by James Quinn
He had followed the man known as Gorilla to see where he would lead and the surveillance took him to an apartment way out of the city. Chang guessed it was a safe house. He assumed that she had been questioned and had revealed what she knew.
Over the past year, the operatives that made up the Caravaggio network had been quietly snuffed out, silenced. The Hungarian in Nice; the Creole in New Orleans; several other minor members and couriers. He had hoped to be able to eliminate Thallia Dimitriou from what was left of the network before she had the opportunity to be interrogated by his Master's hunters. But it was not to be.
After a few hours, he decided that if Grant and Nikita didn't kill her themselves, then they would release her and, at some point, she would make her way back to her own home. All he had to do was to wait for her there. His plan had been simple. Enter covertly and then kill her to make it look like one of her clients had murdered her. It would take just seconds to snuff out her life.
So he had sprung the locks on her apartment, reset them, and then waited in the darkness for his next kill. Patience.
Four hours later, just as darkness was fading and daylight was beginning to emerge, the woman, his Master's former mistress, had entered the apartment. She had looked exhausted.
Chang had simply stepped out from the next room and hit her once on the side of her neck, just at the right angle. She had dropped like a stone, her head twisted at an unnatural angle and her eyes already beginning to glaze over. Her life would ebb away within the minute, but by that time Chang would be away and ready for his next mission. He doubted that her body would be found for weeks.
Chapter Eleven
Tenerife, Canary Islands – September 1973
The little hire car was struggling to cope with the hills and at one point Eunice thought it would blow a gasket and die on them. The little Fiat was no Mustang, that was for damn sure!
Gorilla was wilting in the fierce heat and had removed his jacket, donned his sunglasses and leaned his head back to get some rest. It was the intelligence operative's version of the Spanish siesta. Not that Eunice would let him have it all his own way. She would, on purpose, steer the car over a particularly rough patch of road to keep him awake. It amused her to annoy him from time to time.
It had taken them several weeks to trace the whereabouts of Chirug. Following the interview with Thallia Dimitriou, Gorilla and Eunice had set up a temporary office in Madrid. A bed each, a couple of telephone lines, a desk and they had started the slow process of tracking down leads. Both had put in a number of search requests to their respective agencies for a trace report.
For over a week, they had nothing and in the end it was Eunice who had struck gold. An informant she had used in the past had some information – a rumour, certainly, but a good one and two thousand dollars. The whisper had turned out to be true and they had been passed along a series of cut-outs until they had a location and an address.
Then it was a whirlwind of activity as they packed up camp and took the first available flight out to the island of Tenerife, the Spanish-owned Canary Island, off the coast of North-West Africa.
The little farmhouse was perched up on a hillside in the village of Masca, a tiny hamlet with notoriously steep inclines and winding roads that was located on the north-western side of the island. They had called ahead, introduced themselves and said that they were in the market to purchase some information.
The woman who had answered had a soft Spanish accent, but was resolute in her words. “He does not wish to speak to you. He is sick, very sick. Please leave us alone.”
Eunice had played the wild card, just to see if it got a reaction. “I understand. We don't wish to disturb him, but this is very important. Can you please just pass on a message to him?”
There was silence while the woman considered the risks. In the end she said, “What is your message? I promise nothing.”
“Thank you. Can you please tell him that we are looking for an artist that he may have known in the past? A Master, in fact? We wish to acquire the rights to this Master, perhaps put his works into storage once and for all so that he can no longer paint. We were told that the surgeon could help us achieve this?”
There was a pause, as if she didn't know what to do and then: “Wait one moment, please.”
Eunice heard the phone being placed down and footsteps walking on a tiled floor. There was a long silence and then, in the distance, the sound of raised voices and pleading. Eventually, the footsteps on the tiles returned.
“He says that he would like to meet you. He says that you have intrigued him, that you have caused him to remember his past,” said the woman.
They made an appointment to travel to the small farmhouse in the mountain hamlet the next day. Eunice pulled up into the private dirt road and stopped the car. She nudged Gorilla in the arm to wake him up.
“We are here, sleepyhead,” she said.
In the field by the side of the house, several large black dogs roamed free. Eunice recognised the breed immediately. They were Presa Canario; large, Molosser-type dogs that were used to herd livestock. But because of their power and the ease with which they could be trained, they had been used more and more as guard dogs.
Gorilla and Eunice moved up to the front of the farmhouse, vaguely aware of the kitchen curtain twitching as they approached. They had chosen, as a sign of trust and openness, to come unarmed. Gorilla had even left his razor back at the small hotel they were staying at.
The door was opened to them by a small Spanish woman dressed in the uniform of a nurse. She looked at them with mistrust. Gorilla fancied he saw the outline of a gun in the pocket of her nurse's uniform. “I am Rosa. Come with me. He is waiting for you.”
She led them through a small hallway; the coolness of the farmhouse was in stark contrast to the inferno-like heat on their journey to Masca. Without ceremony, she led them into the main bedroom. It was plainly furnished, just a bed, plus some chairs for visitors. The walls held a monumental collection of photographs from days gone by. It was Coetzee's life as a young man, his parents, his youth in South Africa, his days as a soldier, various places… Egypt, Asia, Europe. The man in the picture looked the epitome of a tough and seasoned soldier.
The figure in the bed, however, groaned and lifted himself upright with an effort. Hs face was gaunt and ashen; his once blond hair was now thin and wispy. The man looked as if someone had broken him and put him back together again in the wrong order. The pain and weariness of illness and life was clearly etched upon his face.
“Nikita and Gorilla, I assume. Those are the cryptonyms that Rosa told me you would like to be known by?” He produced a small, slim Walther PPK from underneath his bed sheets and hovered its front sights temporarily over their bodies for a moment, before placing it on the bedside table. “I apologise. I had to be certain that it wasn't our mutual friend… or, should I say, mutual enemy?”
In his day, Leon Coetzee had worked under the codename Chirug. The word was Afrikaans for surgeon, and it was with the same clinical mindset of a medical surgeon that Coetzee had operated as one of the foremost political assassins. He could get in and out undetected, eliminate his chosen target and leave no collateral damage by way of innocent civilians. A former French Foreign Legionnaire, he had quickly turned mercenary after the war and had never looked back in the post-war political melting pot of intrigue and assassination.
“By the way, you can keep your money. I have no damned need of it,” coughed Coetzee, when Eunice said that they were willing to buy the information that he had for a sizeable amount.
Gorilla hadn't thought that the South African would accept the cash amount that Sassi and the SDECE had offered, but he at least had to offer it. Besides, Gorilla knew why Coetzee was agreeing to help them; revenge, pure and simple.
“How did you connect me to Caravaggio?” asked Coetzee.
It was Eunice who answered. “It was Thallia Dimitriou. She helped us.”
“Aah, such a beautiful
woman, she was poorly used by him. I'm glad I helped her to escape.”
Eunice nodded. “We know, she told us how you rescued her from Argentina. She suggested that if we wanted to track down Caravaggio, we should find his greatest enemy and ask him his secrets.”
Coetzee nodded as if he were remembering a long-forgotten movie. “Thallia is right. I can think of nothing more satisfying than helping to put a nail in his coffin. But please, can you tell me why you want to find him?”
Gorilla and Eunice had discussed this at length back at their hotel. Should they lie or tell the truth? In the end, they had both agreed that if they were going to get the best out of their next source, then a watered-down version of the truth was the better option.
Gorilla leaned forward and whispered. “He's played too long at the big game. He's pissed off the people that used to run him… on both sides of the Atlantic, even on both sides of the Cold War. There may be others like us hunting him, ready to take his head, we don't know for certain. But what we do know is that we're the best at what we do.”
“I see,” said Coetzee. “I suppose it was inevitable that he would overextend himself too far and make one too many enemies. I'll be honest – it is a day that I've been waiting for. I hope that you succeed where others in the past have failed.”
“Will you tell us what you know?”
“Of course! Caravaggio and I met in Algeria, just after the war. The place was crawling with all kinds of soldiers, mercenaries and would-be killers. It was a bleddy melting pot of distrust and chaos. We were both there – so we later discovered – to top the same target.”
“How did that work out, Mr Coetzee?” asked Eunice.
“I got him. He didn't.” He winked. “After that, we met again sporadically, usually when we passed each other in transit at an airport. In time, we started to work together as partners. We shared contracts. It was a very profitable relationship for both of us.”
“Were you friends?”
Coetzee thought for a moment, then answered, “Yes, I would say that we were, or as much as anybody in our profession can be. We shared a profession and a level of professionalism.”
“What was the reason for the split? Why the animosity. It sounded like you worked beautifully together,” said Gorilla.
Coetzee barked a harsh laugh. “My friend, things are never as they seem. Let me tell you my story. It's a story that I have been waiting to tell for many years.”
“We were in Africa. It was a job for the Americans, your Office of Policy Co-ordination, which was later part of the CIA. Caravaggio and I had worked with them several times and we liked the way they operated.
The job was the usual type – to remove a politician who was stopping US influence within the country. Two long-range sniper rifles on a high-rise building. Caravaggio was to take out the driver of the motorcade and I was to deliver the kill shot to the politician. I had a reputation as a marksman, I was clinical, precise, hence my work name – the Surgeon.
“Initially, most of our CIA work came through Caravaggio, he was the contact man. But over time, the CIA talked to him less and less and began to approach me more and more. I suppose they figured out that he was a difficult man to control and accommodate, which he was. He had a love of his own image and grandiosity. In normal people, this can be seen as an annoyance, but to a professional assassin it can be a liability.
“However, this particular job went according to plan. We got out and we got paid. What more can a contractor ask for? But then in the following months… well, things began to turn sour between us. Caravaggio accused me of double-dealing behind his back, of speaking to the intelligence agencies without his knowledge, to cut myself a bigger slice of the pay-off. All of this was untrue. We argued – it never became physical – but we decided to go our separate ways. Then things began to turn sinister.”
“In what way?” asked Eunice.
“A woman I was seeing at the time went missing. Her body was found several months later. Several of my covert weapons stashes were raided by the police in several countries. A number of my false identities happened to get 'blown' to Interpol.”
“Caravaggio?”
“I had no proof, but it was a remarkable coincidence and the timing was… suspicious, to say the least.”
“Why do you think he turned on you?” asked Eunice.
“My dear… Caravaggio is an incredibly narcissistic man. He basks in his own image and self-worth. He thinks he is a God to the great game of espionage. For many years, he saw himself as being the epitome of the perfect intelligence operative. He was successful, good at his work, reliable. His reputation had grown during the war and had continued post-war. Add to that the way the intelligence business works… a case officer will flatter and bolster ego in order to make their agent do what they want. Caravaggio was no less susceptible to this than anyone.
“You have to remember that really, up until the start of the Second World War, the intelligence business was run by amateurs. Both spy agencies and agents alike. So a man like Caravaggio, with his resources, iron will and charisma, would have thrived. However, during and after the war there were an awful lot of newly-trained people from all sides of the espionage divide coming through. Many had been through just as much as Caravaggio, some even more so.
“By 1945, he was no longer the first among equals. I would say that there were an even dozen of us worldwide who could claim to be on a similar footing as Caravaggio. And for a man with an ego like that, a man who is used to getting his own way, that would have been a devastating blow both personally and professionally.”
Gorilla frowned, not quite understanding. “So what are you saying? That he decided to eliminate the competition?”
The old man nodded. “I'm saying that's exactly what he did – or at least tried to do. He is both a sociopath and a psychopath. That's a dangerous combination. Over the past few decades, slowly, quietly, several high-ranking assassins have disappeared. Most people just assume that it is an occupational hazard, that some enemy has taken them out. But I hear whispers… rumours… that someone else took up their outstanding contracts. I suppose that is good business practice.”
The old man started on another coughing fit that lasted for several more minutes. Rosa appeared at the door and looked in, her face a mask of concern, but Coetzee waved her away with a weak hand.
“She worries about me. Anyway, where were we?” he said, sipping at his beaker of water. “Ah, yes…
“Over the following year, we fought. First, he tried to take me out when I was visiting Sarajevo, but he fucked it up. The next time, he attempted a car bomb in Spain. After that attempt, I'd had enough and I started planning how to fight back.
“This game of cat and mouse continued for another year. I understand that Caravaggio became obsessed with eliminating his rival, the Surgeon. But every time he failed, it only made him more insane. During this time, I set about using all my contacts and resources in order to find out everything I could about this man – every morsel of information, anything that could give me an edge.
“Eventually, everything fell into place and I had a plan to lure him out. I concocted a false operation – fake client, fake contract, and fake target. I had it set up perfectly. When Caravaggio was due to attack the supposed target, I would be concealed on a rooftop with a rifle to kill him.
“I had paid an actor to take on the role of the target. He got a limo, driver and bodyguard for a few days and was told that he had to report to an office block in Cairo on the third day. There, he would receive a bonus. Caravaggio was to attack him on the pavement between the vehicle and the building. It was a simplistic scenario and one that he could have done in his sleep.
“On the day, everything went according to plan. I had been in position in my sniper's perch on the roof since dawn of that day. The target was due to arrive at ten that morning. It was perfect. The car arrived, the bodyguard got out, the target got out. And then I saw him… saw the figure… a tall
man wearing a dark coat and hat… the same build, the same gait when he walked. I knew that I had him!
“The dark figure had his back to me as I looked at him through the sniper scope. I saw him walk to the target, pull a gun and shoot the bodyguard first and then the target. Both head shots. The third shot was mine. It was a clean head shot, a definite kill! I saw the dark figure of Caravaggio drop onto the pavement and I knew that I had won.”
“What happened then?” said Gorilla, knowing what was coming next, but eager to hear the details.
“I did what I always do. I paused and took a breath. In the moments after a sniper fires and a target is dropped, there is always panic and confusion on the street and this is the perfect time for the assassin to make good his escape. Then, when I was satisfied the time was right, I stood up and made ready to break down the rifle.
“I never heard the shots that took me out, perhaps because he was using a silencer, or because it was just out of my hearing range. All I know is that they came in rapid succession. One moment I was standing, the next, there was traumatic pain and I dropped and toppled over the side of the high-rise.
“I came to on the roof of the building next to it – I had probably dropped about thirty feet. I believe it was that fall that saved my life because the next shot would have taken my head apart.”
“But you survived. He didn't complete the hit,” said Eunice.
“Yes,” said Coetzee bitterly. “I survived. I was found several hours later by some workmen, half dead and dehydrated from the Cairo heat. Most of it was a blur… a hospital… eventually flown to Europe, and then the last eight years here in my private villa. I know that I will never leave this place.”
“And the 'fake' Caravaggio? Who was he?” asked Gorilla.
“Oh, he was just some small-timer who had been paid a pittance to get dressed up and gun the target down. Caravaggio often employs such decoys, apparently. They are disposable and have a very short shelf-life.”