by James Quinn
“Then the police. Perhaps he ratted us out to Les Flics.”
“For what purpose?”
“Who knows? Anger, revenge, jealousy, being a prick… whatever he did it for, he's a dead man when I get hold of him,” snarled Gioradze.
Marquez shook his head. “David, those men weren't police. Did you see the weapons, the masks, the clothes? Besides, there were only two of them – if it was the police, they would have come mob handed.”
“Two that we could see?”
“Alright, two that we could see, but they weren't there to arrest anyone, they were there to kill. Didn't you see the body count?”
Gioradze had to admit that even the Marseilles police, after years of having to deal with the violence of the Corsican milieu, wouldn't resort to murder. “Maybe it was the Barbouzes?” he said.
Marquez considered this. The Barbouzes – 'the bearded ones', – were the ruthless French Secret Service operators waging an underground war against the terrorist group, the OAS. They were certainly known for murder and execution. But he had never worked for the OAS and to his knowledge, neither had Gioradze, so he couldn't figure out why they would target them specifically. “Impossible. Why would the SDECE Action Groups wish to target us?”
“Okay, so what was it all about, then?”
Marquez sat silent for a moment or two, watching the film on the screen but not really taking in what was happening. Finally, he decided. “I think it was a spat, a very violent spat, between the Guerinis and a rival gang. We just got caught up in the middle of it all.”
Gioradze tensed, his finger moving to the trigger. The couple three rows in front got up and shuffled their way to the exit. Either the film wasn't to their taste, or the young beau had finished with his girlfriend's ministrations. He settled back. “So what's our next move?” he asked.
Marquez considered it for a moment. There was no point returning to the Hotel Azure. As they'd been making their escape, he'd briefly turned back to see the building engulfed in flames. Fire poured from the top floor windows and he had no doubt that by now, the building would be all but destroyed along with the reminder of their belongings. A good job that I have copies of the planning at the safe-house outside Paris, he thought.
“We move. We take what we have and drive north. The south has become too exciting.”
Outside, parked five hundred yards down from the cinema was a newly-acquired Citroën they'd appropriated from an unsuspecting driver an hour ago. The same unsuspecting driver was currently jammed into the boot of the car, a single bullet lodged in his forehead. The car had a full tank of petrol and would get them safely out of the area later that night.
“Okay,” said Gioradze.
“We get back to the safe-house in Auvers-sur-Oise . We travel separately and rendezvous there. We'll have to alter our plans slightly, just in case someone is on our backs. Instead of attacking the targets geographically, I think we should be a bit more inventive and take the next few at random. You take the job in England. Once that's finished, I'll move on the target in Paris.”
Chapter Eight
“That little operation you're running in Europe at the moment, Stephen, Operation MACE. It's getting a little loud, a little too noisy,” said C.
They were sitting in the Chief's garden at his home in Tunbridge Wells. It was the Chief's one place of sanctuary, away from the machinations of Whitehall. It was a sultry day and the cool glasses of white wine made a refreshing respite as the two men sat on the garden terrace eating lunch. “I mean, we can't have chaps bombing and taking potshots at each other out in the open. It goes against the grain of covert intelligence work,” continued C.
Masterman, who had been summoned to the Chief's private residence that very day, knew that when C was in full flow with his theorizing, it was better to let him lead and see where it ended up.
“So how's our batting average, Stephen? What's our score so far?”
“We've lost one confirmed agent from Constellation – Orion. Of the hit-team, we've gotten a one down and two-to-go ratio. So while not perfect, it's better than we expected,” said Masterman. “Although if I'm honest, there's something about this whole CIA operation that's been nagging at me.”
C poured them another glass each of wine each. “Well, go on. Don't leave me in suspense.”
“There's something not right about it, something that doesn't quite ring true. It doesn't have the hallmarks of one of the Agency's normal missions. It's too rushed, a bit haphazard and since when did the Agency need to start using outside support such as forgers or armorers?” asked Masterman.
“I admit; it does sound a tad unusual. Carry on,” prompted C.
“Firstly, why would the Americans use old, outside contractors for a kill list this size? Since Kennedy's assassination, the US Special Forces teams have taken over that type of operation. It doesn't add up. They're just taking a bigger risk of compromise by using outsiders.”
C nodded. “Indeed, I'd had much the same thought myself. What are your conclusions?”
Masterman was unsure where his hypothesis was going, but decided to follow it to its natural conclusion. “It's false somehow. It could be a rogue operation, but it's certainly not mainstream CIA.”
“Maybe it's time to declare our hand to the Americans,” said the Spymaster.
Masterman turned to his Chief and frowned. “I thought the original aim was to keep it covert, without alerting the CIA. Surely that was the purpose of using Redaction for this.”
“Oh, it's no reflection on you and your unit, Stephen. It's just that sometimes these things have to run their course and work themselves out. However, it seems that this time, we've gone as far as we can, and if the Americans do have a rogue element operating inside their organization, it's only proper that we alert them to it.” C nibbled at his salad, dusted his lips and returned to his problem. “Perhaps it's time to bring the Americans up to speed. Nothing formal and certainly nothing official. Just a meeting between fellow officers and maybe a chat over a drink, to alert them to this problem – just to give them a nudge in the right direction.”
Masterman didn't like the way the conversation was going. This could put his people at risk and being an ex-field agent himself, it was something he wasn't keen to encourage. “But won't that compromise my operation, not to mention the risk of exposing Constellation?”
“Constellation has always been the priority and if we do it correctly, it should be allowed to carry on unharmed. We'll simply say that we're aware of an attempted assassination plot against several Soviet agents. Let's see if we can embarrass the Agency a little, poke fun at their lack of operational security. Plus, if your team can remove these killers, we can also use it as leverage against the Agency to shut this silly operation down. We'll tell them we don't take too kindly to CIA-backed murder on British soil. After all, what intelligence service wants to be caught in flagrante by one of its allies? Certainly not the CIA, not after all its recent neutering by Congress. I'm sure we can count on their cooperation.”
“And if they refuse?” asked Masterman.
C placed his glass on the table and rested his hands across his lap. “Well, if that happens – and I hope it won't come to that – we'll have a very interesting game on our hands, won't we? Do you know anyone on that side of the pond who we could have a quiet word with? An old friend perhaps, a compatriot, someone who appreciates the need for discretion and is part of the old boy network ?”
Masterman thought for a moment. He knew straight away who he would turn to. “There is a chap I used to know. Sort of my opposite number in the Agency in the bad old days, he was part of the CIA's covert action program in Berlin before they dismantled it all… well, after Kennedy and all that.”
“I understand, I understand. And is he someone we could work with, perhaps pass a message to unofficially?”
Masterman nodded. “I believe so. We have an understanding, sir. Call it a line of communication between old comrades. The prob
lem is, what do we tell him?”
C smiled and relaxed back in his wooden garden chair. “Fortunately, I have the answer to that one. We simply say that we appear to have stumbled across what we initially thought was a CIA operation to target Soviet intelligence agents in Europe, but that under closer scrutiny, we didn't think it actually was anything to do with the Agency. How does that sound?”
“What do I tell them about Operation MACE and the Redaction Unit?” Masterman questioned cautiously.
“You tell them nothing. That part, as agreed, is to remain closed to the Americans. Besides, your man appears to be well on the way to wiping out the contractors, isn't that right?” said C.
“What about Grant? Shall I recall him?”
“Oh no, dear boy, not at all! I do like to finish a job that's been started. No, he's to remain in place and track down the rest of these killers. He's done a fantastic job so far in this operation and he must continue to save the lives of the agents in Constellation, but now it's up to the Americans to do a bit of work and find out if one of their officers has gone off the reservation and decided to start fighting the Cold War on his own.”
“Understood. I'll write up the information we have and pass it across to the CIA station here.”
C frowned and leaned forward to rest an authoritative hand on the younger man's arm. “Ah, now I fear that may be a little too loud for what's required. Go personally to see your man, talk it through with him and give him the file of evidence that we have thus far.”
“In America!”
“If that's where he is, why not? Nothing shows that you're acting in a matter of urgency better than a face-to-face meeting after travelling across an ocean. If anybody asks, simply tell them it's a routine liaison meeting. The file you give him – minus our involvement in tracking down the contractors, of course – may assist the cousins in finding out who the paymaster and the planner is behind all of this.”
Masterman understood perfectly. His team were capable of handling the actual killing and removal of the assassins, but the CIA was in a much better position to narrow down who was behind them, the controllers, and the architects. “It's certainly been a most unusual operation, sir,” said Masterman. “It's been particularly bloody from our point of view; the murder of Orion and the hit in Marseilles to name but two.”
C snorted with laughter. It was a most vulgar show of emotion from a man who excelled at presenting a cool and calm veneer to his subordinates. “I do find it most amusing, and not a little irritating, when our masters in Whitehall and Parliament hark back to the glory days of fighting the Hun. It's rose-tinted spectacles time I'm afraid. They look at it as almost a boy's own adventure; commando raids in the dead of night, then back for hot chocolate and bacon sandwiches.”
Masterman thought back to his own service during the war with the fledgling Special Forces; no hot chocolate, no bacon sandwiches, no romantic overtures. It had been three years stuck behind enemy lines, fearful of betrayal, short on food, short on equipment and short on help.
It had been bloody and murderous.
C continued. “And yet our Cold War is just as bloody and brutal as the fight against the Nazis ever was. In years to come, I suspect people will reminisce about this battle that we're fighting against Communism, and it will be a rose-tinted spectacles time again. Oh, the drama and romance of running spies behind the Iron Curtain. So gentlemanly, so clever, so cerebral. If I am still alive, I'll look them in the eye and tell them they're talking balderdash. The fight against the Russians and their agents is violent, torturous and more blood has been spilt in waging it, than the Germans could ever dream of during the six years of their little effort. The underground violence of the Cold War will be the benchmark that we're judged on by future members of our trade. If we're to survive it, and win it, we need resourceful and capable men like your good self, Stephen, and that man of yours. Remember that Stephen, always remember the greater good.”
“I will sir, I will,” said Masterman.
Chapter Nine
The Burrowers, over the past three months of being on duty for Operation MACE, had fallen into a weary slump, something which was instantly recognizable as the start of mission fatigue. They were tired, exhausted and not a little fraught with the possibility of the killers having slipped through their fingers.
Toby's team had also started to resemble a 'burrower' from the animal kingdom, such as a vole, weasel or mole. They were in to work early, stayed late into the night, and were constantly scurrying from one meeting to another, conducting covert trips to the new registry at Century House to clarify a new lead, or to plead a case to some unseen intelligence committee for extra resources. They were also rarely seen to speak to and the only evidence of their continued existence was the light in their office space, which burned late into the night.
For Toby, as the team's investigative lead, the stress of the operation was taking its toll too. Working hard, rarely seeing his family. It was a grind of travel to work, files, operations orders, work late into the night, travel back home, not see the kids, not eat properly and get a frosty reception from Caroline. Repeat, repeat, repeat.
So it came as a boost for the Burrowers, when three days after the unsuccessful hit on the hotel in Marseilles, a big fat parcel of intelligence was haughtily slammed down onto Toby's desk and gave the team a new lease of life. He sat at his desk, a half-finished cup of tea in his hand, and stared at the macabre jigsaw puzzle that lay before him.
The CIA had seemingly gone wild, a retired contract agent and killer on the loose, the murder of several people spread out across Europe, the use of 'outside' resources by the hit-team – and not to mention the breaking with known CIA operational protocols.
Plausible deniability was one thing, everybody did that to some degree, but this was unprecedented. It was almost as if the Agency had a bee in its bonnet about giving its operation any assistance, no matter how small. No, something didn't fit right with this picture at all, thought Toby. Masterman had touched on it fleetingly during the initial briefing and Toby as the lead desk officer and analyst of Operation MACE was inclined to agree with him.
The question was, what was it? What would cause the CIA to suddenly have a personality transplant and start what was the term the Americans used in the gangster movies – 'whacking' out the opposition? The relevant files to the case were laid out neatly before him, in the shape of a star. He knew he was missing something, and despite the treasure trove of information that the Redaction Agents Gorilla and Trench had managed to salvage from the attack in Marseilles, he suspected the real 'meat' of the intelligence was yet to be made available.
The trick now was to give a best estimate, a likely guess, as to which target the killers would be aiming at next. If Toby and his team deciphered the intelligence correctly, there was a very good chance the Redaction team could swoop on in there and halt the killers at the source. The Burrowers had checked their leads and read through the material brought back from Marseilles and on the face of it, certainly from a proximity viewpoint; the next target should have been in Paris. A quick drive or train journey from the south up to the north and take out the 'Soldier'.
There was even a growing cabal within the senior doors of SIS, led primarily by Barton the Vice-Chief, that wanted to send all their resources straight back to Paris to protect the agent known as Cirius and wait for the killers there. Sooner or later they would have to come out the woodwork, wouldn't they, argued the naysayers. It seemed like an open and shut case and a less experienced counter-intelligence officer might have easily put two and two together and come up with five.
But not Toby Burrow's.
Toby's mind, for all its academic traits had a streak of criminality about it. At times, it was as if he could put himself inside the mind of the person he was tracking. He'd been that way since childhood when he would reason out where his mum kept the chocolate biscuits which were his favorites. Not the biscuit barrel, that was far too obvious. He had made
several false guesses – the pantry, behind the kettle, even on top of the cooker – until he'd finally figured it out. Not high up where little hands couldn't reach, but actually lower down were little minds wouldn't think of. The pots and pans cupboard under the cooker.
The rest had been a daring liberation of the said chocolate biscuits and happy indulgence… that is, until his mother had caught him, face smeared with chocolate and biscuit crumbs, and had sent him to his room without supper for the remainder of the night. Still, you live and learn.
The 'Marseilles Intelligence' gave references to a place called Scarrick Point in Cornwall. From reading the background files on the agents, Scarrick Point was the home of the man the killers knew as the 'Engineer', but who was better known to Toby by his codename of Scorpius. So they had a target and a location. Now they needed to know when and how the killers would get there.
The other piece of intelligence was a map with a circle around the Falmouth area and 'Scarrick Point' written in ink in large letters. There was a connecting line which stretched across the channel and stopped at another circled point somewhere around the Cherbourg region. It was headed by a word: 'March' and along the line the same hand had written 'Thamilia'.
But what exactly was Thamilia? Was it a codename? Perhaps the codename of a UK-based contract killer who the assassins were going to use?
But no, everything about what they'd done so far pointed to the fact that this hit-team was keeping the actual killing to themselves. They were using outside contractors for certain things; the German who Gorilla and Nicole had disposed of in Marseilles being a case in point. But on the whole, it was their show.
So how would they get to Scarrick Point, which wasn't the most accessible place from mainland France; boat, car or plane? It had to be one of those. Toby had quickly rung around his contacts in SIS's Naval Intelligence liaison, SIS Air Liaison and a contact of his in the port authorities' liaison office. He gave them all the same request: Find me something, anything that relates to the word 'Thamilia'.