A Game for Assassins (The Redaction Chronicles Book 1) (44 page)

“You've got to be kidding. That's a crazy idea!”

Barr nodded, he'd said much the same himself. “Of course it is, and CIA would never run anything so plain ass dumb in a million years. It was too much to lose and not enough to gain. But you've got to remember, we were dealing with a grief-stricken man at the end of his tether. That and copious amounts of booze don't exactly make a good combination for clear and practical thinking.”

“So how did it resolve itself? Did he get fired?”

“No. At least, not straight away and not in the way you're thinking. Chuck began to start yelling louder and louder about his 'special operation' and in the end, someone on the senior staff had to pull him in and give him some straight talking.”

“Let me guess; Higgins,” said Dempsey.

“That's what I heard. Higgins gave him a good talking to and several days later, Chuck Ferrera formally resigned from the Agency. I think there was a collective sigh of relief when it happened, for everyone's sake. He never showed up for his leaving party and meeting with the DCI. Probably for the best in the long run.”

“What happened to him after he left the Agency?”

“This happened,” said Barr, pointing to the rise of the hillock. What stood before them was the long since burnt remains of a typical Vermont family hunting lodge. In its time, it must have been quite a building, capable of sustaining several people over the course of a season. Dempsey thought it must have been beautiful in this location in the mountains. The two men stood among the ruins of the wooden building. Dempsey flicked the charred remains with the toe of his walking boot.

“I got a phone call from him, several months later. He said he'd pretty much sold up and moved to Vermont and was living here. Would I like to come up and visit for the weekend, do a bit of shooting and fishing? So that's exactly what I did,” said Barr.

“How was he?”

“Better, much better in fact. He still had his demons, you could see that, but he was better than before. The isolation, the environment, the lack of whisky had obviously done wonders.”

“How long had he been up here?”

“Oh, months. I'd come up and visit him every now and again; play some chess, do some hiking. In truth, I fell in love with the place. So much so that when I retired from the Agency last year, I bought a place a couple of miles down the road; Karen and I get up here whenever we can.”

“So what happened here?” asked Dempsey, pointing at the remains of the lodge.

Barr turned around, inspecting the scene. “That's partly why I asked you up here. Don't get me wrong, I was glad to receive your call and I'm happy to help with your investigation, especially as it comes straight from the Director. But I wanted to see if you could help me.”

Dempsey looked confused. “I don't understand Ralph. What happened?”

Barr sighed. “I came up here about a month before I retired. I hadn't heard from Chuck in a wee while and just decided on the spur of the moment to make a visit. It's a pain in the ass to get up here, but I was worried. When I arrived, I found this. The place had been deliberately torched and by all accounts, had gone up like an inferno.”

“But no one inside?”

“No, sir, no bodies inside at the time. The local fire investigator said that a propellant had been used extensively inside. That's his way of saying that someone doused the place with petrol and then set it alight.”

“And Ferrera?”

“Gone. Missing. No word, no letters, no contact numbers; a big fat zero. Everything from his life had been… disconnected.”

Dempsey tried another tack. “What about Higgins, did you try him? Especially as you say that they were friends, family. Maybe he knows?”

“I tried Higgins, but he knew nothing. He said he'd been busy, hadn't seen Chuck in a while. I got the impression they weren't on speaking terms anymore.”

Dempsey walked around the carcass of the property. An old kettle lay on its side, blackened by the heat, a chess piece had somehow survived and was hidden away among the broken wood. A clock, a picture frame, a metal chair leg…

Where had Chuck Ferrera gone and why? Wherever he was, he certainly wasn't dead if the theory of Mr. Knight's identity carried any weight. Ferrera had obviously made a pact with the Devil and decided literally to burn the bridge back to his old life.

“Is there anything else you want to see? It'll be getting dark soon,” said Barr, looking at the sky.

Dempsey shook his head. “No thanks, Ralph, I think I've seen enough. You've been very helpful. I think it's time we made it back to the cars.” Back to the cars and then back to Langley. Dempsey had a report to write.

* * *

It had taken Dempsey a week to compile his final report which would be shown to the DCI and when it was ready, and both he and Wellings were satisfied that they'd covered all the angles, Dempsey put in a call to the Director's office.

That very afternoon, Dempsey sat in front of the DCI as he read through the report. The only other person present was the Deputy Director of Central Intelligence, Royston Webster, the DCI's hatchet man. Taking his time, turning the pages carefully, occasionally turning back to remind himself of a passage in the eight-page report, the DCI began to devour the information. But it was the conclusion that the Director wanted to make himself conversant with.

The Director placed the file carefully down onto his desk and stared at it for a moment. “So it was for revenge, revenge for his son. I can quite understand that, even if I can't condone it.”

Dempsey sat relaxed in the chair. “If I can just correct you a moment, Mr. Director, I don't think it was
all
done for his son.”

The DCI frowned and turned to look directly at Dempsey. “Explain please, Troy.”

“I think it started out that way, I mean what father wouldn't want to catch the person who cold bloodedly murdered a loved one. No, I think Chuck Ferrara's thirst for vengeance went much further than that. He set up this fake operation and network to track down the KGB man responsible certainly, something he achieved with ruthless efficiency.”

The Director and the DDCI nodded. The CIA trained their operatives well it seemed, even retired ones.

“But,” continued Dempsey. “I think it went much further than that. I believe he wanted to set a spark, a spark that would ignite a war between the CIA and the KGB, something that would engulf both agencies and possibly break down the fragile truce of the Cold War.”

“But why? I mean revenge for the death of his son, yes, but all-out war… that's madness. Just insane!” said the DCI.

Dempsey nodded. “Probably by the end he was insane, we will never know. But look at it from his perspective. His son was murdered in the line of duty, something that is anathema in our profession; the killing of each other's officers. Added to which the unwillingness and inactivity of the previous DCI to at least try to find out what had happened to Daniel Ferrera on that operation in Poland. But I think the final tipping point was when he was fired from the Agency. It left him with no options, and for a man with little left to live for, that's a dangerous combination.”

“And we're definitely sure that this Mr. Knight is Ferrera, are we?” said Webster, seated at his Master's left shoulder.

“As sure as we can be. It all leads back to him. We received a copy of the tape of Mr. Knight speaking in Luxembourg from SIS. We sent it down to Technical Services Division for voice recognition analysis. We had also managed to search out a recording of Chuck Ferrera, giving a lecture at the 'Farm' a few years ago.”

“And what was the result?” asked the DCI.

“Ninety percent match on both voices. It was the same person.” Dempsey could see that the DCI was deliberating, unsure if this was enough evidence to hang the former CIA man. He decided to force the issue and give his own opinion. “Mr. Director none of this would stand up in a court of law. A good defense lawyer would rip this investigation to shreds. My remit was to follow the seam and see where it led us. Unfortunately, we'll never get to know all the answers about why and what they did.”

The DCI seemed satisfied with Dempsey's analysis. “Precisely, the last thing we'll be doing is dragging this to a court of law. It's the culprits that we want and not necessarily a prosecution. I have no desire to preside over our agents' details being dragged out into the public domain.”

“So where are they now? Today, at this moment in time?” asked Webster.

“As I understand it, the Office of Security has conducted a preliminary interview with Assistant Director Higgins. They played it low-key, as per your instructions. Questions about his relationship with Chuck Ferrera, Ferrera's current whereabouts, his godson Daniel, the shooting in Poland. Details that don't implicate Higgins directly, but send a clear message that we know he was up to something without going as far as accusing him.”

“So give him enough rope to hang himself. A good tactical move. So what has changed?”

Wellings spoke for the first time. “We've had a surveillance team on Higgins; the usual stuff, bugging his home phone and office line, surveillance units following him, and up until recently they had nothing. Then, following the interview with OS Investigators, Higgins was seen to leave Langley and drive into Downtown DC to make a call from a payphone. We traced the number back through the company phone records and found that it was an international call through to Mexico. When he did it again several days later, we were ready for him and the call was able to be recorded.”

“Ferrera?” asked the DCI.

Dempsey nodded. “The Hotel San Domingo in Mexico City, room 533 is registered in the name of Maurice Knight. We've had Mexico Station keep a team on the comings and goings. So far, the elusive Mr. Knight hasn't left his room for the past week and probably not before that either.”

“He's frightened of being snatched. Wise man,” said Webster.

“But he can't stay there indefinitely. He'll have to come out, sooner, rather than later. I think we need to authorize a containment team to bring him back. Roy, can you arrange that with Mexico Station and the Mexican police?” said the DCI.

“Consider it done Mr. Director,” and the DDCI pulled himself out of his chair and left the office to issue orders to his subordinates.

The DCI looked over at Dempsey and Wellings. “Gentlemen, you have performed superbly, a credit to the Agency. I think we can afford you some vacation time. How does that sound?”

They both looked at each other. Some vacation time sounded just what they needed – anything that didn't involve searching through files or surveillance logs.

“And after that, we'll look at perhaps a change of role for both of you. Something a bit more in line with what you're trained to do. Operations is a big place, I'm sure we can make use of your talents,” said the DCI.

Dempsey smiled politely. He was no fool and knew exactly what the DCI was up to. He was both keeping them out of the loop for the next few weeks and bribing them with promotion. It was a game, and Dempsey was happy to play along with it. Carrot and stick, his old man would have called it, carrot and stick.

Charles 'Chuck' Ferrera, better known by his cryptonym of Mr. Maurice Knight, ran a hand through his close-cropped salt and pepper hair to calm himself and sighed.

The Hotel San Domingo was one of the best that Mexico City had to offer and aside from a few other venues scattered around Europe, it had been his main base of operations for the past year. He feared that his time as an honored guest of this fine hotel would soon be at an end.

His operation was slowly starting to unravel. He knew it would happen at some point, for no 'False Flag' operation can hide in the shadows indefinitely, but he'd hoped that with the Russian, Krivitsky dead, the hit-team would be able to concentrate on removing the rest of the target list. But the last time he'd spoken to his agent QJ/WIN, the normally composed Marquez had sounded shattered and stressed.

In fact, he sounded rattled, perhaps even scared.

It had been one of their routine check-in times that fluctuated between his hotel room telephone and the street telephone booths in the locale. Judging by what Marquez had told him, it would be the last time that they would speak. The news was not good. A shoot out in Paris! WI/ROGUE possibly dead! The Catalan killer wounded!

In truth, Ferrera thought the Catalan had done far better than he'd originally envisioned and had taken down more targets than he thought possible. Marquez was a useful action agent and his reputation had preceded him certainly, but his success on this operation was enviable. A true professional, he'd picked his contractor well. It was just a pity that he wouldn't be receiving the balance of his stipend.

That was the beauty of a double cross; they do all the work and expect a big payout at the end, you cut them off at the knees and leave them swinging in the wind.

It was a warm, sticky evening so Ferrara stripped off his clothes and lay naked on top of his bed, enjoying the coolness of the air conditioning. On the bed next to him, was a half-full bottle of Jack Daniels and a fully loaded .38 revolver. He was trying to decide which one he would choose to blow his brains out with. The .38 or the booze? One would make it permanent while the other would be temporary, at least until the hangover had dissipated and then he would have to endure the hell of real life again.

He closed his eyes and relaxed in the luxury that his plan, after months of preparation and scheming, had finally come to fruition. The murderer of his son had gotten his head blown off in Paris by an assassin's bullet, several Soviet agents had also been eliminated from active operations across Europe, causing a major blow to Russian Intelligence, and the CIA was going to be hung out to dry. Good job.

But what to do next? Front it out, or run and hide somewhere? He still had enough private money to make it happen, but for how long? And even his not inconsiderable wealth would run out at some point, and after that… what? Of course, there was the third way. The .38 way.

He traced his finger along the barrel of the revolver. Maybe, soon? It was long overdue, but not yet, he decided. He closed his eyes to help him review the events of the past few years, which had led him to be a will-o'-the-wisp flitting across the world, and ultimately to this luxury hotel room where he was contemplating suicide.

It had all been born of remorse and sadness certainly, but there had also been something invigorating and alive about working back in his old trade of subterfuge, running agents and planning covert operations in foreign countries. He enjoyed being, what the old intelligence hands called, 'back in the game'.

Despite all of this, the 'game' only really began with the murder of a young patriotic man in Poland and the subsequent shattered grief, remorse and love of a desperate father.