by James Quinn
“And the work name 'Gorilla' where did that come from?” she asked innocently enough.
He took a sip of his Speyside. “That was from years ago. A nickname that stuck.”
Nicole looked confused by his irritatingly obtuse answers. Damn him, he could be so frustrating. He smiled, sensing her impatience with him. “Sorry, Miss Nicole, I don't do war stories. You'll have to look elsewhere.”
* * *
An hour later, Jack Grant was making his way to his meeting with Masterman. It was their usual meeting place in any type of weather – rain, snow, sleet or baking sun – it mattered not.
Restaurants and pubs were out due to either the noise, or the risk of being overheard by third parties, and there was no chance that Grant or any of the remaining team from his unit would be allowed within a mile of head office. In the Redaction Unit, everything was kept at arm's length, deniable, out of sight and out of mind until they were needed.
It was on the south side of Westminster Bridge, at the base of the steps that led onto Albert Embankment where Grant would meet with his boss. Big Ben glared down at them, stoically, from across the river.
Stephen Masterman, retired Colonel of Special Forces and now Head of the Redaction Unit for the British Secret Service, stood with his hands pushed deep into his trench coat. It had been several weeks since Grant had seen him last. He was tall, broad, blond and uncompromising, but was not without humor and affection for those he commanded. As an officer, it was easy to see why men would follow him into battle and help him storm the gates of hell if he so commanded. Jack Grant had been his shadow in some very dangerous situations on more than one occasion.
“Well, you certainly caught a tan in Vientiane. Got some color in your cheeks, at least,” said Masterman.
“You're joking, aren't you? I spent the first few weeks peeling off burnt skin! I looked like a bloody lobster.”
Masterman laughed. “Well, regardless of your ruddy complexion, I have been asked to pass on to you, congratulations and give you a pat on the back for a job well done. The Chief was very impressed.”
“Was he impressed enough for a pay-rise?” chanced Grant.
A wry grin from the taller man. “Unfortunately not, but I do have something else for you, something of great importance. A job has come up.”
“Okay. Sounds good,” said Grant, eager to hear more.
“Let's walk.” They walked at Masterman's pace, with Grant, as usual, keeping up regardless of his size. The rain had come in from the West replacing the frosty start to the day and both men ducked their heads so as to keep the worst of it from their faces. Their conversation only halted when 'civilians', as Masterman insisted on calling the general public, came too near. “How're your language skills these days?” enquired Masterman.
“Fine, a little rusty, but nothing a quick brush up wouldn't fix.”
“Some French, bit of Spanish; that's right isn't it. German? Used it much recently?”
A pause from Grant, then, “No. Not recently. Probably the last time was Berlin.”
The word hung like a shroud over the duo. Berlin was their mutual scab, one they liked to pick at in each other's company. It hurt, but they couldn't resist the urge to keep inflicting pain upon each other with its memory. “Ah,” said Masterman. “Berlin… So what did you think of the girl?”
“What girl?”
Masterman snuck a hostile glance at his smaller companion. “Which one do you think? Your contact at the Savoy; did it go according to plan?”
Grant shrugged. “She seemed to know what she was talking about. Let's put it this way, she didn't make any fatal blunders. She kept it discreet which is always a good sign.”
“But you liked her?”
“Are you trying to set me up on a date or something? She looks like she's still at school,” growled Grant.
The big man stopped dead in his tracks, turned and barred Grant's way so that he couldn't continue with his march along the Embankment. The Palace of Westminster was framed in the background of Masterman's bulk. “Surely that's the point of people in our trade Jack; I mean you're a case in point, aren't you. A wolf in sheep's clothing. Don't let that shy office worker act fool you, she's a tough nut. Has to be to even get a foot in the door in our grimy little organization… and I heard that she's not too shabby at lifting a wallet, either.”
“Very funny. So what's the operation, and why the need to bring regular officers in?”
They were on the move again, at a quicker pace this time. Masterman, as was his way, would often start out wide in his descriptions before coming into the fine detail at the end. “It's something a bit unusual. We have information that the CIA has put together an operation to eliminate a Soviet intelligence network spread across Europe. When I say eliminate, I mean eliminate in the most lethal sense, not just arresting them and giving them a smack on the wrist.”
“So the Yanks want blood. What's that to us? Let them get on with it.”
“Ah, well, these things do have a tendency to get rather complicated very fast, especially when the CIA get their dander up and start clomping around in hobnail boots. It seems the Americans want to give the Russians a taste of their own medicine.”
Grant smiled. “And how do you know about that, sir?”
The steely eyed glare from Masterman flashed again, and then softened. He and Grant went back a long way; they'd shared too many bad times to try to pull the wool over each other's eyes. If in doubt, keep it vague. “Oh, you know the usual, gossip at the monthly Intelligence liaison meetings – the powwows we call them – but with some signals intercepts and the like for a bit of flavor.”
Grant wasn't fooled for a moment. The CIA wasn't in the habit of giving away a little gem of intelligence like that, even to one of their closest allies. That could only have come from a human source. Their pace had steadied again and Grant was sure they were getting close to the nub. “Okay, so I'll ask again, what's that to us? The Americans want to start blotting out Soviet agents, of whatever description; doesn't that benefit us in the long run?”
They had turned onto Lambeth Bridge, their pace increasing, and they pushed against the cross winds that were blasting off the Thames.
Masterman turned his head sideways and shouted down at the little man against the noise of the gale. “Well, that's the problem Jack. Things aren't always what they seem. They're not the Russians' agents – never have been in truth. They're our agents, double agents in point of fact. They cast out a net, see what the Soviets and their ilk are interested in; we provide them with sanitized intelligence and use them to pass it on, spread disinformation and get them to perform sleight of hand tricks to keep the Russians guessing.”
“And how did the Yankees get the names of these doubles? What is there; a leak on our side?”
Masterman shrugged. “Who knows? The Agency has been playing its cards close to its chest over recent months and has been cutting our service out of the loop. I don't think they've forgiven us for Philby yet. What we do know for sure, is that this time the Agency is going for assassination rather than incarceration. They're not using Agency staffers, but apparently contract agents who they've used before. Mercenaries. They're sending a message, pure and simple, straight into the heart of the KGB.”
“So we can't be seen to upset the Americans by telling them to bugger off,” said Grant.
Masterman nodded. “Exactly. We have to bite our tongue. The harsh reality is that we're the ones with the intelligence begging bowls at the moment, and the Americans are the ones running the officers' mess. We need them more than they need us at the moment.”
“So we have to toe the line, is that what you're saying?”
“Sometimes we have to disrupt the games of our allies in order to save them from themselves,” declared Masterman.
“What, by sabotaging their operations?”
“Precisely. It's a game; they lie to us, and we fool them. That's the way it works. As long as we come out of it with the be
tter portion of the deal, we're quite happy to carry on with the deception,” said Masterman, who had spent his career frustrating both friend and foe.
Grant was determined not to let his boss off the hook that easily. “And we can't move these agents; put a security screen around them? Protect them in some way?”
Masterman shook his head. “The word from the top is a resounding 'No'. The Americans and their contractors would smell a rat straight away, as would the Russians, and the word from the Chief is that this double agent network is in no way to be compromised any more than it already has been. The best defense at the moment is total ignorance. That way, they will carry on as if everything is normal. Besides the removal of a few mercenaries is very, very minor compared to the integrity of a long established intelligence network.”
“Which is where I come in?” asked Grant.
Masterman nodded as they moved over the base of the bridge and headed towards Westminster Abbey. “We want the problem of these American contractors to be quietly removed, with little or no fuss. By that time, the Americans will have lost all enthusiasm for revenge and will simply put it down to experience… that's the hope anyway.”
“How conscious is this double agent network that they're being targeted?” said Grant.
“Not at all. Even more worrying is that I fear we may already have to play catch up rather quickly. There have been reports that two individuals who fit the profiles of the suspected KGB agents on the list were killed last week. One was blown up by a rocket propelled grenade, and the other was garroted.”
“So whoever these contractors are, they're already at work.”
“It would seem so, and what we don't want is for the rest of the network to follow.”
“Um… difficult start point,” Grant mused.
“All is not lost; we do have several aces up our sleeve which can help you in your quest. We have a couple of rumblings of this hit-team's previous work history for the Americans, just rumors, but even rumors generally have a lot of truth in them, which may assist.”
“What kind of rumors?”
Masterman waved a hand, as if the details at this juncture didn't matter. “Oh, stuff in the Caribbean, one or two things in Africa, as well as the possibility of a couple of freelance jobs for some criminal organizations on the continent. As for this particular operation, they think it's an easy contract, soft targets, easy pickings, minimal risk. That will be their downfall, as they won't be expecting you to sneak up behind them and clip their wings!”
“What's the other ace?” asked Grant.
“Ah yes, well, we think we may have a visual I.D. on them.”
Grant turned and looked at Masterman. “Really? What, photographs?”
“Unfortunately, no. We have a spotter, one of our people who was stationed in the Caribbean and saw our two possible suspects meeting with the Americans in the Dominican Republic shortly after Trujillo caught a couple of bullets to his head. They fit the rather limited picture we have of them: one tall and swarthy, the other short and stocky with a bad toupee and a scar.”
“That's it? Not much. Frankly, it describes half the mercenaries in Africa,” said Grant.
Masterman smiled a smile which said, 'Well then, you're going to have to make the best of a bad job, old boy'.
“Okay. I'll need to question your spotter. When can I meet him?”
Masterman stopped and looked up at the spire of the Abbey. “Him, Jack ? Who said anything about it being a him? Besides, you've already met her.”
“What…”
Masterman, when he looked down at the other man, was smiling. “That young lady who you met today. She was our officer in the Caribbean and what's more, it's been decided that she'll be going with you on this operation to confirm identification.”
* * *
They had decided to walk along and were sat on a bench watching the boats sail upriver. Masterman had opened up his umbrella and was humming a little Mozart tune softly.
“You can't be serious, Colonel. She'd be a liability; I mean, has she even been on operations, let alone something like this?” said Grant, his voice deepening with anger.
“Calm down, Jack,” said Masterman playfully.
“I am calm!”
“Your volume level says different. Besides, you only ever call me 'Colonel' when you're angry,” Masterman teased.
Grant let out a sigh and continued to stare at his rain spattered shoes. He wished he'd stayed in bed after all.
“Look, she won't be there pulling the trigger with you. We're not stupid. But she has seen these two Europeans, something that not many people have, it seems, and we need a confirmed ID before we can sanction the killing. Apart from anything else, she can be your eyes and ears in places where you can't go. Good for basic surveillance duties, carrying out reconnaissance, passing messages… even a bit of burglary. Think about it,” said Masterman.
Grant conceded that in the predominantly male world of Cold War espionage, a female passes relatively unnoticed: unless she's serving drinks or you want to sleep with her.
“As every part of this operation is to be kept at arm's length away from our stations in Europe, she'll be your cut-out back to us. Besides, I can think of worse ways to earn a living; travelling around Europe with a pretty girl in tow to keep you company,” laughed Masterman.
He knew better than to argue against Masterman. When you're out on the operation certainly, really, there's not much they can do about it then. But at the early planning stage he had learned that it was best to have the top floor set the rules. “So what's the next step?” he asked.
“There's an intelligence briefing pack waiting for you back at the Pimlico office. It has everything you need to know about what we have so far. I suggest you get yourself over there double quick and start getting acquainted with the state of play before tomorrow.”
“Why, what's tomorrow?”
“There is a meeting scheduled after lunch where you get to meet the Constellation Network controller and the rest of your team. So it's back to work for you,” said Masterman.
The rain was getting heavier, the sky darker and Grant sensed that the briefing was coming to an end. Masterman stood up and they made their way at a brisk pace, pausing to look over at the Thames as it flowed like grey steel before them. “As you'll be the Operational Field Controller on this one, I want a blueprint and a shopping list from you as soon as possible. I need your eyes on this one, Jack, your keen mind.”
In Redaction parlance a 'blueprint' was an operational execution plan and a 'shopping list' was the nefarious tools he would need to carry out the killings.
The two men separated without another word, and Masterman began the long walk back to Broadway. He enjoyed the walk around Westminster, through the seat of the British political classes, it helped clear his mind, but today he couldn't help but wonder if the mission he had given to one of his best men was one that he would ever be able to return from.
Chapter Six
Zurich, February 1965
The morning had not started well for Willem De Veen. He had risen late, unusual for him, but the lingering remnants of a winter cold he'd been trying to shake off was still sapping his strength.
He had dressed quickly, kissed his family goodbye and grabbed his heavy briefcase before stumbling from their apartment. His day ahead was busy. Not only his work at the bank, dealing with new clients and filing the paperwork at the accounts section, but today he was tasked with leaving a message at a discreet location which was a part of his secret work.
He didn't regard himself as a spy, merely as a conduit in the battle against a greater foe. He had started his career for the British during the war, when he'd been recruited to set up a network in occupied Holland. He'd been dropped in blind by Lysander and was lucky to escape when he discovered that the German intelligence apparatus had effectively gained control of the Dutch resistance. Willem had managed to smuggle himself out of the country and received a medal for his trou
ble, spending the remainder of the war working as an interrogator for military intelligence, interviewing captured prisoners of war.
To his chagrin, he'd been the spy that never was.
At the end of the war, he returned to his native Holland and began to carve a career in the banking industry; first for a Dutch commercial bank and later, after being headhunted, he relocated to Zurich to work in the established firm of the AGIG Banking House. He'd married his secretary, Ingrid, and they now had a wonderful daughter he doted on. His life was complete and he was happy.
Then one day, several years ago, he'd been approached for a meeting at one of Zurich's finest restaurants by what he thought was a new client, looking to invest some money. The client had turned out to be a funny little chubby fellow, who called himself 'Porter' and was very keen for Mr. De Veen to take up a rather well paid 'consultancy contract' with his former wartime comrades.
“But what would you want me to consult on, Mr. Porter?” he had asked in confusion.
The chubby fellow had dabbed at the corners of his mouth with his napkin, wiping away the excesses of the trout he'd devoured for lunch. “How's about we call it wrong footing the red's over the border, working a little mischief in their general direction. How does that grab you?”
De Veen had almost choked with laughter. “It almost sounds as if you want me to get involved in a little cloak and dagger work.”
The chubby man, Porter, had been effusive to the extreme. “No buggering about Willem, that's exactly what I want you to do. I want you to step up and return to the role you sadly missed out on during the war. You're keen for it, I can tell by the crafty look in your eye – or are you happy just whiling away your days, salting money away for Swiss millionaires?”
By the end of the luncheon, Willem had accepted the enigmatic Porter's proposal. He had thrived over the years, oh, how he'd thrived, and it had all been so simple to set up. A recommendation from another supposed agent doubling for the British, a little flirting with the Russians and he'd been whisked away for the weekend for several KGB intelligence officers to have a look at him. Evidently they liked what they found – a willing agent, with access to Swiss banking and IMF liaison – because by the end of the following month he'd been 'in play', as Porter liked to say.