, understanding. It was always this way for new field agents, they tended to jump at shadows and see the enemy everywhere. “I was just taking precautions, took the long route home in case I'd picked up some chancer taking an interest.”

She looked doubtful. “Is that really necessary, all that doubling back and taking random routes? I mean, it's only Paris.”

He shrugged. “We do the basics and then we're covered. We take our eye off the ball and something goes wrong, it usually means we end up in a stone hotel.”

“Stone hotel?”

“Prison… or worse,” he said, taking off his coat and throwing it over the chair.

Nicole took a moment to take in what he was saying. “So what is it?” she asked, pointing at the package he had recovered.

He ripped it open and muttered, “Number code, give me a few minutes.” He sat at the table and set about deciphering the message hidden inside the single sheet of paper. Fifteen minutes later, when he'd double checked, he gave her the answer. “It seems London have come up with a lead. Seems a bit vague at the minute, but who knows, these things have a way of blowing open the whole case. They want us to track down the forger who was mentioned in the transcript.”

She thought back to the briefing in London. “Antwerp, correct?” she said. “Where are we going to start?”

“
We
aren't going to start anywhere.
You
are going to man the base here and see if anything else comes in from London. Check in by public telephones to the Paris Station for the moment, unless it's really sensitive information. I'll call in if anything crops up.”

She nodded, accepting his authority. He was the senior agent after all, but it still didn't mean she had to like being left behind. “Alright, seeing as I'm not coming, where are
you
going to start?”

“Forged documents. The Burrowers have given me a list of three Belgium-based forgers. That's my start point; I'll be gone for several days. I'll leave in the morning.”

Antwerp – February 1965

Jules Dumont had done well over the past five years. His good looks, attire, manner and luxury house spoke of his success. For as well as being a passionate collector and seller of rare books and works of art, he was also the foremost document forger in Belgium.

Passports, work papers, driving licenses, identification cards – all fell within the remit of his craft. Business was thriving and he had the respect, and protection, of the higher echelons of the Belgian underworld. He thought himself untouchable. He knew how to reproduce authentic watermarks and signatures, he knew the difference between the various bonded papers needed for official documentation, the fonts and inks required, and he knew the tricks – had even invented some himself – that were used for photographic identification, and while there were many competitors in his field, he rated himself the first among equals.

He had been apprenticed in his youth to Uncle Amos himself, a talented artist and professional lithographer who had worked for the resistance escape lines during the war. His expertise had been providing downed airmen with Swiss passports, which would move them down the escape and evasion rat line to Spain.

After the war Uncle Amos had indulged in a fling with the widow Dumont and had been 'persuaded' to take on young Jules as his assistant/apprentice. With Uncle Amos's retirement, and having no such moral qualms, Dumont had immediately gone into business as a passport engraver and forger to the Belgian underworld. His most recent client, with whom he'd met tonight, was a diamond smuggler who wished to move some 'rocks' between Europe and the USA.

Jules Dumont had been dining out for the evening, a rare treat these days, at the exclusive Minerva Hotel, one of his favorite establishments. It had been a fine night of good food, good company and excellent beer. He had flirted mercilessly with both his hostess and the waitresses, and he was feeling happy and buoyant. Life was good. But now he needed to rest. He had a busy day tomorrow, back to his little office and his work desk.

He unlocked the front door to his four story house on the fashionable Leescorfstraat located on the outskirts of the city, and entered. He took in the stylish hallway of marble floor tiles, the polished, mahogany-lined walls resplendent with leather bound books and the ornate lamp that gave an elegant glow through the passageway to the lounge. He flicked the light switch to the lounge and… nothing. No light, only darkness.

He flicked it again. Damn, he thought the bulb must have blown and he began to move across to open the heavy curtains to let in some light from the street lamps outside. He swished the curtains back to their respective sides and immediately his lounge was bathed in sepia tones; shadows from the trees swayed across the fireplace and dark patches seemed to move as car headlights passed by, animating them.

With startling speed one of the shadows moved, except it didn't just move, it glided like a ghost at a rapid pace. Not deviating in any way from its course, aiming directly at him…

With this revelation still fresh in his mind, he felt his legs kicked out from under him, his subsequent crash to the floor, a thump on his head when he caught it on the corner of his desk, then he felt the flow of blood from a cut to his temple. A hard, bony knee pressed deep into the small of his back, pinning him to the floor, and the unmistakable sensation of a pistol's cold steel was shoved hard against the nape of his neck.

“Don't fight. Don't struggle – you'll die. You've got a chance to live – take it.” The voice was French, but with a trace of an accent. English? American?

“How?” cried Dumont. Because of his face being pushed into the carpet, it actually came out as “HEOWWHH!” But the shadow, whatever it was, seemed to get the general idea of his agonized plea and eased up the pressure on his neck before replying.

“By telling me everything I want to know.”

* * *

Gorilla worked quickly, manipulating, pushing and pulling, until five minutes later the Belgian was handcuffed to a high-backed, ornate wooden chair in the center of his own dining room. A set of handcuffs locked the forger's wrists to the rear of the chair and an improvised gag of duct tape sealed his mouth. He quickly closed the heavy curtains and set about replacing the missing bulb from the room's light. A flick of the switch and the scene was lit.

The Belgian blinked, adjusting his eyes to the harsh light, blinked again and stared, eyes agog, beads of sweat running down into the creases of his shirt collar, his breathing rapid and heavy. Gorilla moved in close and whispered in Dumont's ear. “I'm going to remove the tape now. Don't scream. If you do, I'll have to hurt you. Okay? Do we have a deal?”

Dumont looked into Gorilla's eyes, noted the determination in them and nodded. The tape was ripped off in one smooth and practiced motion, allowing Dumont to breathe more easily.

“W-wh-what do you want?”

Gorilla mimed putting a finger to his lips and uttered a gentle “Ssshhhh.” He picked up a small Gladstone bag and placed it on the table in front of him. He stared at the man, betraying no emotion, his face a blank canvas – a dentist ready to extract a small child's rotten tooth would have looked the same.

The forger stared back, watching Gorilla as he slowly started to pace across the room, thinking, musing how he was going to approach this task. It was a chore that needed resolving quickly.

“Please, my friend, please don't hurt me. I have money, please, take what you want. You are a robber, yes, a burglar? No matter,” cried Dumont.

Gorilla paced back and forth across the small dining room, resembling a clockwork soldier. He shook his head.

“Then I have offended you in some way, some slight that I am unaware of, tell me what it is, give me the opportunity to calm the waters and apologize. Was it a woman?”

Once again the pacing and once again a shaking of his head from the small man. The Belgian's brow furrowed, his eyes narrowed, cunning appeared in them. He spoke slowly, his confidence returning. “Then you are from the underworld? You perhaps work for that cunt, Piette, eh? He has finally grown a pair of balls and wants to rub out his biggest competitor, eh?”

Luc Piette was the second most successful forger in the Belgian underworld. He had hounded Dumont's operation for the past two years. But still the small man paced, slowly shaking his head.

Dumont tried again. “Listen to me,
listen to me!
Do you know who
I am
? Do you know who you are
dealing
with?” His face was flushed red and spittle burst forth from his mouth with barely contained fury. His body was rocking in the chair, almost tipping it up with each outburst.

Once again, he received the signal for silence from Gorilla, his finger to his lips.

Dumont took a breath, calmed himself and when he spoke, it was through gritted teeth. “I am connected. I have the patronage of the De Vos brothers. I am protected, you little fucking dwarf! You want to start a war with me, I'll have them cut your fucking balls off and dump you in the Scheldt!”

Gorilla smiled, turned, and pulled up a dining chair to sit down, so that both men were facing each other, only a few feet apart. He stared at his captive for a moment, as if undecided as to what to do, and then he reached under his suit jacket to his right hip, withdrew the Smith & Wesson 39 and the suppressor that fitted onto it. Slowly, he began to screw the two together, taking his time and playing out the piece of theatre to an agonizing degree. “You know, while I was sitting here in the dark, waiting for your return, I had the opportunity to admire the collection of paintings that you have on your wall. Genuine?”

Dumont shrugged. “Mostly… even top class forgeries can reach six figure sums these days.”

Gorilla shook his head as if the mysteries of the art world troubled every day of his life. Still slowly screwing the suppressor onto the barrel of the automatic. “Well, they obviously pay well. I've never seen such a stylish and grand apartment. It's very nice, very tasteful. You must be doing well, so more power to your elbow. But now to business, I'm afraid.”

He had finished attaching the suppressor, pulled back the slide to do a quick chamber check and confirmed the brass cartridge was in place before letting the slide run forward and flicking off the safety catch. “Oh, forgive me; I've forgotten the most important part.”

He quickly jumped from the chair, making his way to the kitchen. He returned moments later with three crystal wine glasses of exquisite quality, and placed one on either arm of the chair the Belgian was tethered to.

The third one had pride of place sandwiched between his legs, touching his balls, on the cushioned seat of the chair. Like a satisfied magician preparing a trick, Gorilla nodded and returned to his own seat, aiming the automatic directly at the terrified man. “Sorry about that. Now we can begin,” said Gorilla.

This man is a lunatic,
thought Dumont. “What are you going to do to me?” his voice was brittle and shrill.

Gorilla smiled. “When you were a kid, did you ever go to the funfair and have a go at the shooting gallery, play Tin-Can Alley? Do you have that here?”

The forger nodded, afraid that he knew where this conversation was headed. “Yes… of course… what of it?”

“Well, for the purposes of this demonstration…”

“Yes.”

“You're going to be one of the tin cans. Here's how it works. I ask a question, you answer. Agreed?” said Gorilla, the business end of his gun never wavering from its target.

* * *

The Belgian nodded, wondering where this bizarre interrogation was headed.

“Good. If I think you're lying to me, or holding something back, I start shooting. Now I've never done this before, so I might be a little off with my aim, so it's in your best interests to keep it accurate. The first two shots might be okay, a little bit of a scratch from the flying glass, but the third.” Gorilla indicated the crystal wine glass resting between Dumont's legs and shrugged. “Well, that could go either way I'm afraid, and a bullet isn't very forgiving. Sorry.”

Dumont gasped and involuntarily, his eyes flicked to the target next to his testicles.

“So you've got three lives as it were. After that I'm all out of ideas with you and I'll be forced to resort to extreme measures, the measures I don't want to have to carry out unless you force me to. Do you understand?”

Dumont nodded rapidly, his mind working in double time, looking for an escape. “Y-yes.”

“Good. Okay. First question, an easy one for sure. Are you, Monsieur Jules Dumont, professional forger?”

The Belgian nodded frantically.

“Good. See, I told you it was easy. Okay, next question. Do you regularly provide documentation for all manner of criminals, mercenaries and general low life—”

“P-p-please, I don't know who the people who visit me are, or what they

The shot came without warning, a mere flick of Gorilla's wrist and the glass to Dumont's left disappeared in an instant, the sound from the suppressed Smith & Wesson barely audible, a mere phut! A large shard of glass embedded itself in Dumont's left cheek and a trickle of blood slowly rolled down onto his expensive white silk shirt.

“Please do not interrupt me when I'm speaking. It makes me twitchy and it's caused you to lose one of your lives in our little game. Now what was I saying… ah, yes, general low-life scum. Oui?”

To his credit, Gorilla could see that Dumont was keeping his nerve. It was an effort for sure, but he was hanging in there, nonetheless.

“Yes, I provide forged documents for exclusive clientele. What of it?” said Dumont, the blood rolling across his chin.

Gorilla smiled. Now they were getting somewhere. “Good. Next question. I am looking for a particular man, a man who recently purchased several of your products, say, within the last month or so.”

“No, that is not possible. I have had no clients since summer last year,” said Dumont, hoping he had put enough emphasis into his lie.

Gorilla smiled. He knew the man was lying. He knew, because he'd already tracked down the other two notable forgers to the underworld of Belgium over the past few days. One knew nothing, because he was in a graveyard, having died of a heart attack the previous summer. The other had spilled his guts the moment Gorilla had stuck the barrel of his gun in his eye and threatened to remove his fingers with his straight razor. He too, had known nothing.

But this man was proving to be tougher than he'd expected. He had a certain attitude that Gorilla admired. That alone told him volumes about the likelihood of his professional integrity.
Well, we'll see if we can bend that integrity a little,
thought Gorilla.
Not too much, just enough to give me the names that the target was now using.
Gorilla gave an imperceptible flick of his wrist and a squeeze of the trigger. The glass on the right disappeared in a hail of shards. The forger flinched and gave out another mewl of fear.

“Monsieur Dumont why do you resist; you are fast running out of lives. Come, you have a nice life here, why spoil it for some client who would turn you in at the drop of a hat?” said Gorilla reasonably.

“Alright… alright… I just need time to think.”

“He would have purchased several identities – I would imagine; you have done work for him before. Tall, dark, slim, well-dressed, possibly Spanish or Italian. You know whom I mean?” said Gorilla.

“Yes, I know who you mean. And you are correct, he did visit me recently, I simply forgot.”

“Of course, of course,” soothed Gorilla.
Don't kid a kidder,
he thought. “What did he buy from you?”

Dumont thought for a moment, flicking through his mental catalogue of services. “There were several sets of passports, six in all. Three for himself and three for a business colleague, plus driving licenses and assorted identifications,” replied Dumont, the words coming out in rapid succession.

Gorilla considered this. He hadn't expected details of the second assassin to fall into his lap also. This could turn out to be an interesting interrogation. “Who is he?”