A Game for Assassins (The Redaction Chronicles Book 1) (50 page)

Gorilla and Nicole had been alerted by the Burrowers that one of the 'flagged' passports that Marquez was using – Delacroix – had shown up and that they needed to get to Rome fast. They had arrived less than a day and a half ago and were secreted in another one of SIS's tame safe-houses, this time in a small apartment block off the Piazza Navona, which like its predecessors in Paris and Marseilles, was functional but nothing more. They had run to the same routine they'd used in the past, and why not, it worked!

Their ID covers were clean and despite the shootings in France, there was no evidence to confirm that anyone was looking for them. So once again, they were the Ronsom's, the travelling honeymoon couple who stayed in safe-houses provided by the local SIS Stations and travelled around in cheap, disposable cars that were destined for the scrap yard once their operation was finished.

Nicole gave the Contessa a good twenty minutes to get clear of the apartment building before she decided to leave. The dark glasses, the scarf wrapped tightly around her head and the elegant suede coat would do enough to hide the subterfuge to the casual passersby.
And hopefully, a trained killer also,
she thought.

She glanced out into the dark street to see if she could spot any possible surveillance. A few cars, a few people walking quickly in an attempt to dodge the rain, but nothing untoward, nothing that set off any alarm bells.
But then there wouldn't be would there,
she thought.
If he's as professional as we think he is, he wouldn't leave any signs of surveillance.
Nicole gave herself a final inspection in the mirror. Satisfied, she grabbed the keys to the Alfa Romeo from the little ashtray and left, carefully closing the door behind her.

When she made it to ground level, she noted that the hallway was poorly lit.
That's Gorilla, taking care of business,
she thought. With limited illumination, the darkness of the hallway would also help with her disguise. She pulled open the heavy front door and stood stock still, seemingly adjusting her coat and gloves, but in reality to give any surveillance watchers the opportunity to see her and take the bait.

Nicole looked out at the rain, the drizzle had turned to a downpour, but nevertheless she was determined to keep herself on show as long as possible. She turned, pulled the main door shut, then began the fifty yard walk to the car.

Behind the dark glasses her eyes were on the alert, looking left and right, but noting no sign of a threat or danger.
Maybe he's not in place,
she thought.
Or maybe he's called the hit off, perhaps having spotted us!

She made it safely all the way into the Alfa Romeo, a 1964 Giulia Sprint GTC in gleaming red. She inserted the key into the lock and turned. She quickly climbed into the leather seat, eager to be out of the pouring rain. The engine purred into life and she gently revved the accelerator to get a feel for the car's power. She checked the rear view mirror, ready to move away and was confronted with a dark spectre looming over her from the rear passenger seat.

A hand clamped down firmly on her right shoulder and she felt the unmistakable coldness of a pistol barrel pushed into the small gap between her ear and the headscarf. Nicole let out an involuntary yelp. The pistol ground in deeper, as if in warning. There would be no missed shots at this range she knew; the bullet would simply blow a hole in her skull.

She risked a glance once more into the rear view mirror. The man's face was dark, hidden in shadows. She could make out the long profile of the face, the slicked back dark hair and blazing eyes. The last time she'd seen this face was in a bar years ago in the Caribbean, and yes, she wasn't that far off with her memory, a little older and a little greyer certainly, but still the same.

“Good evening, Contessa,” said the voice, thick and cultured. “My Italian is poor, so just in case there is any misunderstanding, I will converse in English. Is that acceptable?”

Nicole gently nodded her head forward, being careful not to make any sudden movements and reinforced it with a “Si.”

“Excellent, then please drive and don't try anything foolish. It would be a shame to ruin the inside of your car with blood.”

* * *

Marquez had been lucky when he'd snatched his target. The Via Margutta had been quiet at that time of night, that and the fact that the rain had kept most people off the streets had also worked in his favor. He had plenty of time to 'pop' the lock of the small Alfa Romeo and hide in the rear.

He guessed she would venture out at some point during the evening, perhaps for dinner or to visit friends, and so when the rain began, he reasoned she would more than likely take her car rather than walk the streets of Rome in the dark. If she didn't, and either stayed ensconced or took a taxi, his plan would be ruined and he would have to abort the surveillance until the next day.

He'd sat cramped in the rear foot-well of the Alfa for almost two hours, covered with his jacket, fighting the boredom and the risk of being spotted by a chance passerby. So when he was just about to give up hope and abort the operation for the evening, he was handed a large dose of luck. From his vantage point beneath his cover, he made out a slim figure standing beside the rain splattered driver's door, fumbling with the keys.

He flicked the safety of the Tokarev pistol and smiled to himself. The rest of the kidnapping had been relatively by rote; the surprise to the victim, the isolation, the threat of violence and the drive to the secure warehouse on the edge of the city where he would set in place the necessary measures to conclude this now troublesome contract.

The garage had originally been used by a mechanic who had recently retired and it had been sitting empty for the past month. So when the vendor was offered double the monthly rental price for a quick and unregulated lease, he'd snapped it up and no questions asked.

The Alfa pulled up in front of the double garage doors, Marquez held the gun on her and they both exited the vehicle in tandem. A quick unlocking of the heavy padlock, a flick of the light and they were inside. He led her by the arm towards the chair in the small office; her prison cell for the rest of the evening. It was only when she turned that he'd sensed something wasn't right. His mind whirled with confusion. Same look, same build, similar clothes, but no, no, not quite the same. She was too young, he thought.

“Take off the glasses and the scarf,” he said, rummaging in his pocket for the surveillance photo he carried of Sophia Argento. The girl, for she was younger than the Contessa by a good twenty years, slowly removed them and tossed them onto the floor. A quick glance at the photograph and then the young woman in front of him confirmed they were not the same person. But from a distance and in the dark, yes, it had been enough to fool him. He raised the gun and pointed it directly at her head.

“Who the hell are you?” he said, the words coming out in a bitter fury. Damn his foolishness for being deceived by a slip of a girl.

Nicole took a breath, trying her best to remain calm. “Who I am is of no matter. Suffice to say that the Contessa is now under our protection.”

Marquez thought about it for a moment, finding it an effort to clear his mind. The Russians, it had to be the Russians. It was obvious really, the politician was a KGB deep cover asset and they would protect her at all costs. But how did they know he was planning to take her? Probably the same way that they'd had the edge on them in Marseilles and Paris? “Russian. You don't look Russian,” he said.

“What is a Russian meant to look like?” She'd decided to play along with the ruse. Gorilla had told her of Gioradze's belief that they were Russian operatives there to protect the KGB agents. She saw no reason to dissuade this killer of that notion.

“Where is the Contessa?” Marquez stepped forward and ground the barrel of the gun deeper into the back of her neck; she felt the small metal front sight pushing against her skin.
“Where?”

Nicole flinched from the pain. “I don't know. Far enough away from you though!”

Damn! His plan to kill the Contessa outside the Russian Embassy was in ruins. “Are you with the small man, the blond man? I bet that you are. Have you been to Marseilles recently my dear… were you in Paris? Have you been tracking me?” Her silence infuriated him even more. “No matter, we'll have plenty of time to talk soon enough. Now where is he?”

Still, she met his gaze with a cool silence. He lashed out with his shoe, kicking her hard in the shin, causing her to scream. She stifled the scream, but there were tears forming in her eyes. “He's… he's… at the apartment he uses. I don't know where it is,” she lied. “It's more secure that way. I swear!”

“More secure,” repeated Marquez, considering her answer. It made sense they would have cut-out procedures in place. It was standard practice for all intelligence operatives. But still, something wasn't adding up. “How do you get in touch with him?”

Nicole ignored him and turned her gaze to the floor. Marquez, noting her resistance, slapped her sharply across the face and then jammed the pistol barrel into the side of her knee. “
Tell me,
tell me now or I'll kill you piece by piece! Have you ever seen a kneecap shot off; it's not very nice, very painful, as are both knees, elbows, wrists, ankles…” His finger moved slowly nearer to the trigger.

“It's… it's… a phone number,” she said, the tears now rolling down her cheeks.

Marquez stood back, lowered the Tokarev and smiled. “Excellent, you see how easy that was? Now what is the number?”

She gave him the telephone number of their apartment.
It's only a number,
she told herself. At least he can't connect the address to that. “He'll come for me. You know that, don't you?”

Marquez turned to look at her, his face as hard as stone. “My dear, I am absolutely counting on it.”

* * *

Gorilla and Sophia had been back in the safe-house for just over an hour when the phone rang. He heard the peal of the antiquated telephone and picked up the receiver quickly, heard the clunk as the phone system sparked into life, and was greeted by sobbing from the other end of the line.

“Jack… it's me… I've…”

“Where are you, we were expecting you over half an hour ago?” It was the scream that caused him to jerk the handset away from his ear. “Nicole?
Nicole! Where are you?
”

There was a brief crackling as the handset was moved from the screaming girl over to a heavy breathing, male voice, as if the person on the other end had suddenly exerted himself physically.

“Who is this?” Gorilla demanded.

“You know who it is. We've met before; Marseilles, I'm guessing and certainly Paris, where you shot me. Not fatal, but enough to cause me intense pain,” answered Marquez.

“We all have off days, next time I'll make sure I aim higher. That's a promise.”

“Of course, of course. You speak very good English for a Russian.”

“And you speak very good English for a soon to be dead man. But enough of the pleasantries. Give me the girl back,” growled Gorilla.

“Ah, if only it was that easy.”

Gorilla snarled into the phone. “Don't make me come over there, you won't like it… If you've hurt her!”

“Oh, only a little motivational force, nothing too permanent, but that could change,” replied Marquez.

Gorilla held down his rage. This was how parents who have had their children ripped away from them must feel, he suspected. That sense of helplessness, and impotence.

He wanted to smash things, rip out his own teeth, inflict pain upon this man, shoot, slash and burn him, do anything to stop him and to stop the rage that was about to engulf him. But of course, he did none of these things. Instead, he listened to the assassin on the other end of the phone.

“I propose a trade. The girl for the Contessa; she is very beautiful. It would be a shame to have to destroy that beauty for the sake of stubbornness, my friend, a shame indeed,” said Marquez.

Oh great,
thought Gorilla.
He's a 'talker'.
Likes the sound of his own voice and likes to tell the world about how ruthless and cunning he is.
That fact alone made Gorilla want to shoot him in the head, as quickly as possible.

“Do I have an answer?” an impatient Marquez said down the line. “An exchange? Your agent for my target?”

You're crazy,
thought Gorilla. Even if he wanted to, the chances of him handing over an SIS asset to be executed were nonexistent
. But when in Rome,
he thought, as he decided to fall headlong and eyes wide open into the trap that Marquez was setting. “Alright. Where and when?”

“Tonight. You have ninety minutes. Bring the Contessa with you and you can have the girl back, relatively unharmed. Then you go your way and I go mine. If you bring back-up, I'll see it and kill her,” said Marquez.

“No. Don't worry, there'll be no back up. It will just be me.”

“Good.”

“And the where?” asked Gorilla.

Marquez laughed down the phone. “Ah, yes of course, forgive me. I have chosen a most suitable location. Somewhere quite fitting in fact. The Piazza del Colosseo.”

Gorilla frowned. “But isn't that the—”

“Yes, it is. You have ninety minutes.”

* * *

Marquez replaced the phone into its cradle and looked at the young woman handcuffed to the radiator. He had nearly lost everything, but if he played the game correctly, he could still have his reward and win.

His original plan had been to kill the Contessa outside the Russian Embassy, but obviously, that part of the operation would now have to be scrapped. However, with a little improvising, he could still complete the final hit of his contract and wreak revenge on the KGB assassin and his bitch who had been following him.

Yes, improvisation was the key here. He picked up the rucksack that contained his weapons and the piece of chain he'd planned to use to secure the Contessa to the steering wheel of her car. He looked over at the young woman once more. She was sitting on the floor with her knees drawn up and head down.