by James Quinn
By the early 1960s, many of these agents – former war criminals and mercenaries – had been pretty much retired or eliminated by the Agency. The military Special Forces had begun the transfer of power for specialist covert paramilitary operations by that time, thanks in part to President Kennedy's influence. Gibbs and his people still had access to a few operators, though; after all, one never knew when a deniable asset would be needed.
Then, one day in May 1965, Gibbs had been called to a private meeting, out in the Virginia countryside and away from Langley. His contact was the then Deputy Director of Central Intelligence, Roy Webster. Out of the office usually meant that it was ultra-sensitive.
“You have an asset on your books, I understand. The contractor has a proven track record, is discreet, reliable, and professional. He goes by the cryptonym of Caravaggio,” said the DDCI.
Gibbs stood looking out over the Virginia countryside while he thought through his assets list. Caravaggio. Of course he knew of him. Caravaggio was a legend within their little milieu; a ruthless contract killer who had a penchant for pulling off the most impossible assassinations. He was also the most expensive contractor, with his fees regularly running into six figures.
“I'm aware of him,” said Gibbs cautiously.
“We have a target. A CIA traitor. His identity is known to only a few at the minute and we'd like to keep it that way. This is all highly classified, Theo. You understand the sensitivity of this?”
“Of course. Who is it? Who is the traitor?”
“Higgins, the Deputy Director of Plans. He decided to go rogue and get the CIA involved in a shit-storm,” growled the DDCI.
“What?”
“You don't need to know the full details. In fact, it's better if you don't. But we have a rather delicate job that needs doing, a problem of catastrophic proportions which, if it isn't resolved, will have damaging consequences for the Agency. He has betrayed the Agency and has left us vulnerable.
“That alone would be bad enough. However, we believe that Higgins is planning to blackmail the CIA at some point in the future. Whether it is to fleece us of cash or to buy his freedom, we don't know and we don't want to take the risk. The Agency already has oversight committees baying for our blood. Higgins's testimony would finish us all off for good,” said Webster bitterly.
Gibbs had known Higgins on and off for years. He knew him to be a good operator and a solid man. He couldn't believe what he was hearing, but if the DDCI said it was so…
“We have an information pack for you to pass on to Caravaggio. We've disguised Higgins's identity; let the contractor think that it is just an operational target. Under no circumstances should he be made aware that it is a former CIA officer of Higgins's standing,” said Webster.
Webster stood glowering down at Gibbs. “There can be no foul-ups in this, Theo. Get it done. You can write yourself a blank cheque at the Agency when you succeed, but screw it up and it won't be a good career move for you.”
The threat was subtle but clear. Arrange this and keep your mouth shut, or face the consequences. Gibbs was smart enough to know that unemployment, financial ruin and possibly being murdered didn't suit him at all. He was an Agency man through and through and so, when the DDCI – and, by default he supposed, the Director of Central Intelligence – gave the order to recruit a contractor to 'remove' a CIA traitor, he would do it to the best of his ability and no questions asked.
After that, things had moved fast. He had been given a special directive, along with special resources, in order to organise the contract on Higgins. It had been rudimentary by normal standards; a flight to Europe, a meeting with a representative of Caravaggio's, an agreed-upon price and the details of what was required. That was it. After that, Gibbs's part in the recruitment was over.
The next he heard about anything was four months later, when Higgins had been reported dead. A heart attack while scuba diving in the Caribbean, the news reports said. That was, Gibbs noted, one of Caravaggio's great skills; making murder look like an accident.
As a reward for his part in the operation, the DCI had given Gibbs a promotion, a raise and a covert program to run. A deniable 'off the books' commercial enterprise that could handle the dirty jobs that the CIA couldn't officially take on. It was basically the second story boys working in private business, and so Executive Information Services, or EXIS, was born.
Fast-forward eight years and things had changed radically. Webster was now the DCI of the CIA, the old DCI was now a leading member of the President's inner circle and now, the viperous head of Caravaggio had risen once more.
This time he was the one trying to coerce not only the Agency, but potentially one of the President's most trusted advisors, using the threat of blackmail. Some very powerful people had a lot to lose by allowing such a killer to carry on living. And so DCI Webster, not a man who was known for letting his subordinates off the hook, even if it was eight years later, had recalled Gibbs to be part of a multi-intelligence agency task force, with the aim of tracking down the rogue agent who went under the name of Caravaggio.
The two other men – the Frenchman and the Russian – arrived at the allotted time for their meeting. Security was discreet and, for this particular occasion, was under the control of the Russian's people. All were of a similar age, early sixties, and all were retired intelligence officers, or at least they had been until this crisis had arisen almost a year ago. Now, they had been forced out of retirement to be the deniable face of negotiating a solution to a problem.
The suite was on the top floor of the hotel and had a private balcony. Later, when the business of the day was at an end, the three spies would adjourn to the dining table that was already laid outside, where they would enjoy a hearty meal of sardines, cod and Portuguese beef steak complemented with a light Portuguese white wine. Their view would be that of the harbour and the deep blue Mediterranean Sea.
But now, for at least the next hour, it was purely business as they sat around the small conference table and looked over their individual notes. It could be any board meeting anywhere in the world, except that this board meeting had potentially fatal consequences for any number of individuals across the globe.
It had been a year of negotiating, tracking, failed attempts at gathering intelligence, not to mention having the reality of blackmail hanging over their heads – or at least the heads of the intelligence networks that they represented. The three men knew that there were probably dozens of intelligence networks that were being threatened with being blown, but that it was really the big three – CIA, KGB, SDECE – that would have the most to lose. Hence, the smaller spy agencies would fall into line and do as they were told. For now!
It was the Russian who began the meeting in his usual blustering style. “We have to dispose of this threat once and for all.”
The Frenchman nodded. “I agree. If we don't, it exposes not just us personally, but potentially every operation for the last thirty years.”
“Not to mention several of our political masters. The result would be catastrophic for everyone. I can't believe we have been so stupid for so long,” replied Gibbs.
“And yet here we are, comrades and the question is, do we have a reasonable chance of eliminating the threat and protecting our people?”
“We should have controlled this threat long ago. We got greedy. We thought we had a tool that we could use to our own ends. In reality, what we had was a rogue wolf, something that we couldn't control,” said Gibbs.
They had all, as representatives of their chosen agencies, met several times over the last year and all, up to a point, had co-operated with each other to resolve this problem. Now, it seemed that things were unravelling.
“So… the contractors?” asked the KGB man.
“It seems, Yuri, that your man got a little… exuberant,” said Gibbs.
The Russian snorted. “The Bulgarian was not my man. I would have chosen a good Russian operative if I'd had my way. As far as I am concerned, the
Bulgarian was expendable and got what he deserved. He was what was pushed upon me for this mission by the KGB. What about the other freelancers? Are they any nearer to finding the threat and the information?” asked the Russian.
It was the French intelligence officer who answered. “Following the incident in Athens, we gave orders that our man and the American contractor should pool resources and work together. It seems that our man and the American contractor have formed a workable alliance. As I understand it, they have gone underground.”
“Perhaps to recover?”
Gibbs nodded. “That is more than likely,” he said noncommittally.
He didn't feel like sharing the information that the two contractors, Grant and Brown, had recently come under a lethal attack in the heart of the Virginia countryside. Besides, his EXIS operatives were dealing with the fallout and 'cleaning', to make sure that no evidence existed.
“Whatever they learned in Athens, it is assumed they will act on it once they have analysed the information.”
“Are they any good?” asked the Russian.
“The American is, for a female, one of the best trackers in the business. She is quite remarkable,” said Gibbs.
“And the French operative?”
The former SDECE man replied. “Actually, he is British. His reputation as a covert intelligence operator and 'wet work' specialist is second to none. It's why we recruited him.”
“So, up until the time that they decide to resurface, we continue to wait?”
“Yes.”
“And after? After they have neutralised the threat and recovered the information that we need? What then?” enquired the Russian.
The three men looked at each other. They all knew the stakes of this operation failing or being compromised any further – not only for the agents and networks across the globe, not only for the careers of high ranking career intelligence officials that had authorised their secret operation, but for their political masters that had the most to lose.
“There can be no leaks, no more witnesses to any of this. Our agencies can't afford to go through this again. It sets a bad example,” said Gibbs.
“I agree. Once the information is retrieved, it is imperative that we tie up any loose ends. Do we agree?” said the Russian.
They all knew what that meant and how it would work. One of the final two contractors would take out the other, and then the final one would also be terminated by an independent third party. It was the normality of the business that they were in. Contractors and freelancers were expendable, they owed allegiance to nobody.
And the thought of one contractor not taking out another, especially if the money was right, was just ridiculous in the extreme.
Chapter Seventeen
Mexico City – October 1973
Gorilla and Eunice's journey to Mexico City had been a long one. Once they had left Uncle Jeb and the dogs in Virginia they had contacted Gibbs, who had arranged for a CIA-owned private jet to get them across the border into Mexico. The private jet was a bonus. It speeded up their journey considerably and it also made it easier for them to take their personal weapons with them into Mexico.
On the flight manifest, they were awarded the title of 'Government Contractors' and were issued with temporary American Diplomatic status, hence their valises were protected, sealed and couldn't be inspected by the Mexican authorities. Gorilla guessed that this operation had cranked up a notch, at least as far as the CIA was concerned. Whatever it was that the Americans wanted Caravaggio for, it was evidently important enough to allow two freelance contractors the use of a luxury private jet usually retained for high-ranking CIA executives.
They had set off early and a four-hour drive got them to a covert military base in Williamsburg, Virginia. Camp Peary, officially referred to as the Armed Forces Experimental Training Facility, was a 9,000 acre site that hosted the CIA's infamous training school for its operations and paramilitary officers – The Farm.
It was here that Eunice had completed her original CIA training way back when, so for her, it was like returning home. Camp Peary also had a private airfield and it was there that the CIA Lear jet had picked them up. For Gorilla, it was a taste of the high life. He was used to travelling at best first class on commercial airliners and at worst, coach.
But this was something else. The interior of the jet was roomy and expensively decorated with four tan leather bucket seats for maximum comfort. There was the usual high-end pull-out table and a drinks bar located at their disposal. There was even a shower room. It was an executive hotel suite but at thirty thousand feet.
“You don't seem impressed?” said Gorilla
“Huh?” said Eunice, throwing her grab bag into the overhead locker. “I've been on private jets before – some for the Agency, some for some Middle Eastern clients. They're very nice and all, but they are just a means to an end. A way of getting us over yonder, that's all.”
Gorilla grunted. Well, Miss Eunice might not be impressed, but he was bloody impressed and he was going to make every moment count! He settled himself, admiring Eunice's long legs as she sat opposite him, and helped himself to an eighteen-year-old Macallan whisky from the bar, which he thought was superb. But really, by the end of the flight, he had to admit to himself that it was just the same as any other flight, which dampened his spirits a little. Next time, back to the commercial jets. Still, it had been a nice dream while it had lasted.
They had flown into Tenochtitlan Airport and had hit the ground running in Mexico City. It was to be their jumping-off point and their base until they came up with some leads that could narrow down the search. As they were now on a combined CIA/SDECE ticket, they decided to pool their operational expenses and book into one of the best hotels in the city – The Marquis Plaza on the Paseo de la Reforma.
They settled in well and on the first day, Gorilla had covertly contacted the SDECE Station and requested additional cash funds for possible informant payments, as well as the usual contact procedures for receiving up-to-date intelligence that might help them to track down Alvarez, Caravaggio's suspected money-launderer.
The French Station Officer told him to sit tight and they would be in touch once they had anything. Gorilla wasn't going to argue. The hotel was luxurious, to say the least, and the thought of having a naked Eunice in his king-sized bed would help them both to kill the time.
They were three days in when they had a breakthrough. They had spent the previous days making love, double-checking and going over the information that they had so far, but really it was about sitting it out and waiting. So, when the contact call came from the French Service, both of them were more than ready to act. The CIA had nothing, so it seemed, but the French had contacts in all kinds of interesting places that the Agency didn't.
“You okay to make the contact alone?” asked Eunice, as she watched Grant get dressed. She had virtually been a full-time resident of their bed for days now, and, while the sex was good and physical, even she recognised that you can have too much of a good thing. She needed to 'shake her ass' out of bed and hit the streets.
Gorilla was fixing his tie and attaching the holster to his belt. “I'll be fine,” he said. “It's only a handover with one of the SDECE blokes. I'll be done in a few hours.”
He bent down and kissed her, their tongues meeting. Eunice kept the kiss going longer than she meant to. She couldn't help it; they were just so good together. When she finally broke away, she smiled up at him.
“You sure I can't tempt you back in?” she said, pulling back the covers to reveal her slim, tanned and very naked body underneath.
“You know you can,” said Gorilla. “But you've worn me out over the past seventy-two hours! If I don't take my mind off your body and do some real work, I may just end up having a heart attack or dying from exhaustion!”
“Okay, Mr Grant, be on your way. I may go and check out the surrounding area, go for a walk and stretch my legs. Don't worry, I'll be careful. Just come back to me in one pie
ce. Deal?”
“Deal,” he said, heading to the door.
Once he had gone, Eunice stretched herself out in bed one last time. “C'mon girl, time to get up” she told herself. Maybe that's what she needed; to explore the city. She flung herself out of bed and grabbed her clothes.
The sniper had been in position since early that morning. He had a good spot on the roof of a building that gave him a clear line of sight up and down the Paseo del la Reforma and to the target's hotel. He was in the shade, he had water, he had been provided with a good weapon, and he was being well paid. He was happy.
He had learned his trade from the Americans during his time in Bolivia and Honduras. He could think of nothing better than lying up in a hide at long range and firing on a target. It was what he was born to do.
But the requirements of this job were unusual, to say the least. Not least the strange rifle that he had been provided with. It would certainly not have been his usual choice. But he didn't care. He was being paid by the mysterious Chinese man and his controller. Whoever that was…
He had been given photographs of his targets, the primary and the secondary. The secondary was a tough-looking individual; his face and body lean and hard inside a compact frame. But the primary target, the one he was ordered to shoot on sight… Madre de dios! She was quite a looker – tall, red-haired and with a slim, athletic body. Beautiful. Not that he cared what the target looked like. To the sniper, a shot was a shot. It was that simple.
Twenty minutes later, he saw the tough-looking man, the secondary target, leave the hotel and get into a taxi. He took his finger off the rifle's trigger. He should only fire at the secondary as a means to draw out the primary target. He eased his eye away from the scope and relaxed slightly.
Patience was the best skill of a marksman. Not the ability to shoot. Patience. And it was this patience that rewarded him thirty minutes later. He saw her exit the hotel and begin walking up the street, heading towards him. She was wearing a white trouser suit, sunglasses and scarf. She looked and carried herself like a catwalk model, confident and aware of her own sexuality. The sniper thought she looked stunning.