A Game for Assassins (The Redaction Chronicles Book 1) (39 page)

“But I need answers… and… I don't feel well,” said Barrington.

She put one arm under his and lifted him up. “Walk with me, put your arm around me and I'll hold you up. Pretend we're out for a stroll. Just a little further, until we can't hear the sirens or see the flashing lights anymore. Then we can stop.”

Barrington allowed himself to be lifted and nodded. “Alright… alright… I could quite get used to this,” he said, a flirtatious smile on his lips.

“Don't get too carried away, Major. If anyone tries to come at us, I want you to drop to the floor while I deal with them. You understand?”

“Young lady, you certainly have a way of killing a romantic moment.”

They carried on walking for a further ten minutes, until they turned off the main route and onto the Avenue Dutuit which led them on to beautifully manicured parkland. They made their way to the side of the Petit Palais past its ornate facade, until they found the rather more drab service entrance to the rear. She pulled him into an inlet that was accessed by five steps and led down to a solid metal door. It would hide them, she decided, while she had to do what she had to do.

“Take off your jacket and let me see how bad it is,” she ordered him.

Barrington carefully took off his casual jacket, wincing as he revealed the arm which had taken the shot. Nicole inspected it carefully. “It hasn't gone in, just a graze, a flesh wound. That Russian taking the shot probably saved your life. Do you have a handkerchief? A proper one, mind you, not that paper rubbish they use these days.”

Barrington nodded and removed the handkerchief from his pocket. Nicole took it from him, ripped it down the center until it had two prongs and then carefully tied it around the open wound. “Now put your jacket back on. It's not perfect, but it will have to do for now.”

“Who are you people? You and the other fellow?” asked Barrington, his senses and suspicion coming back to him.

“We've been sent here to watch over you
Cirius
. Porter sent us,” she said simply.

“The Russian said I was in danger…”

Nicole nodded. “The Russian was right. There's been a big operation in play for the past few months. Someone's been trying to eliminate the network. We've been trying to stop them.”

“You mean you and the chap you were with?”

She nodded. A moment of pride lit her up inside. Yes,
she
and her partner from the Redaction Unit, Gorilla; a team. Saving lives and stopping extremists. Wasn't that the truth of it all?

“How many of the agents have been killed. Where do I come on the list?” he asked. He'd slipped his jacket back on and some of the color had returned to his cheeks. Although the events of the last thirty minutes still seemed surreal, his mind was now returning to its usual sharp self.

“You don't need to know. It wouldn't do you any good, even if you did. All that should concern you right here, right now, is that you're still in play. Your cover is intact. As of this moment, as far as the Russians are concerned, you're still Major Edward Barrington, KGB spy inside NATO.”

He was silent for a moment as he digested this information. “What should I do?”

She looked him square in the eye. “Play it for real. Get in touch with the Russians.”

“What! How? My contact's just had his bloody head blown off!” He looked down at the smudges of dried blood which splattered his shirt. He brushed an involuntary hand over them, as if to shoo them away.

Nicole stood her full height and looked directly at him. She was the agent-runner now and the only thing that would bring this spy back to order was to speak to him with authority and confidence. She just hoped that
Cirius
fell for it. “There must be an emergency contact procedure, there always is. They'll want to talk to you sooner, rather than later, to find out what happened on the bridge. The best advice is to make contact with them first, tell them what happened and get your shot in, if you'll excuse the pun.”

A smile came to Barrington's face. The good advice and humor had brought him back to reality. “Yes, yes of course. It's the logical thing to do,” he said.

“Who knows, this might help strengthen your cover story with the Russians even more. Compose yourself,
Cirius,
and do what you've been told. We'll be in touch.”

“When?”

“Soon. Don't worry, it will all work out.” She glanced over her shoulder to make sure there were no witnesses and the coast was clear.

“How can I thank you?” It was all he could think of to say. A cliché, perhaps, but it was the best he could do.

She stared at him for a few moments, as if deciding what the best response would be; something witty or something blasé? In the end she opted for plain honesty. “By staying alive,
Cirius
. There's too much blood being shed to fail at this late stage of the game.”

She looked at him a moment longer, then turned and climbed the steps.

* * *

Gorilla returned to their hotel at a little after eleven o clock that night. He'd been on the run for the past ten hours and a day of stress and exhaustion from running counter-surveillance drills had taken its toll on him. He just hoped Nicole had gotten away safely with
Cirius
.

He turned the key in the door and stepped into the hotel room. It was dark; the only ambient light came from the street lights outside. He heard the door click gently behind him and for the first time all day, he felt secure.

On the bed was a shape; Nicole, laying in repose. She was still wearing her clothes, coat and shoes. Her hands rested gently on her chest.

“You awake?” he whispered, as he lowered his body onto the bed next to her. A chasm of several inches lay between them, separating their bodies.

“Barely,” he heard her reply.

Christ, she sounded as exhausted as he felt. He grunted in understanding. “Did
Cirius
get away?”

“He got away. I gave him his marching orders and set him off. He'll be fine,” she said.

“And you? You get away alright?”

She had spent the afternoon covering her back; running counter-surveillance tactics, stopping for drinks, shopping, getting in and out of buses, taxis and trains.

Hours later and satisfied she hadn't been spotted or was being watched, she decided to risk it and make her way back to their hotel. She suspected Gorilla had been doing much the same for the majority of the day. “I wasn't followed, if that's what you mean. Did you get the dead-eye?”

He smiled to himself in the darkness. He liked the way she'd begun to pick up the
patois
of the Redaction team. “No… he escaped. I only wounded him.”

He heard her groan. It was the sound of someone who had expected a better result from a superior officer and realizes that the work isn't finished just yet. “If it's any consolation, he won't be playing the violin anytime soon. Not with only a thumb and two fingers on one hand,” he said.

She let the silence embrace them both while she pondered Gorilla's informal assessment of the day's action. Eventually, she turned her head and looked at him, the profile of his face stark against the exterior light of the window. “What will he do now?” she asked.

“He'll run and he'll run quickly. He'd be crazy to stay around. He's had his shot at
Cirius
and missed. He got the Russian, so he'll count that as a positive. His next stop will be Italy. It makes the most sense tactically, geographically and practically. He's got one final target to go for and he'll want to make his move soon.”

“And what about us?”

He grunted. “We have to move too. We take the car and drive. It's probably safer that way. I'll contact Pimlico tomorrow and tell them what we need. Our dead-eye is wounded and under pressure to finish his contract. That could go in our favour; wounded and stressed equals mistakes. And we're going to be there to catch him when he drops the ball. But now, right now, we need to sleep.”

She sighed and once more let silence fill the gap.

“Penny for them,” he said. The quiet continued and at first, he thought she wasn't going to answer him.

“I was just thinking about being back in the bar at the Savoy; champagne and malt whisky. It seems a hundred years ago now. I wish we were back there.”

“Do you regret it? Meeting me and then all this?” he said, waving an invisible arm in the darkness to illustrate the mayhem of the past few months.

She laughed, a harsh, bitter laugh. “Don't be so hard on yourself, Jack, you were wonderful. As for the rest of it, the mission, the killings, well, I'll just have to learn to live with it. Besides, it's my own fault for falling under the spell of the first spy who bought me a few drinks and then promised to take me on a top secret mission.”

Despite the teasing, he could hear the drowsiness in her voice. He felt the warmth of the room and the comfort of the mattress and knew that sleep was beginning to take a hold of him.

Nicole draped a lazy arm over his chest and snuggled into his body, the rough material of his jacket brushing against her cheek. She didn't mind that though, it felt warm, safe and secure.

She tried to ask one more question; what it was going to be, even she wasn't sure. She never made it though, because moments later they were both asleep.

“Yes.”

“This is QJ/WIN,” said Marquez into the telephone. The code was an old habit now, especially after all the reports they had conducted over the past few months. If Marquez announced himself as 'QJ/WIN', it meant he was operating freely. However, if he simply referred to himself as 'WIN', it meant he'd been captured and was speaking under duress. It was simple, but effective.

“Report,” said Mr. Knight.

“The Paris job was compromised.”

There was a sharp intake of breath from the American. “Compromised how?”

“A man and a woman came to the
Soldier
's assistance.”

“Good Samaritans?”

“No, the man was armed, a professional. He came after me, wounded me. The woman helped the soldier escape.”

“Police, perhaps?”

“No, I don't think so. I think the operation must have been compromised.”

Mr. Knight gave out a nervous laugh. “Impossible, our security has been excellent.”

Marquez grunted. “And yet these people were at the same location as the targets, at exactly the same time. It could be that the Russians are aware of what we are doing.”

Mr. Knight thought this eminently possible. You don't start killing Soviet agents without someone at the KGB becoming suspicious and starting to connect the dots. He'd hoped they would be further along with the operation before the KGB became aware of what was happening. Still, never mind. “What about the targets?” he asked.

“One confirmed kill. One escaped with a flesh wound,” replied Marquez.

“Who was the kill?”

“It was the Russian, the prime target. Not the spy. The KGB officer.”

There was silence down the phone. Then a murmur, as if Mr. Knight was whispering something. To Marquez, it sounded as if he was praying. “That is acceptable. I think my superiors can live with that.”

Marquez thought he detected a hint of relief and pleasure in Mr. Knight's voice, which was very strange, very strange indeed. “There is one other thing,” continued Marquez.

“Go on.”

“It's WI/ROGUE. He hasn't checked in since the last job against the
Engineer
.”

“Perhaps he's decided to keep a low profile. Perhaps he has a woman somewhere and is hiding out.”

“No, it's not his style, especially when we're working. He doesn't break protocol. I received the phone code confirming the job had been completed, and then… nothing.”

Marquez was disturbed. Things weren't adding up. It was almost as if there was a hidden force working against them, which in this case seemed to be a KGB team. On its own, these things probably meant nothing, but when you connected them, the disappearance of the German in Marseilles, the attack of the Hotel Azure, the missing Gioradze and now the interference of the man in Paris – no, things were definitely askew. Protocol dictated that if a contract was compromised, then the operator closed down the operation quickly and left the game.

“What do you want to do?” asked Mr. Knight, breaking the silence.

“I don't know… I need to think,” said Marquez. The pain in his hand was excruciating and wasn't helped by the stress of having to make difficult decisions on the fly.

“You have done remarkably well, better than we could have imagined. There would be no shame in stopping now. The last target, we will get some time, somewhere,” said the American.

“I said, I need to think. I will call back later today with my decision.” Marquez put the phone down.

Following the shoot-out at the Pont Neuf he'd escaped from the area, thrown off the tracking of the small blond man, dumped the bullet-ridden car and hailed a taxi to take him to a hotel in Montmartre. He'd bandaged up his wounded left hand, the little finger and half the ring fingers were missing. The pain was unbearable, so he donned a pair of gloves and set out to find a backstreet pharmacist to buy some 'off the books' morphine.

He returned, took a dose of the morphine and for the rest of the day he lay on the bed in his little hotel room and flitted between sleeping and thinking. His mind was a whirlwind of possible outcomes and backtracking for clues. Where was the leak? Was it the Russians who were after them? If so, how long had they been there? Since Marseilles, or before that?

Finally, several hours later, he'd made up his mind and donned his current disguise from his small suitcase; a pair of sunglasses, an old sports coat and a beret. He needed to lose the rifle, dispose of it somehow, and the most likely way was to break down the unusual-looking weapon into its component parts and scatter it across the city.

An hour later the stock had been dropped into a nearby canal, the bolt action had been slipped down a manhole cover in another part of the city, the scope had been thrown into a garbage collection pile and the bullets had been thrown into the Seine. Afterwards, he wandered the streets of Paris, a city he'd once called home, feeling lost like a stranger, alone in his thoughts.

Marquez was pretty sure Gioradze had fallen somewhere between Cornwall and returning to France. There had been no contact, overt or covert on any of the communication lines. That wasn't like the Georgian. Not like him at all. Maybe the German had been killed in Marseilles, after all. Maybe he hadn't simply pulled out of the operation, but had instead been eliminated, perhaps as a result of the little blond man or one of his compatriots.

He found himself feeling melancholy for his former partner. Whilst Gioradze had simply been a colleague and a mercenary devoted only to money, Marquez realized he would miss the likeable 'Rogue'. Oh, they'd never been friends in the classic sense of the word, but they'd shared many experiences and adventures over the last five years. Marquez would see his woman right. He would send some money to the bar in Portugal where Gioradze had made his home. The rest of the stipend he would, of course, keep for himself. Now, as the sole contractor, it was only right that he should keep the lion's share of the contract fee.

Which brought him back to the current contract for the CIA: what should he do?

The easy option would be to cut his losses and walk away. But that didn't sit easy with him. He'd never quit a contract before and he wasn't going to start now. If he did, he feared he would never be employed again by the CIA. The Americans had a way of remembering little things like that; besides, his own integrity and stubbornness wouldn't let him quit. He was committed to seeing this through, even if it meant capture and death.

He walked back into the center of Montmartre and found a bar that was quiet, ordered himself a small glass of wine, drank it in one go and then made his way to the telephone booth near the back. He inserted a
jeton
and punched in the number. Almost at once, the handset was picked up. Mr. Knight must have been waiting, poised and ready for his call. “Yes.”

“This is QJ/WIN. I have made a decision.”

“I hope it's the right one.”

“It is.”

“In that case…”

“My answer is this. Watch the news over the coming weeks. I am going to shake the Russian intelligence network in Europe to its core. The contract is still on.”