A Game for Assassins (The Redaction Chronicles Book 1) (49 page)

Rome, Italy – May 1965

Rome. The Eternal City. A place of culture, art, history and equally entwined in its lineage was a record of both murder and politics.
It was a beautiful day, in fact the perfect day to carry out the final contract of the mission,
thought Marquez.

He had been in Italy less than three days. He'd flown in to Rome's Fiumicino Airport using his final false passport in the name of Andre Delacroix, a Frenchman. In that time, he'd settled into a quiet hotel along the Tiber, purchased a small car and rented a garage, which he would use as a workshop to carry out the necessary planning.

His plan was to snatch her once she left her city apartment and he was certain from his systematic surveillance, that he had most of the details of her routine; out shopping during the day, stop for lunch with friends, meetings in the afternoons with what seemed to be senior officials from the various ministries of the Italian government, before returning to her apartment. In the evenings, she would normally be the dinner guest of wealthy Italian families who were keen to have her company, before returning home around midnight.

He knew she had been in Rome on vacation for the past week, he also knew he only had a window of another two days before she returned to New York and the United Nations. Therefore, he had to act tonight. It was simple really, probably the easiest of all the contracts he'd been asked to complete.

Pick her up after she left her apartment and was headed for her Alfa Romeo, get her in the car, take her somewhere remote, in this case the garage he'd rented on the outskirts of the city, drug her, tie her up in the passenger seat of her car and detonate it outside the Russian Embassy in Rome. He would finish this contract with a bang.

After the aborted shooting in Paris and the disappearance of Gioradze off the face of the earth, he had to assume the operation had been compromised in some way. Where the leak had come from, was anyone's guess. It could have been that one of his contacts had talked, possibly the German had felt slighted in Marseilles and had tipped off the Russians for some coin. He discounted the fact that Gioradze would have talked. The man was far too tough and the last person he would spill to would be the Russians. He hated them with a passion.

The Paris shooting had also injured him. The bullet from the short, blond-haired man had taken him in the left hand and while it had been painful, it had been bearable for a man of his constitution. Should he have continued with the contract? He'd given his word to the American certainly, and the CIA man himself had given him tacit approval to back out if he wished.

But Marquez was not a man who was easily dissuaded from risk, far from it. So the decision to carry on with the contract when all his professional nerves were signaling for him to cancel and abort came as no surprise. It was the challenge of the odds against him which kept him playing. Besides, Rome was his last job and after that, his false life would be dumped and he could return to his real identity.

All he had to do was kill one more target; a woman who wouldn't see him coming and who was, physically at least, no match for a determined abductor and killer.

* * *

Contessa Sophia Argento sat at her writing bureau and signed her name across a letter she had penned to her late husband's brother in Washington. It was a ritual she completed several times a year, to reassure her brother-in-law that she was in good health and doing well.

She looked in the mirror above her writing desk and took note of the face that stared back at her. She still had a delicate, elfin face, despite the odd line around the eyes, and thick, lustrous dark hair tumbled over her left shoulder showing only the odd fleck of grey. The elfin face had come from her mother, an English governess who worked for a rich family in Taranto, and the dark hair had been a gift from her father, an aristocratic Italian Count who had wooed the English governess over the course of a hot and passionate summer more than four decades before.

Her childhood had been one of happiness and love, and as her teenage years turned into adulthood, she had found a calling in helping her fellow Italians in their villages and communities. Her English mother's sense of fairness and her Italian father's drive had given Sophia a good grounding in connecting with people. She'd been a passionate representative of the people of Italy during the war, when she'd been an active member of one of the numerous Communist Party resistance groups, determined to remove the Nazi boot-heel from the face of Italy.

In 1946 she'd married Thomas Reynolds, whom she had first met when he'd been parachuted in as part of an SIS/OSS liaison team to help stir up resistance ahead of the impending invasion. Captain Tom Reynolds had been the archetypal all-American officer; strong, confident and handsome. The young Captain and his beautiful Italian resistant contact had inevitably grown close over the coming months, working together, moving from safe-house to safe-house, with Sophia acting as his interpreter and guide.

What had started as a bond forged by war, had grown into a full-on, passionate affair and with the war over, Sophia had thrown herself into rebuilding her country when she later stood as a Member of Parliament. Tom had also assisted, by using his contacts in the US government and they had both been part of a post-war project helping to invigorate Italy. They'd been happy years; helping the people, making a difference to Italy and finding their love for each other once again.

The couple had lived a blessed life working in Rome, holidaying in America and visiting her late mother's relatives in London. They were the glamour couple of Italian politics during the 1950's. Travel, success and good looks had made them a part of the international 'jet-set'. Her husband's contacts had also given her some political clout. The Reynolds brothers were keen supporters of a young, up-and-coming Democratic congressman from Massachusetts. Several times on their visits to Washington they had a chance to meet with the charismatic and handsome politician. “He's the future of America Soph',” Tom had said. “That Kennedy guy sure knows how to get things done.”

Not that it had all been smooth sailing in the early years of her political career; the blustering fools of the collegial parliament had thought she'd been a Communist. She was not and never would be. It was just that the Italian Communist Party had held the best advantage of active measures and resistance against the Germans during the war, and it seemed like the best vehicle for motivating the peasants.

In time, her reputation for honesty and fairness grew among her colleagues and it became known that she was not open to corruption and bribes. She was wealthy enough in her own right, thanks to the inheritance left to her by her father. She owned land, farms, property and shares in various businesses and could not be persuaded to compromise herself for any expedient political opportunity that came along.

Sophia Argento transcended the traditional political classes of the right and the left and instead, was a calming influence within the bloody in-fighting of the Italian parliament. She later declared herself a moderate and joined the Christian Democrats, where it was rumored she had the ear of the soon-to-be Prime Minister Aldo Moro.

In 1959, Tom had been travelling back to their summer villa in Puglia when his car had been stopped one night by a cart upturned and its contents of straw strewn across the small back road. Tom had looked at his watch. 8.45. He was already late for their dinner party and Sophia would give him that fiery Italian look of hers that said 'Let me down at your peril!' To drive back down onto the main road would add another fifteen minutes to his journey. But if he could move the abandoned cart onto the side of the road… So he did what anyone would do. He stepped out of his car and into the warmth of a summer night to clear the debris. That was to be a fatal mistake. A figure in the darkness rose from behind a wall and opened up with a sub-machine gun. A short clatter of gunfire later, and Thomas Reynolds was thrown back onto the hood of his own vehicle.

His body was found later that night by a search party from the villa, who went looking for their errant host. On his chest was pinned a note, claiming that he had been assassinated by the local brigade of the Italian Communist Revolutionary Party. His crime, so the message said, was for his continuing support of the puppet regime in Rome.

She had grieved for over a year, had dressed in a traditional black mourning dress and shroud and had shut herself away, either in her villa in Puglia or on the occasional visits to Rome in her apartment. She did not socialize, shunned publicity from the press and to all intents and purposes, had become a recluse. Then, as season gave way to season, she'd grown stronger, less fragile and more determined not to be a victim.

Following Thomas' death, she'd reverted back to her maiden name of Argento, and as she hadn't been able to have children, she decided she would dedicate the rest of her working life to helping the poor and impoverished, not only in Italy, but across the globe.

Her reputation had quickly seen her head-hunted by the newly appointed U.N. Secretary-General, who had admired her work in the Italian government and wanted her knowledge and wisdom to assist him with running a 'new U.N. for a new generation'. A move to New York and a position of trust as an Executive Assistant to the Secretary-General had given her a new lease of life, in the years following Tom's death.

Of course, there was also her secret work which she had elected to become involved in, and it was during these years that she'd been approached by two ruthless spies: the mercurial Porter from the British Secret Service and the intense Krivitsky from the KGB. It was a high-wire act of nerve and danger, and just as she loved Porter for his mind, his passion for his cause and his unwavering battle against his enemy, she also loathed and detested Krivitsky for his narrow-mindedness, murderous intent and morally corrupt ideology.

She had been in New York at the U.N. for barely a month, when she'd been contacted by a short, chubby man with a mop of unruly hair, who claimed to be a representative of an organization called 'The Phoenix Society'.

“We aim to help the people who really need help in some of the poorest countries in the world,” the Englishman had said when he handed over a business card. “Perhaps I could buy you lunch, there's a very good place I know uptown.”

The place was the restaurant in the Hotel St. Moritz and once the plates and glasses had been cleared away, the meeting had taken a distinctly surreal twist. The man, Porter, had braced his fingers together and leaned forward, conspiracy gleaming in his eyes. He told her, calmly and in detail, her life up until that point in time. He told her he respected her socialist leanings, her love of peoples, not just Italian, but all those who were downtrodden and had no voice to speak up for them.

“What are you?” she had asked, not believing any of his make believe story so far.

He had looked at her, bewildered, as if it was a nonsensical question. “Why I'm a spy, my love, pure and simple.”

Her first reaction on hearing this had been to roar at him, make a show of him in front of the guests at the restaurant and then storm out. But the English man, no, the English
spy,
had soothed and calmed her. So she had put aside her temper and tapped into the cool logic that was her mother's discipline.

“Sophia you are one of us, we know how you assisted our agents during the war. We're on the same side and we always have been. Think of it as stopping the madness, bringing about a better future for both of our peoples. Together we can lift the veil and let the people see that the Communists are
lying
to the people,” said Porter.

Oh, she had wanted to do that and more, she had said as a rebuke. But above all else, she wanted some kind of revenge for Tom. She knew the Englishman was manipulating her emotions regarding the circumstances surrounding Tom's death, of course he was. But in truth, she didn't care, she was happy to be used if it meant that some kind of justice was handed out for the murder of her husband. If it would stop another 'revolutionary' picking up a gun and killing another good and innocent man, then she would spy on the devil himself.

She rationalized it, by convincing herself she was using the intelligence services, just as much as they were using her. Porter convinced her that she was perfect for her future role as a double agent. She had a good pedigree; English mother, aristocratic Italian father. She had fought against the Germans during the war, had been a member of the Socialist party, had assisted the agents dropped behind the lines and post-war, rather than living a feckless life living off her father's money, she'd devoted herself to public life and become a respected member of the Italian Parliament.

Her initial 'pitch' to the resident KGB man in New York had been a nerve-wracking experience. She'd offered the cover story that she had long been a secret Communist, had recognized the weakness and folly of the capitalist system and was now, at this point in her life, determined to make a difference to the people of the world. She believed, she said, that the most effective way to do that was through a Communist system.

The KGB man had noted down her comments and promised he would be in touch. When he'd gone, she'd stood shaking in the middle of her hotel room, sweat running down the small of her back. She was a fraud, a liar; she would fail and be exposed as a sham. She knew it, the KGB man knew it, and then the whole world would know it.

A week later, she had her first agent-to-agent contact with her KGB recruiter and controller, the fearsome Krivitsky. She thrived and had taken to her new role with a relish, and so at the age of forty-seven, Sophia Argento had dipped her toes into the festering pond of double agent intelligence work.

The star of LYRA had risen and shone.

Sophia Argento's apartment was on the fourth floor, a three-bedroom exclusive domicile on the fashionable Via Margutta, an area that was the preserve of the wealthy and the famous.

In recent years, she had seen Sophia Loren and the film director Fellini in the neighborhood. It was her private sanctuary when she was in Rome and the one place where she could relax. Her regular annual vacation back to Rome also gave her the chance to indulge in the secret part of her life that her family and friends had no idea about. She had met with her KGB contact at Piazza San Pietro, pretending she was just another tourist visiting the Vatican.

However, this time her contact was not the usual Russian, the vile little man who leered at her through his butcher's eyes. For some reason, he hadn't been able to attend and had been replaced by a nervous young officer. The man had stuttered in appalling Italian that there was a crisis and that her usual contact would not be able to make it.

“Should I be concerned?” she'd asked.

The man had shaken his head. “We will be in touch; but you should be aware of your personal security. This is a dangerous business.”

No details, no idea what form this 'danger' would manifest itself in, no advice and no help. So she had returned to her apartment, eaten a light lunch and then set about writing a letter to her brother-in-law in Washington.

It was only when she'd finished the letter and signed her name that she heard the gentle knock on her apartment door. Sophia turned in her chair and looked for a long, cool moment at the door at the far end of the hallway. It couldn't be any of her neighbors in the other apartments; she knew that instantly, that wasn't the way it worked on the Via Margutta.

At that moment, the words of the KGB contact came back to her – something about it being a dangerous business.

* * *

She opened the door and was greeted not by a hard-faced assassin, but by a young lady, a beautiful young lady.
A touch of a young Katherine Hepburn,
thought Sophia. Except for the eyes, the eyes held a recently acquired hardness. “Si?” said Sophia, a questioning look on her face.

The young woman took a step forward into the apartment and spoke. “Might I have a word with you in private? No, don't speak, please, and forgive my awful trampling of your language. My name is Nicole. We have a mutual acquaintance, it seems, a Mr. Porter, an English gentleman. You know whom I mean?”

Sophia shook her head, living her cover. “I'm sorry, I have no idea…”

But the young woman was not dissuaded and carried on, taking another step forward so that her whole body was now in the doorway. “He regrets he couldn't come himself, but he thought I would be an acceptable replacement. He asked me to ask you how his 'Lyra' is. And does she still miss the British winters?”

Sophia Argento gasped as she recognized the truth of what this young woman was saying and she wondered if the truth was something she wanted to hear.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, they were sitting in the drawing room, face-to-face. The young woman, Nicole, had switched off the light, drawn all the curtains and then turned the light switch in the room back on. Then she'd given the older woman a brief appraisal of the situation that was developing that night in Rome.

“What should I do? Should I go to the British Embassy?” Sophia had asked.

“No! Absolutely not! Your cover is still intact, and besides, they know nothing about this mission. Best bet is to disappear. Don't contact anyone. You have to leave now. My senior officer is waiting for you downstairs. He'll take you somewhere secure. You'll go out through the rear of the property, there's less chance of the killer having surveillance there. Take nothing with you,” said Nicole.

Sophia nodded. It was all happening so fast that her mind was whirling with the gravity and scale of it all.

“My boss's name is Gorilla. Don't worry, he's house trained.” Nicole smiled, trying to lighten the mood and put the older woman at ease. “Give me the keys to your car. I'll go out the front. If we're lucky, I'll be able to draw him away from your home. At night, and at a distance, we could easily pass for each other.”

Sophia smiled, “Oh, I wish I had your youthful looks, my dear.” But this English intelligence agent was right. The height, build, hair color and sense of dress were passable. Perhaps with a headscarf and darkened glasses it could work.

“I'll keep up your routine for the next few hours, until you've disappeared,” said Nicole.

“And then?”

“Then I'll dump your car and meet up with you at our apartment later tonight. Don't worry, we'll keep you safe. Now go,” said Nicole, pushing Agent LYRA out of the door.

Sophia scurried down the staircase, her heels clicking on the elegant stone steps that spiraled towards the main hallway. She passed the third floor, praying that she didn't meet Signora Fausti who lived below her, well-meaning though she was, the Signora could talk until the end of days or even more awkward would be bumping into Dottore Abbate, who would want to know every little detail of what she had been up to during her visit to Rome this time.

But good fortune was with her. The stairway and landings were empty and the residents of the rest of the apartments were safely ensconced inside. She increased her pace, one hand lightly brushing the banister rail while all the time her feet were working in perfect synchronicity to reach the bottom of the stairs.

The hallway was in semi-darkness; someone had turned off several of the hall lights. Probably the English spy or her partner. She looked out towards the front doors, expecting to see the young woman's partner. But instead all she was treated to was a foreboding heavy oak door which was locked against the chill night. Then she remembered. The young woman had said that she would be leaving by the rear entrance, which would take her past the shed where the gardener kept his work tools, along the secret garden at the rear of the property and out into the side street on the Via del Babuino.

Sophia began to turn when a voice spoke. “Lyra,” said the voice from the dark recess of the hallway. A man stepped forward, giving a physical form to the voice.

“Yes… you are Gorilla?” she said. It was a question, not a statement. She looked doubtfully at the man in front of her. He was well presented, a good suit, quality overcoat, expensive shoes.

But it was the face; short cropped blond hair, a scowl and hard eyes. The face of a thug. He looked more like a London gangster, such as she had seen in the newspapers, than an intelligence operative.

The man nodded and held out a hand. “Please come with me. We haven't far to travel and my car is just down the street.” She took his hand and let him lead her into the darkness. “Be brave,” he said. “We have to be alert. There is danger on every street corner.”