by James Quinn
Gorilla nodded. “Thank you, sir, I'll write it up in more detail when I get back to London. At the very least, it's bought me a few days before I get back to Paris in time to cut off Marquez's head.” Gorilla could hear Masterman breathing, thinking, weighing up the options. That's what made Masterman such a good leader of the Redaction Unit, his ability to improvise at a moment's notice and to take the strategic initiative away from his enemies. “Are you still there, sir?”
“Mmm,” said Masterman. “Just thinking things out, seeing which way the wind blows. Get yourself back to London – quickly! We may have just come across a small window of opportunity to smoke out the last of the hit-team. How's your partner shaping up, by the way? Is she useful?”
Gorilla thought it better not to interrupt and tell Masterman that following the attack on Nicole, she'd more than justified her place at the operational top table. Instead, he decided to play the issue down. “She's done just fine. She wears skirts which are far too short and her legs have the male population gawping at her. So it can be a distraction when I need them looking at her, and not at me. Good and bad,” he said.
“Good. She's going to get a chance to earn her wages.”
“How so?”
“We can't move Cirius, at least not permanently, but we can move him into a position so we can drag this killer out into the open where he has to stick his nasty little head above the parapet. Then you can bloody well chop it off for him. Leave it to me; I'll need to move a few people around so that all my ducks are in a row. Oh, and Jack, do yourself a favor and buy a bloody big bouquet of flowers on your way back to London.”
Gorilla was confused. “What for?” he asked.
“To say sorry to my good lady wife, for waking her up at such an ungodly hour as this!”
* * *
Gorilla made it back to London around lunchtime. There was a quick stop at the Pimlico office, to drop off the gear and to park Masterman's Spitfire. He changed back into his suit and left a note on his desk saying he would be on temporary leave for the next twenty-four hours and out of touch. His body was exhausted and all he wanted was to rest.
He made it back to his Maida Vale apartment, took off his clothes and flopped down onto the bed; covering himself with the sheets to block out the daylight. But sleep didn't come easy. That day and through into the night in the safety of his bed, Jack Grant dreamed of arms tied with rope, howling storms, a bone handled cut-throat razor dripping with blood, the slicing of flesh – but most of all, blood.
No, sleep didn't come easy for him that night at all.
Chapter Twelve
“Is it a coincidence, or something more?”
“You know as well as I that in this business, there is no such thing as coincidence, only enemy action.”
The older man pulled a face of displeasure, his tone growing angry. “The bigger picture is that several of your agents from the BEAR network have been murdered.”
They'd been walking for the past hour, battling through the snowdrift that had turned the pathway into a treacherous blanket of white ice. The snow clouds had receded, giving way to a bright clear day. Vladimir Krivitsky, KGB officer, had been forced to borrow a pair of snow boots from his host when he'd been told they would be going out for a walk to “discuss matters of some urgency.” His host was General Yuri Sakharovsky, Chief of the First Chief Directorate, the KGB's overseas Intelligence arm, and his direct superior.
The recall from his Rezidentura in Istanbul to Moscow, he was sure, meant only one thing. He was either going to be promoted, or killed. And since he knew he'd done nothing out of the ordinary over the past year, that only left execution. What for, he had no idea. Normally, these sorts of things were due to a power struggle within the KGB, one faction fighting another for promotion or control of a Directorate. Then it would be trumped up charges, torture, the Gulag or a bullet to the back of the neck.
He'd been greeted from the Aeroflot flight by a non-descript car and whisked away from the city out into the countryside. The driver, a tough-looking Siberian hulk, had told him they would be travelling to a private Dacha outside Moscow, where he would be meeting General Sakharovsky.
When Krivitsky asked for what purpose he would be meeting the General, the Siberian simply glared at him before turning his attention back to the road. With no further information forthcoming, Krivitsky decided to sit back against the leather seats of the car and wait to see how it played out.
When they arrived, the General had been waiting at the foot of the steps to his hunting lodge. He'd been taciturn and simply waved Krivitsky inside. The General had poured them both a hearty glass of vodka and they'd toasted to each other's good health, Russian style. They decided to walk out on the forest path and stretch their legs, let the cold air awaken their brains and try to solve the mystery. They crunched along, Krivitsky in his borrowed snow boots and the General trying to keep pace with his furious junior officer.
Sakharovsky, for all his bullish and harsh manner had been a devout protector of Krivitsky, dating back before the Poland incident. He liked the man's ruthless and aggressive manner. “I didn't want to discuss this at the office. There are too many ears listening, and too many ambitious people plotting.”
The General then gave Krivitsky the news no case officer ever wants to hear about his agents in the field. “Vladimir, it has come to our attention that over the past three months, several agents from your BEAR network have been murdered. Sloth has been butchered in an apparent sex-murder, Giant has been killed in a hit and run, and Ursid has been obliterated in an explosion caused by a warhead from an RPG! We want to know, from you, their senior controller, what is happening?”
Krivitsky had taken the news like an old boxer, reeling from a body blow. He bent his head down and for a few moments, he lost his balance. It was as if a shard of pure ice had penetrated his heart. He'd swayed, and the pain in his chest had been so intense, he thought he would never be able to breathe again.
But that had quickly given way to a venomous fury which turned his neck and face to a crimson red. The rage enveloped him; if he'd had a gun he would have killed any wild animals he could have found out here in the forest. Killed them and then ripped them apart with his bare hands… but no, never mind… he would vent his fury the next time he was back in Istanbul, he would work it out of his system as he had before. Buried in shallow graves were several prostitutes who he'd had his way with before dispatching them and concealing their bodies in the Turkish countryside. He would find a young one, one who would struggle; he liked it when they struggled…
The General was speaking to him. “I said, when was the last time you had a meeting with any of them?”
Krivitsky simply shook his head; he couldn't remember. He tried to clear his mind and focus on the news, looking for any clue as to how this had happened. He'd been the prime architect behind the BEAR network and he and his officers had worked hard to infiltrate the ranks of various western intelligence, military and government organizations over the past decade.
He ran through them all in his mind; Kodiak, the NATO officer in Paris; Polar, the engineer helping design state of the art rocket systems; Sloth, the British diplomat in Germany; Giant, the banker who moved secret operation money around for the KGB; Grizzly, the young GCHQ officer in the Middle East; Ursid, the covert arms dealer, and finally his crowning glory, Nandi, the aristocratic Italian politician who had a direct channel to the White House in Washington.
All provided him with secret intelligence, all keeping the KGB power-players off his back with up to date economic and military intelligence material. With the BEAR network in place, he was fireproof. Without it, he knew he would soon be pushed aside by any number of ruthless and power-hungry KGB officers, looking to oust the old guard.
His mind focused back on the General's question. “Personally? Not for several months. Most of the month-to-month running of the BEAR agents is left to my specially recruited officers in the individual Rezidentura's. I only
visit a meeting if there is something of great importance to deal with.”
“Then perhaps they have been careless? A security slip, by one of your agents or their case officers. I don't mean to be critical, it happens, it is normal. But the question should be, what we do to correct it?” pondered the General.
Krivitsky frowned. If his officers had been careless and jeopardized his team of agents, he would personally hang the whole bloody lot up on meat hooks and throttle them with his bare hands. “That is true. Mistakes can happen. But if what you say is correct, how all my agents could be targeted when they have no connection, no link and as far as I am aware, they have no knowledge of each other – is an enigma.”
Neither one of them raised the possibility of a traitor within Russian intelligence, but then, really, neither one of them had to. In the espionage business it was always a real possibility, it hung over them all like a gypsy curse.
“Is it the émigré groups?” suggested Krivitsky, his mind racing around, searching out likely options.
The General looked doubtful. “I fear not. It is too targeted, too specific; besides the émigrés are too clumsy in their attempts; drunk on cheap vodka and schnapps most of them. This is different; it has an air of the professional about it.”
Krivitsky stopped and turned. “Then a rival service, murdering our agents? But that is against all the rules. It is a violation, except under exceptional circumstances.”
The General looked his colleague up and down and sneered. “I hardly think that you are in any position to judge anyone about that. Not after the scandal in Poland several years ago. Besides, we have a reputation within our service for encouraging assassination, don't you think?”
Krivitsky conceded the point. The General himself had a policy of using terrorist factions around the world to act as the KGB's defacto operational assassination arm. Not to mention his use of ruthlessly murdering anyone who stood in his way. “Is it connected, do you think? After all these years, are the Americans seeking revenge for Poland. Could they still organize something like this?”
“It is possible, Vladimir. The Americans can be brutal when they put their minds to it.”
“But they must know that we will not sit back and let them hunt down KGB agents,” Krivitsky growled.
“True. If left to fester, it could lead to an underground war on the streets and in the cities, on both sides of the Iron Curtain,” said the General.
“From the sounds of it, it already has.”
They carried on walking along the path, heads down, deep in thought. Eventually, it was the General who broke the silence. “I have decided to organize a team from the Directorate to investigate. To see if there are any hints, as to who is behind this.”
Krivitsky's head snapped around. “General, if you let me run the investigation, it could benefit both my network and the Directorate as a whole—”
“Who is taking care of the investigation is not your concern. They are capable men, handpicked by myself. Your task – your only task – is to protect what's left of your network. How you do it is up to you, but whatever you decide upon, you must do it quickly, for the sake of the remaining agents.”
Krivitsky was not an officer to shirk away from taking charge, nor was he one to delegate being the bearer of bad news to subordinates. He nodded to himself, at last sure of how to proceed. “I will go and meet with my agents directly.”
“Is that wise?”
“It shows that we are taking the threat seriously. It is worth the risk.”
“Where will you start?”
Krivitsky thought. He would travel to see his head agent in Paris. “I will travel to Paris, to see my oldest agent, the military man…”
* * *
It was the hammering at the door which brought him around from a deep sleep. It was constant, as if the person wasn't used to being kept waiting on the wrong side of doors.
Grant flicked a look at his alarm clock; two in the afternoon! Monday! Christ, he'd been asleep for over eighteen hours. He felt as if he'd been beaten around the head with a wet fish, his mouth was as dry as a boot and his stomach was a rumbling earthquake of hunger.
Still the banging on the door continued.
The 'thumper' seemed to have tired of rapping with the knuckles, and had now decided to use the bottom of the fist in a thumping motion. I can't take much more of that, thought Grant, and admitting defeat dragged himself out of bed, through the hall and pulled open the door.
“Ah, so you are in. I tried phoning. Got no answer, so decided to come calling. Bloody hell, Jack, at least put some clothes on.” Masterman took in the apartment and aside from his semi-naked protégé, it was neat and tidy as befitted a bachelor pad which had been vacant for several weeks. The only evidence it had been used was the hint of a rumpled bed, peeking out from the next room.
And no booze on show, thought Masterman. That was a good sign that his man's mind was focused and still in the game. He made his way to the lounge and settled back on the leather sofa. “Well, while you've been catching up on your beauty sleep, the secret wheels of power at SIS have been grinding, ever so slowly forward.”
Grant dragged a dressing gown from the bedroom and set off to make a pot of coffee. “So what's next?” he called from the kitchen.
“You leave on the evening flight to Paris,” said Masterman. He heard Grant groan from the kitchen.
“Full circle.”
“Full circle indeed, exactly back where you started.”
“I'll need—”
“What you'll need has all been taken care of. Miss Quayle has all the immediate logistics in hand. She's quite a resourceful field agent. By now, she should be at your hotel in Paris, making a little home-away-from-home for you both. We've chucked the apartment, time for a change of scene for you two. Don't want people getting suspicious about your comings and goings. She has your flight details and will be ready to meet you with open arms at Orly,” said Masterman.
Grant returned with two mugs of coffee and handed one to Masterman. “So it's Sunday. We know the hit was meant to be on Sunday? Is that still confirmed?”
Masterman nodded and took a sip of the coffee. “As confirmed as we can make it. Cirius is expected to meet his KGB control at the usual time and at the usual place; the Pont Neuf. He, of course, knows nothing about the expected assassination or the fact that we have you there, watching his back. Better that way.”
Grant agreed. Cirius might be a very brave man, but the thought of walking into a killing zone was enough to spook even the bravest of soldiers.
“What we don't know of course, is where Marquez, the assassin, will attack from,” said Masterman.
Grant had been thinking about that, playing it over in his mind. How would the assassin think? “He'll do it long range. In such a busy location, he won't want to get too close. He'll want to keep his distance.”
“How do you know?”
“Because that's the way I'd do it. Is there anything on the telephone number in Auver-sur-Oise?” asked Grant.
“That was a good lead, excellent work on your part. Toby and his team traced the phone number to a privately-rented chalet. Paris Station had one of their agents take a trip up there. They did a little snooping around. It was empty. Cleaned out, spotless. Rented through a local letting agent. They'd paid cash for a six-month lease. This Marquez character must have left as soon as he'd received the code you telephoned through. The safe-house had served his purpose and he's abandoned it, which means he's somewhere in Paris, planning and plotting.”
“He's a slippery fucker, isn't he? Any more information on him?”
Masterman shrugged, as if it was a matter of no consequence. “Aside from what we already have, nothing much. What we do know, is that he's obviously in the market for contract killing if the price is right. It seems he's been used by several different intelligence services over the past decade or so, most notably the Americans. There are rumors of hits in Africa, South America and the Car
ibbean, all against major targets. To be fair, as one professional to another, he's done remarkably well.”
Grant grunted. Freelancers; you'd never catch him being a freelancer. Redaction was a pig of a job sometimes and the only thing that made the killing easier was the knowledge that you were serving a greater good. The greater good in this case, was the service of his country, but these cash bandits would whore themselves for the biggest pay-check. Never in this life, never him. No chance. “Anything further on what happened in Cornwall?” he asked, focusing his mind back to the events of the previous few days.
“The latest report I received this morning suggest that Scorpius is fine, considering what he went through. He is still in play. The cleanup crew will be finished by the end of today. You know how thorough those chaps are,” replied Masterman.
Grant could well imagine. The cleanup unit was a specially recruited team of men, mainly drawn from former Royal Army Medical Corps, the Intelligence Corps, and ex-coppers, and were used to remove any evidence and to dispose of unwanted items from the scenes of SIS operations. The removal of anything from fingerprints to dead bodies all fell within their remit. They were grim-faced, dour men who spoke little and revealed almost nothing about their work.
“Who was Gioradze?” asked Grant, finishing the last of his coffee.
“It seems that he is, was, Marquez's long-term partner in crime. A Georgian émigré, mercenary and former bank robber. Last known address was a bar in Portugal.”
Grant nodded. The image of the killer bleeding out was still fresh in his mind. He shuddered, as if to mentally erase the thought.
“So, you get yourself fed, washed and dressed. There's a ticket waiting for you at Pimlico for the 7 pm flight out. Everything else you'll need will be supplied, courtesy of the lovely Miss Quayle. And talking about flights,” said Masterman, looking at his watch and starting to stand. “I too have a plane to catch.”
“Are you going somewhere, sir?”
“A little trip away for a few days, nothing for you to worry about, Jack. I'll be back in time to welcome you home, victorious with this mercenary's head stuck to a pike.”