A Game for Assassins (The Redaction Chronicles Book 1) (51 page)

“Come, we have much work to do; a final piece of theatre, one last act to play out,” he said.

* * *

“Is she alright? Talk to me! What has happened?”

Gorilla turned to Sophia, his brow furrowed in concentration, but also something more. Then she sensed it, could tell by his hands clasping and unclasping like an animal's claws. It was suppressed rage.

“No, she's not. Things have taken a serious turn for the worse,” he said. Gorilla was sick of it all. Sick of hiding in the shadows, sick of chasing this killer from one end of Europe to the next, sick of always being on the back foot and sick of having missed this bastard twice already. What he wanted was a good old-fashioned out in the open fight that would settle it once and for all! And so it seemed, did Marquez.

First things first,
he thought. Nicole had clearly given Marquez the telephone number to their base and he couldn't take the risk that she'd also told him the address. It could be a double bluff. Barter for a meeting to lull him into a false sense of security and then launch a surprise attack on their apartment. No, the apartment had been compromised, there was nothing left to do but evacuate and quickly. He turned to Sophia. “Nicole's been grabbed, taken by the man sent here to kill you. He wants a trade – your life for hers.”

She looked aghast.
Has it come to this,
she thought. My life being bartered, one spy for another?

Gorilla saw the look of horror on her face and put a hand up to reassure her. “Don't worry, nothing's going to happen to you, I promise. But this location is compromised, we have to move to a new location and we're going to have to do it right now.”

She nodded, feeling her knees weaken, she slumped slowly onto the chair. “But what about Nicole?” she said. “She was taken by this maniac whilst trying to protect me, if anything were to happen to her.

“It won't. Trust me, I'm going to get her back and finish this once and for all.” His first job was to let Masterman know the game had taken a twist. He picked up the phone and went through the whistles and clicks of the operator until he'd reached Masterman on his private line.

“I was about to go to a Regimental dinner, Jack, this better be good,” said Masterman.

“It is. Listen up, I don't have much time. This operation's about to come to an end,” he said. Gorilla talked swiftly. Told of the subterfuge to disguise Nicole as agent LYRA, the snatching by the killer Marquez, and the 'trade' that was to take place later that night.

“Okay. What do you need?” said Masterman, ever the leader of men. He knew when to give his operatives whatever they needed to get the job done. That was one of his strengths; the ability to cut through the bull.

“I need a new safe-house in Rome, immediately, for agent
LYRA
. Plus, there'll need to be armed security on it as well. I can't risk leaving her unprotected, in case Marquez squeezes the information from Nicole.”

“Alright, you can't go to the Embassy, that would blow her cover; we need to keep her at arm's length as much as possible. Give me a few minutes, I'll see what we've got nearby,” said Masterman.

“Okay, but as quick as you can, we don't have much time on this one. The clock's ticking. In truth, I think the request for me to hand over
LYRA
is just a ruse. It's partly me he wants. He wants to finish me off with a bullet in my head, probably kneeling and begging for my life. LYRA would just be a bonus.”

“And you think you can get the girl back, Jack? Get her back and take him out as well? You up for that, are you?”

“I'll have to be, won't I?” murmured Gorilla. He gave Masterman five minutes to return the call, but the Colonel phoned back in two.

“There's a place not too far from you.
LYRA
can hide out for the next few hours. It's safe, secure and more importantly, the man running it is armed and more than capable. It's not ideal, but at short notice it's the best we've got.” Masterman gave him the address. The
Sant' Anselmo all ' Aventino
church in Piazza dei Cavalieri di Malta in the center of the city.

Gorilla guessed it was no more than fifteen minutes' drive away. Hopefully, he should have more than enough time to make it to the rendezvous with Marquez. “A church! You've got to be kidding. Who are we meeting? Who runs the safe-house?”

Masterman told him. “You should be happy Jack; it's not often that people in our trade get to meet legends. Now get going.”

* * *

The drive was uneventful. Gorilla had been correct, the Church of St Anselms of the Aventine was no more than a quarter of an hour's drive away from their apartment base, but just to be on the safe side, he took them on a circuitous counter-surveillance route around the city that added an extra twenty minutes onto the journey time.

He glanced at his watch. Just under an hour left until he had to be at the Coliseum. It was cutting it fine, but it was still manageable.

The car pulled up and Gorilla scanned the area before exiting. He wrapped a protective arm around Sophia and quickly hurried her to shelter out of the rain. They made their way around the side of the building as Masterman had instructed. “Ignore the main entrance to the church and go to the side of the building to the sacristy. He'll be expecting you. Give him my codename; that's the contact procedure,” he had said.

Gorilla banged on the thick door with a fist. There was a pause and then from inside, came the grinding noise of metal bolts and chains being retracted. The heavy wooden door was pulled back to reveal a glow of candlelight burning bright. The shape of a large, heavily built man wearing a traditional cassock and collar greeted him. The man had the look of a heavyweight prize fighter and he glared down with somber eyes from beneath a greying head of hair and weather-beaten face. “Si,” said the priest.

“I come from Sentinel,” said Gorilla.

The man stepped back, showing them the interior of the sacristy. “Come quickly, inside, hurry. I am Father Mario Frazzano,” he said as he hefted a Schmeisser MP40 sub-machine gun that he'd been concealing behind his back. “I understand that there is danger in Rome tonight. It pays for the wise man to take serious precautions.”

* * *

Masterman had been right, a legend indeed. An old one, but a legend nonetheless!

Father Mario Frazzano, known as the
Diavolo Sacerdote
, the 'Devil Priest', was a living legend within SIS and for the Redaction team especially. Gorilla had once heard him speak as a guest lecturer on a service training course, on working in enemy-held territory. The man had been both humble and tough.

In the latter years of the war, the young priest had been the leader of a resistance cell on the island of Sicily and the link man between the various resistance groups and SIS back in London. For those few years leading up to the invasion, Mario Frazzano had, by day, been a humble priest, but by night had been the scourge of the German forces. Sabotage, assassination, and insurrection had all come under the remit of
Diavolo Sacerdote
. Legend had it that he had personally slaughtered seven senior SS officers with his own hands.

Since the end of the war, he had still occasionally helped the British with several of their operations; mainly offering introductions, providing safe-houses, emptying dead-drops. But no more killing. Those few years during the war had washed his hands with enough blood to last a lifetime. So no killing.

That is, unless he had to.

* * *

Gorilla had been left in the Sacristy while Sophia had been taken to the small house at the rear of the church.

Five minutes later the priest returned, still hefting the MP40. “She is resting, don't worry, she'll be fine. I have recruited one of my people to keep guard over her while we talk. If anyone chooses to disturb our guest tonight, they will be greeted by Franco's
Lupara
. Franco is an honorable man, a man of respect, who knows when to keep quiet.”

Gorilla nodded. The priest seemed like a contradiction, a man of peace who was ready to kill. But then, Gorilla knew the man's history and knew better than to try to second guess him.

Father Frazzano poured them both a small glass of grappa and handed one to Gorilla. “I don't want to know who she is, it's better that I don't, but I would like to know what we are dealing with. If SENTINEL is involved, then I assume it is serious?”

Gorilla downed the grappa in one slug and placed the glass carefully on the table. He nodded. “It's serious enough. A professional killer has his sights set on her. She's the last one on his kill list and he has to complete his contract. It's just the way he is.”

Frazzano nodded gravely. “I see. And there is no way of the police tracking him down?”

“No, Father. This is a below the radar operation. No one can know. He will carry on, unless I can kill him first.” Gorilla looked at his watch. “I have to go. One of our people will be in touch to collect her when it is safe.”

The priest stood up, holding the sub-machine gun in the crook of his arm as he opened the sacristy door for his guest. “Then go with God, my son.”

Gorilla stood there staring at him for a few final seconds, then moved out into the night, into the rain. “No final words of prayer, Father? No absolution for my sins?” he asked, half mockingly.

“I don't think that it's prayers you need. You have the look of a man well-acquainted with death,” said Frazzano, with a touch of sadness.

“How can you tell?” asked Gorilla. Was he marked, was there a stain that was visible, which showed he was a killer, a killer many times over.

But the priest simply closed the door, bolting it behind him, as if that was answer enough. Besides, Gorilla thought he knew what the priest had meant, knowing the
Diavolo's
history, it took one to know one.

* * *

“I've heard it said that when a man hunts another man to the death, he can never go back to hunting animals. Everything else seems rather flat and inconsequential. Almost as if the hunter had peaked with tracking and killing his fellow man. Mere beasts would be a bit of a letdown. What do you think of that?”

They were sat in C's new office on the top floor of Century House. The decorators had been in and given the place a spruce up before the Chief was finally allowed into his private domain. It was as if someone had uprooted his old office and thrown it across the river; everything was in its familiar place just as it had been at Broadway. The only difference was a new view; the spire of Big Ben and Parliament evident across the Thames.

“I have heard that too, sir,” said Masterman.

“And what are your thoughts on it?”

Masterman pondered the question. “I think it is a fair summation.”

In fact, he thought it was a load of balls. Masterman had hunted men in all manner of conflicts, some declared and some very much underground, it was never easy and at times distasteful, but in the final analysis it was a job that he'd been expected to carry out. It certainly didn't stop him from going pheasant or deer hunting in Scotland when the season was right. It was a lot of nonsense, but when the Chief of the Secret Intelligence Service was trying to make a point, he found it best to play along.

“So where are we, with Operation… oh damn, what's it called?” asked C.

“Mace, Sir.”

C nodded, getting the details clear in his mind. “Yes, exactly Mace, one has so many operations to remember. What's the state of play thus far?”

The Chief had summoned him at the end of the working day for 'a quiet chat'. So a brisk drive from Pimlico to Lambeth and whisked upstairs past the senior officers' rooms to C's new river view office. Masterman still had his uniform on from tonight's now-cancelled Regimental dinner.

“It's Italy; the final stages are to be played out in Rome. Marquez tried to snatch
LYRA
but made a hash of it, not the least because my team had gotten there first and scuppered his plans. She is currently in a secure safe-house, under armed protection,” said Masterman.

“I see, and everything is on track? Your people are ready to take this killer down?”

Masterman shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Nobody liked giving bad news to a superior officer, no matter how avuncular he might seem. “I've just spoken to my unit leader in Rome; it seems there's been a problem. One of my officers has been taken by Marquez, and he's expecting a trade, my officer in exchange for agent
LYRA
.

C reclined back in his chair and frowned. “We can assume the officer has talked, has he, to this Marquez?”

“It's a she, Sir. Nicole Quayle, a junior officer who had been seconded to Redaction for the duration of Mace.”

C's head snapped up. “Good grief, Stephen! When one is handed an operational overview, one doesn't always read the fine details of personnel. A young woman of our service, you say?”

“According to my man in Rome, Marquez is under the impression that my team are, in fact, Russian agents there to wipe him out. From what I understand, it's a ruse that he's been encouraged to believe.”

“Well, that's something. So the covers of Constellation's agents are still unblemished, it's nothing to do with us, it's the Russians protecting their investment in their spies. Is that a fair summation?”

“So far, sir,” replied Masterman.

“And this man of yours, he's ready and primed to remove the last of these killers?”

Masterman nodded. “He is, as we speak, on his way to a rendezvous with Marquez. My officer has never let me down before. I fully expect him to finish what he started.”

“That's excellent news, Stephen, I'm sure he will. After all, for the moment we have the upper hand in this game. Don't want us to lose that advantage, do we? Do you know, when I first proposed the creation of Redaction many years ago, I envisioned it to be a stealth-like creature, separate from the mainstream intelligence gathering of the rest of the Service, something that could be used when all other options were nullified,” said C.

Masterman smiled. He remembered his first few weeks as the newly-appointed Head of Redaction, and how it had been drummed into him that Redaction was never to be seen, never to be heard, and never to be caught during an operation. They were the ghosts of SIS.