by Niki Savage
Stefan got to his feet and walked over to the window again, clearly restless. “That year, 1993, we received an assignment to arrest two members of the Red Army Faction. My heart jumped when I discovered they were Wolfgang Grams and his girlfriend Birgit Hogefeld, the two brains behind the bombing in Hanover. A police informant had set up a meeting with them at the train station in Bad Kleinen. Several of our five-man teams together with normal Federal Border Police officers, staked out the train station. There were fifty-four of us on the scene, and my team had to cover the tracks, in case anyone tried to escape in that direction.”
“That’s a lot of manpower to use to catch two terrorists,” Marcelle said.
“Yes, it was too many, in my opinion. And on top of that, we were acting on old information. The arresting officers only had an old picture of Grams, so they arrested Steinmetz, the police informant, by mistake. Grams escaped, and fled towards the train tracks. Two of my men gave chase, as did I. Grams drew a pistol, killed one of my men, and wounded another. He kept running, but tripped and fell across track number four. I caught up to him, and when he saw the situation was hopeless, he tossed his gun away and smiled at me. All the hatred and rage I had been carrying inside me burst to the surface. Without even thinking, I put two bullets in his head.”
“Sounds reasonable to me,” Marcelle said, shifting position on the couch.
“It felt right, but it turned out to be a big mistake.” Stefan walked back to the sofa and sat next to Marcelle. “Our orders were to arrest, not kill. The authorities didn’t want Grams to be a martyr, so I had disobeyed a direct order. My men were prepared to cover for me, but there were too many eyewitnesses, and soon my team and I found we were the target of a government investigation. It became a huge incident, and the left wing press had a field day.”
“That’s just so typical,” Marcelle said irritably.
“Yes, but the government bowed to the pressure and decided to sacrifice me to save face. There was even talk about jail time for me. But I wouldn’t allow them to take even a single day from me. We sometimes did undercover work, so I had several clean identities that no one knew about, and of course, I was twenty-one, so my trust fund was available to me. I transferred all the money to a numbered account in Switzerland. A few days later, I went to town on a weekend pass, and never returned.”
“It must have been terrible to give up your dreams, after all the years of training and dedication.”
Stefan nodded. “It was. I left Germany, bitter and twisted about what had happened. But there was plenty to do for someone with my skills, though most it was illegal. For the next two years, I worked as a mercenary in places like Somalia, Sudan, Burundi and Rwanda, fighting for whichever side paid more. I cared nothing for their reasons or ideology, all I wanted was action, and a way to stop thinking. I was lost, rejected by the society I had protected for so many years. But the senseless killing and wholesale slaughter of the civil wars raging in Africa eventually made me doubt my humanity, and I got out. After the stink and filth of Africa, I was ready for a change.”
Marcelle reached out and covered his hand with hers, her eyes full of sympathy. “What a terrible life you’ve had. It could have been so different.”
Stefan didn’t respond to her touch, but got to his feet and walked to the window again. Outside it was dark, as dark as his soul. He didn’t deserve her compassion. “It gets worse,” he continued, staring into the night. “I returned to Europe, and hired my services out as a sniper. Soon someone approached me with an assignment to assassinate a prominent public figure. The fee they offered was substantial, a million dollars. I didn’t consider the target a reputable person either, so I agreed.”
He turned to face her and watched her eyes as he continued, “The hit was easy. I killed the target from half a mile away, putting my skills as a sniper to good use. My employers were delighted with my work, and gave me another target. One assignment led to another. I became a freelance assassin, accepting missions from the highest bidder, and no longer trying to justify whether the target deserved to die or not.” He paused, inviting comment.
Marcelle shifted in her seat, clearing her throat. “You weren’t a good person then.”
He nodded slowly. “No, I wasn’t. Nearly three years had passed since I had accepted the first target. I had become a butcher, much like the terrorists I had wiped out, except I had no ideology. Law enforcement agencies all over the world were after me, but had no idea who I was, of course. I had dozens of false identities, and I had become a master of disguise, so they had no chance of finding me.
“I was twenty-six years old, and felt I needed a higher purpose in life. I had grown dissatisfied with killing from a distance, and my blood lust for terrorists hadn’t abated. I took the millions of dollars I had accumulated during my career as a professional assassin, and used it to purchase an island in the North Atlantic Ocean. It was an uninhabited island, and central enough to offer me quick access to the American continent, Europe and Africa. I contacted Karl, who had become disillusioned with the poor pay in the army, and persuaded him to join me.”
“Sounds like a lethal combination,” Marcelle said dryly.
“Yes, it was, and soon Kris joined us too. He said he needed time for some research of his own. He and Karl always stuck together anyway. I was delighted, because we needed a medic in the outfit. I had a ten-bed hospital built on the island, equipped with all the latest technology, and built quarters for forty men. Then we set about recruiting mercenaries who still had some sense of loyalty, and knowledge of right and wrong. Many of the men came from Karl’s Special Forces squad, drawn by loyalty and the fact that we would be fighting terrorists on our own terms. Members of the GSG-9 unit, who had remained loyal to me, also became members of Omega. Many felt I had received a raw deal from the German government. I was grateful for their skills, which they could pass on to other members of Omega.”
“And this time you were trying to do something good.”
Stefan nodded, returning to the couch to sit next to Marcelle. “Yes, finally, we were ready to go into action. Omega had been born. We started tracking down terrorist organizations and destroying them. Of course, my first target was what was left of the Red Army Faction. Soon word spread, and people started paying me to go after terrorists, mostly on vengeance missions, for someone terrorists had killed or maimed. We made a lot of money going after Somali terrorists, using a destroyer that the US government had given us. Businessmen and high-powered officials, who had received death threats or warnings from terrorist groups, contacted me to protect them. I accepted these missions, with the exception that I would assign men to track down the terrorists involved. I would then solve the problem permanently, if you know what I mean.”
“You killed them,” Marcelle stated, fascinated by the energy she detected in Stefan’s manner. This was his passion.
“Yes, we neutralized the threat, permanently. Wealthy people called us in when terrorists or other criminals kidnapped members of their families. Our mission wasn’t to negotiate, but to find the victim, get him or her out, and leave some dead bodies for the police. We had an excellent success rate and business flourished. People paid Omega incredible sums of money, because fear has a price, after all. My men became the highest paid mercenaries in the business.”
“And all the while you were expanding your organization,” Marcelle said approvingly.
“Yes. When government intelligence agencies uncovered the location of terrorist bases, they often couldn’t act on it, for fear of causing an international incident. We were mercenaries, so the rules didn’t apply to us. My men and I would find the bases, and wipe them out, wherever they were. We became experts at warfare in difficult conditions, and governments prized our services.
“The American DEA made use of my sniping skills, and paid me to infiltrate the jungles in Colombia where drug kingpins generally made their fortresses. Sometimes I would hide for days, waiting for the target to stick his head out
the door, so I could blow it off his shoulders. That was dangerous work, because right after the hit we had to disappear into the jungle. It was hit and run, because I generally only took two men with me. A larger force would have been too noticeable, so evasion was of the essence. We didn’t have the manpower to survive a direct confrontation with the enemy.”
Stefan paused, and his face changed as if remembering something unpleasant. “It was on a job that went badly wrong that we ran into a large enemy force. We fought a hopeless battle before the Colombians killed my two companions and captured me after I ran out of ammunition. They were rather pissed off that their boss no longer had a head.”
He closed his eyes as he remembered, “For twelve days they tortured me, trying to find out who had hired me, and the location of our headquarters. Luckily Karl and some of my men managed to rescue me in time.”
“It must have been a dreadful experience,” Marcelle said, putting a cool hand on his arm.
He covered her hand with his. “It was a bad experience, but I came through it all right, and the location of La Montagne remains a secret to this day. My men live on the island with me, and if they marry, their wives join them. This way they’re not vulnerable to retribution or kidnapping from terrorists who may have uncovered their identity.
“Membership of my army is for life, and new members go through rigorous screening and security checks before I accept them. We have expanded a lot since inception. My army now numbers over three hundred men, and we have our own communications infrastructure, and our own satellites orbiting the earth. We have information sharing agreements with police forces and intelligence agencies around the world. I guess you can say the reality turned out even better than my vision.”
He leaned back, stretching his long legs out in front of him. “The terrorists have been feeling the effects of our efforts, and have begun to target us, trying to strike back. They have tried to ambush us more than once, and this time they partly succeeded. We were due to meet an informant at an abandoned factory on the outskirts of Paris. He claimed to have important information on an Algerian terrorist organization we had been hunting. The informant had been working for me for two years, and I considered him reliable. When he insisted on dealing with me face to face, I didn’t find it odd. But it’s obvious now that he had blown his cover somehow. No doubt they killed him right after they forced him to arrange the meeting with us.” He grimaced. “The terrorists laid an ambush, and we walked right into it. They killed two of my men instantly and wounded me. Karl dragged me out of the line of fire, and put down covering fire so I could escape. I found my way to the post office, trying to evade my would-be killers. You know the rest.”
He searched her face as he concluded, “So now you know all there is to know about me, no lies or deception. Yes, I was bad, as bad as can be, but I think I’ve made good in the years that followed. People can sleep a little easier at night now, and innocent victims don’t have to die bloody, undignified deaths because of some madman’s idea of a new world.”
Marcelle was silent for a long time as she mulled over what he had told her. “So you’re not just a member of Omega, you’re the boss.”
“Yes, and Karl is my lieutenant. I wasn’t quite so forthcoming at first, I know.”
“And you trust me with this information?”
“Marcelle, you gave me back my life. Yes, I trust you. You trusted me enough to give me my weapons this morning, so I’m returning that trust in kind.”
“To be honest, I believe what you’re doing isn’t wrong, even if it is unconventional. You’re saving lives. I can’t condemn you for that. In this world a tough solution is necessary, but at what personal cost?” Serious gray eyes searched his face. “This time you nearly paid for it with your life. What about next time?”
He had no answers as their eyes locked. “I’ll just have to be more careful in future,” he said with a shrug.
She had to be content with that answer.
He had a question. “I went down to the garage this morning. Which car did you use to transport me?”
“My Ferrari,” she replied.
“I didn’t see it downstairs. I must have bled all over it. Did you send it away for cleaning?” Stefan tried not to show his alarm.
Marcelle smiled. “It wasn’t necessary. The carpet was fine, and I had seat covers on the front seats. Luckily, the blood didn’t get through the covers, so I pulled them off and put them in the wash. They didn’t come clean, so I cut them to shreds and burned them in the barbeque pit on the roof.” She appeared unperturbed. “You mustn’t worry so much.”
“You seem to have a talent for covering up evidence.”
“You have no idea,” she responded, a wry smile on her lips.
“But where is the Ferrari now?”
“It’s parked in a secure garage in Paris, and I don’t plan to drive it for a long time.”
“Why? Did someone see you when you helped me?”
“I told you before that nobody saw me.”
“But still, it might be a good idea to get someone else to collect your post for a couple of months.”
Marcelle chuckled. “I’m way ahead of you there, Boss. The guards collect my post for me now. It’s just a precaution, but better safe than sorry.”
“You and I share that philosophy,” Stefan said, finally relaxing. “That Diablo you have parked downstairs is quite something.”
She sobered. “The Diablo is...was Jean-Michel’s car. I generally don’t drive it much, but I haven’t had the heart to sell it. I use it every Wednesday when I drive out to my team manager’s smallholding. After the turnoff, there’s an open stretch of road for about thirty kilometers, so I can really open up the taps.”
Stefan’s professional mind immediately came into play. “It’s dangerous to have a set routine like that. If someone meant to hurt or kidnap you, they would be waiting for you on a Wednesday.”
She dismissed this with a wave of the hand. “I don’t have enemies. Anyway, the person who tries to stop me when I’m doing between 200 and 250 kilometers per hour, deserves a medal for bravery, don’t you think?”
“You should still be careful.”
She smiled at his concern as she rose. “Of course. Would you like some tea or coffee?”
He accepted tea, and she disappeared into the kitchen.
~ . ~
Later in the evening, Stefan glanced across at Marcelle, who was sprawled in an armchair, watching television through half-closed lids. It was obvious that the young woman was dead tired, though it was not quite nine o’clock yet.
She must have felt his gaze, because she sat up, as if she had reached a decision. “I’m wrecked,” she said, reaching up to touch her forehead, wincing. “My head feels like it’s about to explode.” She looked up at him. “Would you mind if I left you now and went to bed?”
“No, you look like you could use some rest, and no midnight dips in the pool tonight. Agreed?”
“Sure. Good night.” She weaved a little as she made her way to her bedroom.
He stayed for another hour or so, watching the news on television.
Before retiring to his own room, he opened her bedroom door, to check on her. In the half-light, he could see her stretched out under the covers. Her deep breathing told him she was sound asleep. He hoped she would stay that way for the rest of the night.
* * * *
Chapter Thirteen
The rest of the week passed without incident. Doc Louis paid regular visits to check on his patient, and Stefan recovered full use of his left arm. His strength increased with every passing day, and he occupied his time doing what workouts he could in the gym. When he wasn’t in the gym, he lay next to the pool, lazing in the sun, allowing his body to heal.
Marcelle went riding every day, sometimes with the same men she had gone with before, and once with the other female members of her team. She went to the meeting with her coach on Wednesday, driving the black Lamborghini.
&
nbsp; She had no more nightmares. She fell exhausted into bed each night, and didn’t wake until the next morning. Though she treated him well, she seemed to have withdrawn into her own world of cycling, eating, sleeping, and cycling.
Stefan felt excluded. He was jealous of the time Marcelle spent in the company of the male cyclists, and of the many telephone calls from hopeful training partners. He wanted, no needed, her around him all the time, but she seemed to have moved out of his reach. This only served to spur him on further to recover his strength and health.
* * * *
Chapter Fourteen
Saturday dawned with drizzle and overcast skies. Stefan watched Marcelle as she lingered irresolutely in front of the picture window in the living room, gazing at the bleak landscape. He could sense her discontent as she dragged her fingers through her shiny hair.
“Surely you’re not going out in that kind of weather?”
She sighed and turned from the window. “No, I don’t think so. I’ll race in the rain if I have to, but I try to avoid training in the wet if I can. These Frenchies are used to it, but having grown up in sunny South Africa, I doubt if I’ll ever feel comfortable training in a downpour.”
“Do you miss South Africa?”
“Sure I do, that country is paradise. Great weather, great roads to train on and the people are fantastic. But France is pleasant too, in summer.” Her tone was wistful enough to rouse his interest.
Intrigued, he probed further. “Why don’t you go back to South Africa in winter, and spend time there?”
She sat before answering. “There’s nothing for me there. I’m a French citizen now, though I think I’ll always consider myself a South African.”
“Why did you leave?”
She squirmed uncomfortably. “It’s complicated. You don’t want to know, believe me.”
“Maybe I do,” he insisted, sensing that he had stumbled onto sensitive territory.
She sighed. “Are you sure? I’m a criminal on the run. You could be named an accessory.”