by James Quinn
“Ah… and if the killers target the legitimate agents…” said Harper.
Masterman nodded. “Exactly, no matter how distasteful it is I'm sure we'd rather have proper iron-toothed Russian agents being eliminated than our own network. We alert them or give them security of any kind, the chances are they're blown. We move them – they are definitely blown, which leaves us with only one feasible outcome.”
“Which is?” enquired Harper.
“We keep them in place and tell them nothing,” said Masterman.
It was Harper this time who expressed shock, while Porter sat with his hands clasped tightly together, his brow furrowed in concentration in case he misunderstood what was being proposed.
“You can't mean it. Leave them to this pack of wolf killers?,” replied Barton.
“Yes, I'm afraid I do, especially if you want the network to remain intact and the deception operation to continue. If our counter-terror operation is successful, maybe we can get in there and turn these legitimate Russian agents, or at least have them rolled up and arrested,” said Masterman.
Once again Barton was at his bullish best. “Well, you're the Head of Redaction, Masterman, this is your bailiwick… what do you have in mind?”
Masterman knew exactly what he wanted. “A small team to track, identify, and eliminate these mercenaries. We hit them before they hit our agents. Hopefully,” he suggested.
“You're talking about a counter-terrorist operation, to eliminate these killers? Lure them in and kill them. Bit risky for our agents, isn't it?” said Harper.
“The agents are the bait, yes. And we prefer the term 'Redaction' for what we do,” replied Masterman.
“Hmm… I bet you do,” said Harper. Everyone knew that Redaction had a reputation for the heavy work and for carrying out the rough stuff. It wasn't known as the 'Thug Squad' for nothing. “Do you have someone in mind?”
Masterman nodded. “I do actually. He's a good man, very capable, very experienced. He'd fit the bill for this operation.”
The Chief looked around the table. “What do you think?”
There were nods of agreement. In reality it was the only option. Choice was a luxury they didn't have.
“If you think your man can do it,” challenged Barton.
“Oh, he can do it alright. He'll cut out these contractors like a surgeon removing a cancer. He'll leave you with a network still intact and operational, and the Americans won't even know we've been players in this game.”
“You, of course, understand the protocols, Masterman,” said Barton brusquely.
Masterman nodded. He understood them alright, had been made aware of them numerous times over the past four years as Head of the Redaction Unit. If it blows up in your face, you're on your own. If your people are lost, they better damn well shut up or put a bullet through their own heads. There would be nothing written down, no verbal command authorization; nothing that could be traced back to the Chief, and aside from the five men in this room there would no other witnesses.
Everything would stop at and come from Barton, the Vice-Chief, who in real terms would be the cut out between 'operational tasks' and the Chief's executive level. For the sake of proprietary, the mission would be run under the cover of a 'training exercise'. It was to be plausible yet deniable, as their American Cousins would, ironically, phrase it.
“So do I have the green light?” asked Masterman, looking around the room and making eye contact with each man.
And with an imperceptible nod from the Chief, really nothing more than a slight inclination of his head in the general direction of the far side of the table, Operation: MACE, as it was to become known within the history of the Secret Service, was born.
Chapter Three
WI/ROGUE and QJ/WIN began the contract as reactivated agents for the CIA by both heading for Germany. They had decided that, unless circumstances altered along the way, they would complete the killings in geographical order, hopping from one country to the next working down the body of Europe picking off targets on their list.
They had a timetable and itinerary for each of the hits. From this they knew that they would be able to plan out surveillance of the targets and what type of weaponry would be needed. Both men knew that the biggest risk was traversing the various borders of the many countries that they would have to operate in. It was going to be difficult certainly, but not impossible.
Following their initial meeting in Vienna, they had reconvened to a safe-house that Marquez had rented for them in Auvers sur Oise, a quiet village thirty kilometers from the center of Paris. The small chalet just outside the main town was overlooked by acres of woodland and came complete with a barn adjacent to the main building. It was quiet, isolated, off the beaten track and was perfect for hiding out and planning the rest of their operations. It was to be one of their main bases over the next few months. Once inside, they had spread out their target list in front of them across an old oak dining table and stared at the scale of the operation.
“What about weapons,” asked Gioradze. “I could have a word with some people in Belgium, but it would need to be a big order for them to be interested.” The bullet headed killer knew that in order to accomplish the terms of the contract they would need a wide range of equipment, weapons that would be far beyond the range of small time gangland arms dealers whose limit would be an untraceable revolver or a few hand grenades.
Marquez shook his head. “No, we keep our regular weapons sources out of the loop. You know these mercenary arms dealers; they're leaky when it comes to who's buying what and where. We could never trust that they wouldn't simply tip off someone in Russian intelligence and double cross us. Besides, we have an alternative option thanks to our American friends, although it will mean a short trip for you.”
“Where?” asked Gioradze.
“Up in north east Italy, near the Gorizia gap,” replied Marquez.
The CIA had a hand in a secret project known as 'Gladio. Gladio's aim was to fund and run a stay-behind network in the event that the Soviets planned a full out invasion of Europe. The network spread across Eastern Europe and had access to a wide range of equipment, resources, personnel and weapons hidden in a number of concealed caches. Most of the weapons caches were deep in the forests of Italy, Switzerland and Belgium and were far away from prying eyes. Mr. Knight, their CIA contact, had given them the coordinates of several weapons caches that they could access. The two assassins studied the map and the coordinates and routes that would be needed.
“We'll need silenced pistols, explosives, grenades, rifles, sub-machine guns. Take a bit of everything, that way we're covered for most eventualities,” said Marquez, drawing a circle around the three weapons dumps that they intended to 'dip' into.
“The big problem is getting them stored away and across the borders,” said Gioradze.
“It's something I've considered. Did you notice the barn out back?”
Gioradze nodded. He had seen the old building as they had driven up the road to the rented property.
“Inside is a VW camper van. It has specially fitted compartments that I had an old smuggling contact of mine in Paris rig up. It has three metal containers on the under carriage, two behind the seating and two over the wheel arches. Not large compartments, but big enough to stash a few rifles, pistols, explosives and grenades in,” said Marquez.
The two men went out to the barn and Marquez gave the smaller man a tour of the secret fittings, allowing him to judge for himself the feasibility of the plan. After inspecting it Gioradze nodded. “Okay, it seems good. What about a decent route? The less entanglement I have with police or border guards the better.”
“If you set off tomorrow and drive down past Lyon and cross the border into northern Italy. It should take you about ten hours hard driving,” said Marquez.
“Wouldn't it be quicker to cut through Switzerland and then drop down into northern Italy?” asked Gioradze.
Marquez shook his head. “No, the last thing w
e need is to be alerting the Swiss authorities. The Swiss are more thorough than the Italians. A flash of a passport, a quick wave and the Italian guards will just wave you through, whereas the Swiss if they smell something's wrong, will strip the van down to bare metal.”
Gioradze nodded, accepting Marquez's wisdom. “Okay, then what?”
“You lay up for the day. Sleep in the van and then visit the three weapons sites. All are in woodland, so at least you won't have anyone looking over your shoulder.”
“And if someone does see me?”
Marquez laughed. “I think you know the answer to that. You can't be captured or identified. Kill them.”
“Even if they are part of the CIA's operation down there?”
“The message I have from Mr. Knight is that this mission supersedes everything else. So just don't get spotted.”
“And then?”
Marquez shrugged and folded up the map before handing it to Gioradze. “You do the same in reverse. Take your time. Think of it as a slow getaway. You have five days to get there, get the weapons and get back here safely.”
The next morning Gioradze had set off in his little camper van and travelling on a Swiss passport in the name of Blattner, began the long and dangerous journey south. Marquez had stood at the door of the chalet, gave a quick wave and then returned to his desk inside to make sure he had covered every part of the planning.
They had enough real time intelligence in the files that the American had given them. They knew where the targets lived and their day to day routines, and only that morning he had made arrangements for travel and accommodation that they were going to use while they were in Hamburg, Lichtenstein and Zurich; the locations of the first three hits.
What he didn't know precisely at this moment, and wouldn't until Gioradze had returned with his 'booty', was how they were going to carry out the respective killings on the targets.
* * *
Four days later the little Georgian returned. The camper van struggling to climb the hill that led to the barn at the rear of the property. Marquez immediately dropped what he was doing and rushed outside to open the archaic wooden doors so as to allow the van to drive straight in.
The Georgian climbed out of the driver's side and shook his partner's hand. Marquez thought he looked like a man worn away from travelling across Europe in an old camper van that was stocked with illegal arms.
“Any problems?” asked Marquez.
Gioradze shook his head. “No, just a lot of driving, a lot of cold nights, and a lot of praying every time I passed a police car.”
“And the border crossings?”
“Smooth as silk, couldn't have been friendlier,” replied Gioradze. “Want to see what we've got?”
The two men set about removing the seals from the hidden compartments in the van with spanners and screwdrivers and carefully extracted the items inside. Thirty minutes later the stash of weapons and munitions was laid out in front of them on the floor of the old barn. To Gioradze it was a treasure trove. “Where do we store them,” he asked Marquez.
The Catalan waved a hand over to the far corner of the barn. “There is a hidden cellar in that corner, concealed underneath the old bales and hay; I think it was once used as a wine cellar. We'll put the equipment in there.”
He looked down at the arms. Gioradze had picked well, as he knew he would. Pistols with silencers, grenades, a silenced rifle of some kind, plastic explosives, detonators, sub-machine guns, even a bazooka with three grenades. “And you're sure no one spotted you at the Gladio caches?”
“Don't worry, Juan. They were all in the middle of nowhere. I went when it was dark and started digging until I hit a fiberglass box, the size of a wardrobe. They were huge. I took what I needed and covered it all up again.”
Marquez placed a hand on his partner's shoulder. “An excellent job, David.”
The Georgian's chest swelled with pride. “Which ones do we take first?” he said, nodding at the equipment.
Marquez pondered for a few seconds and then seemed to make up his mind. “We'll start with a big bang; the bazooka. You take it to Lichtenstein, visit the arms dealer and take care of him. I'll deal with the diplomat in Hamburg.”
The next day they travelled by car, but would, before they reached the border, break off and go their separate ways. One would travel to the cold north of Germany by train, whilst the other would head south by road.
Chapter Four
The Diplomat had his disguise on and was resplendent in his finery.
Disguise was perhaps the wrong word, maybe a bit too over-the-top: costume was probably more correct – but either way, the clothes he wore this fine evening were a mile away from what he would normally wear during his working life.
He was a man of secrets. Some secrets related to his job working for the British Foreign Service, some related to the 'secret work for peace' that he conducted for the Russians, and some related to his private life. Tonight's assignation was most definitely a part of his private life.
Julian Cowan, the Diplomat, walked along the Reeperbahn and as he walked, he considered that of all the places in the world, this was where he belonged. He was glad he'd been posted to Hamburg. Berlin held a much stricter legal punishment than the more forgiving Hamburg when it came to indulging his particular sexual tastes, and while it was still legally classed as a crime, there was always a member of the vice squad who would turn a blind eye or take a bribe, to leave the 'golden boys' in peace.
Tonight he wore his favorite killer outfit of purple suede and black leather, which was the polar opposite of his usual, stuffy three-piece-suit, regulation brogues and neutrally styled hair. He wore his killer outfit, because he hoped, no, prayed, that the eye candy he'd met last night would return for a repeat performance. So far, it had only consisted of drinking and a little flirtatious conversation as they watched the boys dancing. But who knew, tonight maybe, they would take it a tad further. He certainly hoped so; it would do him good to experience a release. It had been a stressful week.
First, the current spate of meetings at the Embassy and a quick stopover in Bonn, to take part in the current Anglo-German think tank on the future of a unified Germany; then back to Hamburg to meet with his Russian 'friend' to pass over the latest gossip and intelligence he had acquired. But for now that was all to be forgotten – the Embassy, the espionage, the Cold War. Tonight was to be about indulging himself in his pleasures.
Die Blaue Lagune was situated at the far end of the Reeperbhan, a downstairs bar that was one of the most secret and exotic locations in Hamburg for the discerning gentleman requiring erotic assignations and dalliances. The clientele was predominantly male and affluent, with the only exceptions being the few regular lesbian couples who frequented it.
Cowan approached the black steel door, rapped his knuckles on the wooden knocker and was scrutinized from behind a small Judas peephole. He straightened his leather overcoat and heard the bolts and locks being withdrawn inside. The door quickly creaked open, revealing a faint red glow and emitting the smell of sweat, cigarettes and beer.
The bar and the dance floor were busy; couples drinking in corners, holding hands or kissing, while the single boys and girls gyrated to the local beat music on the dance floor. Cowan moved through the crowd to the bar, nodding to several people he vaguely knew.
Now where was he? Cowan scanned the room one more time, but nothing. Then from out of the toilets he saw the object of his affections; the tall, dark haired man, with a long drooping moustache and wearing all-black clothing. The man walked across to an empty seat at the bar and picked up his drink.
“I thought you wouldn't show again, Esteban,” said Cowan, placing a playful hand on his shoulder. He settled on the bar stool next to Esteban and waved the other hand toward the barman.
Marquez turned to him and smiled warmly. “I never miss out on a good thing, my darling.”
* * *
Two hours and many drinks later they were back in Cowan
's apartment.
They had chatted over some wine, Cowan flirting outrageously, while his older beau acted cool and aloof, not wanting to rush the night's inevitable events. Flirting had led to petting and petting had led to the bedroom where Cowan now felt his newly acquired lovers' hands, slick with oil, move up the back of his legs strong and hard, then playfully across his buttocks, quickly and firmly pressing with his thumbs along his spine until they reached the nape of his neck. They massaged carefully; once, twice, three times…he could feel himself growing hard.
More importantly, he could feel Estaban dropping his weight down onto his back, could feel his arousal as the length of his shaft playfully toyed with the crease of Cowan's buttocks. He pushed his head down into the pillow, a smile of pleasure spreading across his face. “Take me, take me,” Cowan heard himself whisper, his voice hoarse with longing, as his new lover entered him gently.
* * *
Thirty minutes later, Marquez was washing his hands in the bathroom sink. Amazing how that oil got everywhere and lingered. In that respect it was very much like blood.
It had been twenty minutes since he had garroted the Englishman, the spy.
The whole operation had gone smoothly. An easy pick up of the target at the club and an unobserved exit from the bar. No witnesses had seen them leave and no one had seen them enter Cowan's apartment.
He had waited until the man was in a relaxed state following their love making and then, when the Englishman was at his most vulnerable, Marquez had quickly removed the homemade garrote which he'd secreted underneath the mattress. Marquez far outweighed the slimmer man and he dropped his knees down onto Cowan's upper arms, pinning him face downwards to the bed. Cowan yelped, more out of surprise than pain. Perhaps he thought I was going to fuck him again, thought Marquez.
The rest was the simple mechanics of murder. The garrote, a piece of thin piano wire connected by two dowel handles, was slipped expertly under the prone man's chin, pulled back and then twisted so that Marquez's forearms crossed. Then he pulled and pulled…