A Game for Assassins (The Redaction Chronicles Book 1)

by James Quinn

  The deceased had been taken in a sealed body bag to the Vienna General Hospital and the unknown man's details had been recorded and then he had been placed in a locked fridge until the resident pathologist was ready to conduct his investigation. An hour later the post-mortem began with Krupp attending. It wasn't the first that he had been forced to sit through, wouldn't be his last either, but nevertheless it wasn't an experience that he looked forward to at any time.

  The corpse had been weighed, measured and photographed. Next came the washing process, before what Krupp called, the 'butchery' started. He made himself scarce and decided to take a look at the man's clothes and possessions. It was starkly uninteresting. Normal clothes, virtually empty wallet, identity card, cheap watch. The items of a single man and nothing more. A dead end. He started again, this time more thoroughly moving through each item of personal belongings until on his second pass which turned the gloves inside out and then the socks, he found something. There it was. It was nothing more than a small piece of paper with a series of smudged numbers written on it. Krupp stared down at it for what seemed an age. It could be everything or nothing, he decided. But there was something familiar about the number, something that connected with him.

  He excused himself, said he would return, then made his way back to Police Headquarters to check something. Just a hunch, but hunches in his experience had a way of turning into definitive clues. A quick flick through several contact files and confidential reverse telephone directories confirmed his suspicion.

  He sat back in his office chair, lit one of his cigarillos and made the phone call to the home address of the Right Honorable Cecil Rowlands of the British Embassy in Vienna, the British resident spy and Krupp's confidant, friend, and paymaster.

  * * *

  “So, how long had he been dead before he was found?”

  Inspector Krupp flicked through the pathology report that he had attached to his clipboard. “The pathologist suggests between six to twelve hours. So he died sometime around eleven o clock last night. It could be a few hours either way, but last night definitely.”

  “And the weapon?”

  “A very sharp straight edged knife. No sign of that, most probably dumped in the river. Whoever did it certainly wanted to finish him. The wounds on the arms were put there to make it look like a robbery gone wrong. It buys the killer time to escape. He obviously thinks that we're all idiots on this force and will waste our time pulling in all the known robbers.”

  “Is there any suggestion that this was a black market thing? Chaps falling out about sugar or tobacco or what have you?” asked Rowlands, determined to rule out as many possibilities as he could before his thoughts turned to espionage.

  Krupp shook his head. “Max Dobos wasn't known to us, but it's certainly possible. Maybe he crossed someone he shouldn't, but it must have been big for them to send this kind of message. Our underworld usually just resorts to beatings. Did you know him?”

  The question caught old Rowlands off guard, but being a professional he did what he always did on such occasions; he dug deep into his trouser pocket, rummaged around, fished out an old handkerchief and began to clean his spectacles. Yes, for old, dependable Cecil Rowlands it was a tactic that had bought him time on many occasions.

  He peered in close to examine the chasm that had once been the dead man's throat; he squinted, and then stood back up to his full height. “No. I didn't know him,” he murmured, and then quickly moved the analysis onwards. “So; we know the cuts to the arm were committed post-mortem. What's the order of play regarding the rest of the wounds?”

  Krupp shrugged and glanced at the report. “The first wound, we believe, was a stab to the throat, which caught him on the left side. That's probably the one that would have killed him; it's certainly the most lethal. Then multiple stab wounds to the kidneys and surrounding internal organs from the rear. The butchering of the throat, that was done as a supplementary strike, and in my professional opinion, was totally unnecessary. It was just the killer showing off.”

  “And making sure the job was done in case he didn't get a second chance,” said Rowlands.

  Krupp nodded, silently admitting to himself that could have been the case.

  “Anything at his home? The poor fellow must have had something to his name.”

  “Nothing of any use to us, he seemed to live a frugal life. A shabby apartment, a cooker, a radio, a bed, a phone. No money, no frivolity it seems. We'll keep digging, but…” Krupp's words tapered off, and he shrugged his shoulders, resigned to the fact that this would probably be a dead-end case.

  Rowlands was sure the Inspector would keep digging. He was a good man, a good detective, but sometimes, certain cases have a habit of coming up against a brick wall when leads fizzle out. That was something that the police and the spies had in common. “What will happen to him now Johan?”

  Krupp winced, as if these matters were of no concern to him. “There will be a simple burial courtesy of the state probably by the end of the week. If anything else comes up, I'll let you know.”

  Rowlands thanked him and made his way out of the mortuary. From behind him, he heard the hushed tones of Inspector Krupp. “And you can, of course, rely on my discretion Herr Rowlands. We guardians of decency must stick together through thick and thin in these perilous times.”

  * * *

  Cecil Rowlands called home. He didn't like to think of Joyce hanging around, waiting for him to turn up, especially after all the effort she had made with the dinner party he had to miss out on. “No darling, I'm still at the hospital and will probably have to go to the office from here. You go on to bed, get some rest and poor you, having to deal with the Radleys' and Herr Marks all on your own. You're a trooper, I'll make it up to you I promise,” he cooed down the phone.

  With his domestic problem – if not totally resolved – at least contained, he made his way down to his car and drove the ten-minute journey at that time of night to the Embassy.

  The British Embassy was an ornate fifty room villa located on Reisnerstrasse and had once been the summer residence of Prince Metternich. Rowlands waved his way past the guard on the gate, said hello to the night duty officer manning the front desk and climbed the stairs to his private sanctum at the rear of the building on the second floor. These offices were only accessible, via a multi-deadlocked steel door, to the officers of SIS.

  His first port of call was the file registry room. He worked quickly and expertly, removing several buff folders before taking them to his office. He sat at his desk, placed the folders and files in front of him and opened up the confidential agents list for the Vienna station. He flicked through a few pages until he came to the 'D's'.

  His finger moved down the page until he came to the entry for 'Dobos, Maximillian' and read through the brief biographical details of the agent and his contact tradecraft.

  Name: Dobos, Maximillian

  Agent: CH41/V

  Details: Born 1914. Hungarian, confidence trickster and low-level source. Used mainly in Soviet deception operations and for routine surveillance/security operations with Vienna Station. Outsourced to other friendly intelligence agencies when required.

  What followed was the man's last known address and what method was used for him to communicate directly with the station. Then Rowlands noticed a small tick in the 'communiqué' chart. It was dated the previous day. So Dobos had in some way attempted to communicate with the station over the past day or so. Rowlands closed the ledger and made his way to the station's communications section in the next room. He unlocked the secure door with his personal key, went straight to the main desk and looked through the pending file of communiqués.

  It took him five minutes to find what he was looking for. Three separate transcripts. All phone calls to the station on the direct agent phone number were automatically recorded and then transcribed. It seemed that agent CH41/V had called the direct agent line three times in a twenty-four-hour period. Interesting, thought Rowlands. The ma
n obviously had something important to offer, judging by the frequency of the communications.

  He pulled the three separate transcripts out of the ledger and worked his way through them methodically. Each began with the usual administrative jargon – agent identity code, officer identity code, time and date – which was all part of the minutiae of running an overseas SIS station. Rowlands ignored them; he knew them by heart anyway. It was the text that he craved in the hope that it would yield a clue to the man's intentions and perhaps reveal why he had been murdered so violently.

  The first communication had been received less than 48 hours ago and to Rowlands' experienced eye Dobos had been bullish and overconfident in his first contact. It was as if he had a good hand in poker and couldn't wait to tell the rest of the table about it, thought Rowlands.

  AGENT: This is [deleted]. I have valuable information, valuable material which may interest your service. I would prefer to speak to Colonel Ellerington. Only Ellerington will I deal with.

  STATION: No names, please on an open line.

  AGENT: I understand, but this information is relevant and timely. It will have great benefit for the British.

  STATION: That may be the case, but if what you say is true, we would need to assess it to verify its worth and authenticity. We would suggest that you leave it at one of our collection points as usual.

  AGENT: No, you do not understand. This information is very sensitive. I would be foolish to let it out of my control. I demand a face to face meeting.

  STATION: I'm sorry, but as I'm sure you know that is not how this works. Leave the information with us so that we can look it over. If it is useful we can negotiate a price.

  AGENT: I have a specific price for the material. It is non-negotiable and I will only deal with Colonel—

  STATION: I said no names. You know the protocol. No names. No face to face meeting unless the material is useful to us and to do that you have to pass it to us first. Also, WE set the price.

  AGENT: Damn you! I will offer this to the French or Germans if I have …

  STATION: That is your choice. Those are our terms. This call is terminated.

  ENDEX.

  Rowlands smiled at the conversation. Colonel Ellerington was his working name, the name he used when contacting local agents for off the cuff meetings. The station officer, actually his deputy John Green, had done a good job of unsettling Max Dobos and keeping him dangling. They all came in cocksure of themselves, ready to believe that they have the latest top secret, no, above top-secret, information ready to trade. He'd seen it a million times before and in most cases, it was worthless scraps that the informants had gleaned from drunken conversations in a bar somewhere.

  Rowlands preached to his officers that the role of the professional intelligence officer was to downplay what the agent thought was priceless information, not only to bring the price down, after all no one wants to pay top prices no matter how good the intelligence is, but also to give the officer time to accurately assess and analyze the material. Is it real or is it a fake? There you bugger, that will take the sting out of your tale, thought Rowlands.

  He flicked through to the following communication transcript. It was the same day, but two hours later. Dobos was going for his second bite of the cherry. Either the Germans or the French had told him that they weren't interested or he was determined to get a deal exclusively from SIS. Either way, he had put himself at a serious negotiating disadvantage which Rowlands knew his deputy would have taken ruthless advantage of.

  STATION: Yes. Number please.

  AGENT: CH41. I would like to talk to someone else.

  STATION: You can talk to me. What do you want CH41?

  AGENT: I… I called earlier. We spoke. I understand the need for protocol. Of course I do. But you must look at it from my position. I have something of great value. I would be foolish to just hand it over.

  STATION: How were the French and the Germans? Did they welcome you with open arms?

  AGENT: I… I… I have not yet approached them. I have worked well with the British before and wanted to offer you the chance first. If you hadn't been so obtuse then…

  STATION: Goodbye CH41, I'm terminating the—

  AGENT: No, no, please wait. Can we not reach an understanding?

  STATION: CH41, a face to face meeting is impossible. We are all very busy. Imagine if we had to have a meeting every time someone had some chicken feed to sell.

  AGENT: It is NOT chicken feed. You will see this when you examine it!

  STATION: As I was saying…we would never get any work done. The deal is this. Leave the material at my Cousin ABEL's house. You remember ABEL?

  AGENT: Of course…

  STATION: Good. We will collect it, look it over and see what we think of it. If it's good, or as good as you say it is, we can negotiate a price. If it's not for us, then we hand it back to you.

  AGENT: But it will be too late, then you will have already seen it.

  STATION: You know the way the game works CH41. That's the risk you take. Besides, we have worked with you in the past. Have we ever let you down? You simply have to trust us.

  AGENT: (pause) I will think it over.

  STATION: Good idea CH41. Good day to you, sir.

  ENDEX

  Green had handled it well, thought Rowlands. He had given the agent a tentative option whilst also being fair and professional. Anything less and it turns into the tail wagging the dog with the agents trying to run rings around their case officers.

  Rowlands rubbed his eyes, God, he was tired. Only one more to go he thought as he flicked through to the final transcript. The final message was short, terse, as if Dobos was at the end of his tether. The message read:

  STATION: Hello. Number please.

  AGENT: CH41. Today the postman delivered to ABEL. Repeat ABEL. I will await confirmation of value and payment. I am placing my trust in your service's good character. I hope the agreed terms and conditions are met. Goodbye.

  STATION: Thank you CH41 we will be in touch.

  ENDEX.

  He rubbed the tiredness from his eyes and ruminated about the previous few days' events. Dobos had approached the Vienna station with possible high end intelligence. He had agreed to terms and conditions for a trade of the material and had lodged it in the dead letter box codenamed ABEL.

  Rowlands checked the duty reports for the station operations over the past week. He found the correct file entitled 'Agent Management' and flipped through the section dealing with deliveries to and from the three main dead letter box sites for low level informants like the CH4's which were KANE, ABEL and ENOCH.

  According to the file the only one to have been serviced by the station officers over the last few days had been ENOCH, which meant that the team hadn't gotten around to emptying ABEL. I'll have their balls for that, he thought. He scribbled his initials next to the ABEL heading, meaning that he would take sole responsibility for collecting whatever Dobos had left for the SIS station there. But not tonight, he thought. I need to get home and get some bloody sleep. He checked his watch. It was 2.30am. Just in time to make his way home, trying not to disturb Joyce, grab a few hours of shut eye before he had to go and empty an agents' dead letter box on what was effectively enemy territory.

  He sighed and rose from his chair, felt the muscles in his aching back click, picked up his set of keys to lock the station office and headed for his car. His weekend break was ruined, and in those tired few minutes in the middle of the night he was sick to the back teeth, in fact had had a bellyful, of Vienna, being a spy and getting himself involved in murder mysteries where the victim had had his throat ripped out like a stag that had been gralloched.

  * * *

  The very next morning, looking refreshed and wearing his best suit and overcoat, Her Majesty's diplomatic servant the Right Honorable Cecil Rowlands strolled casually along Krummbaumgasse, his destination was the old Karmelitermarkt.

  He did his best to fight his way through the busy Chr
istmastime shoppers and keep the rain from his spectacles, which was not an easy task for someone of Rowlands' size and grace. He was more your strongman than your athlete, his wife would say.

  If anyone had taken the time to ask this distinguished member of the diplomatic community where he was off to on that fine morning, he would simply have said that he was on a small errand of a personal nature before he began his day's toils in the British Embassy. If pressed further, he would have confided to his acquaintance that he was on a mission to get back in his wife's good books. A small, but modestly expensive pre-Christmas gift, to apologize for ruining their weekend together when he had been called back to the 'office' to deal with a temporary problem. Some truffles from the specialist truffle seller in the market, he would say. Joyce did so love to cook and it was a rare treat that he was able to afford luxury items.

  Of course it was a good story – not true – but a good tale nonetheless.

  “Cover, ladies and gentlemen, is important,” he would drum into his field agents. “Always have a good reason for doing anything nefarious. You want to meet an agent at the opera; then I recommend that you at least know your Wagner's from your Verdi's, because you can bet your yearly wage that you'll bump into someone who will chatter about it for days and be a fully accredited aficionado. I'm not saying you have to be an expert, but you at least need to be able to hold a conversation without making anyone suspicious… at least until you get the opportunity to bugger off double quick!”

  Why the Karmelitermarkt? Well the most obvious reason was that there was an excellent truffle stall on the far side of the market. The ruse also gave him the opportunity to visit the ABEL dead letter box which was located nearby on the fringes of the market. Its exact location was behind a billboard at ground level. He just hoped that Max Dobos had secured it properly behind the loose wooden panel that held the timber frame together.