by James Quinn
Masterman let himself out and began to make his way down the communal staircase and out onto the street. No point in telling his operative that he was, in effect, going to open negotiations with the very people his man was actually working against. That would be extremely counterproductive for a Redaction agent in the field. No, it was better to leave Grant in blissful ignorance.
Need to know and compartmentalizing information was something he's learned well from C.
Book Five: Black King, White Queen
Chapter One
Paris – April 1965
The killer QJ/WIN sat perched in his room in the Hotel Henri IV on the Place Dauphine in Paris and surveyed the scene which lay before him. The open window let in a cool breeze, relaxing him and providing a portrait-framed shot of the Seine which was spread out in all its glory. The river ran like a snake up and away into the distance with the Pont Neuf Bridge intersecting it. He watched as the pedestrians hurried across, on their way to enjoy what was left of the weekend. It was a pleasantly normal Sunday afternoon in Paris.
Marquez had been sitting in his chair, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees and his hands linked loosely together, since before dawn. His body, through sheer force of will, was in splendid repose. He knew the target regularly made his way to the bridge every Sunday afternoon to meet up, or not, with his Russian Intelligence contact. Marquez thought it was sloppy tradecraft. After all, what fool would commit themselves to a regular meeting point in such a public location? It was a foolish mistake that would cost the Englishman.
He'd received the phone call code from his partner almost a week ago. The call meant that the target in Cornwall had been eliminated and Gioradze was on his way back to France to hide out and wait for the Catalan to complete the hit on the Soldier. With the phone call confirming the death of the man in England, Marquez had moved at once.
He'd retrieved the weapon for this particular hit from the cache underneath the floor of the old barn attached to the safe-house, cleaned and oiled it, then stored it safely away in the suitcase he would be travelling with.
He'd made a telephone booking, reserving a single room in the Hotel Henri IV overlooking the Seine. When he had arrived and checked in, he found the room he'd been given overlooked the river, rather than the bridge. Fortunately enough, the room that best suited his needs was free and a quick cash bribe to the hotel manager ensured he was swiftly relocated. The room itself was at best average; standard bed, two chairs, a small dresser, toilet and bathroom, totally unremarkable. But the view from the window was glorious.
Once he was settled, he moved quickly and expertly to set up his equipment. He assembled the photographer's telescopic tripod and clamped a pair of Zeiss binoculars to it, ensuring that the field of vision took in the expected killing zone the intelligence report had given him; the nearest quarter of the bridge in front of the statue of Henry IV.
Next he looked at the component parts of his weapon: a sniper rifle, but one that very few marksmen would have recognized.
The rifle consisted of three main groups; the firing group, the silencer group and the telescopic sight group. They each fitted snugly into his medium-sized valise, each wrapped separately inside an item of clothing to protect them from knocks or scrapes. Marquez fitted each of the pieces together, attaching the silencer section to the main frame of the rifle, twisting it into place a quarter turn until he heard a click that denoted it was secured. Next went the telescopic sight onto the top. Finally, he pushed into place the magazine loaded with eight 9mm Luger rounds.
He worked the 'butter knife' bolt handle and loaded a round into the firing chamber. Satisfied, he carefully placed the now-live weapon onto the bed in front of him and stared down at this extraordinary rifle. It looked like a normal bolt action rifle, with the exception that where a standard rifle would have a long barrel protruding from the front, this weapon had a stubby silencer built in as part of the frame. The weapon itself was a lethal novelty and to Marquez it was both beautiful and unusual.
When Gioradze had returned from his 'shopping run' to the secret Gladio caches, Marquez had been expecting the usual pistols, sub-machine guns, ammunition, RPG's and explosives. So when David had pulled open a case containing this most unusual rifle, Marquez knew he had to be the one to fire it in Paris. He just had to. He imagined it was like a racing car driver having the opportunity, the once in a lifetime opportunity, to drive a state of the art supercar. It was impossible to pass up.
The weapon was the German made 9mm 'Gestapo' Silenced rifle. Marquez knew a little of its history. There was only a handful ever made and it had been the brainchild of a former Commander of the Nazi Security Service in Berlin in 1939. Count Wolf Von Helldorf had wanted a rifle that was powerful, compact, accurate, but above all else, completely silent. Rumor had it that it was to be used by Security Service agents to quietly eliminate opponents to the Nazi party in Berlin.
After the war, most of the weapons had been destroyed or damaged, but several had been found by US Army officers in Germany in 1945. They had then been passed over to the CIA who, it seemed, had decided to bury several for their European stay behind networks in weapons caches.
Marquez had tested the rifle in the woods near the safe-house in Auvers sur-Oise and he thought it was superb. He'd fired at a tree target on the other side of a small, wooded copse. The rifle had emitted no noise, only a slight thwump noise as the bullet hit home. It sounded as if someone had gently dropped a billiard ball into some soft soil. And while the distance from his shooting position to the expected killing zone was at the top end of the rifle's accepted range of one hundred yards, it would not be impossible to silently complete the contract. To Marquez, who prided himself on having the best tools for his profession, it was the ultimate assassination weapon.
With the rifle ready, Marquez had relaxed. He knew the target wouldn't be at the location until just after noon the following day, so he settled in for a light meal from his own supplies. He would not leave the room until after the killing had been completed.
And now on a clear Parisian day, he sat waiting patiently, with less than thirty minutes to go before his target walked into the killing zone. Aside from the occasional glance through the binoculars to confirm or dismiss a possible sighting, his eyes never wavered from that small piece of pathway on the Pont Neuf.
There was always the temptation to touch or manipulate the rifle, fiddle with the bolt action or triple check that the magazine was in place. But those would be the actions of an amateur. Instead, Marquez simply stared down at its unorthodox beauty, where it lay on a pillow on the floor. It was near his hands, it was armed and it was ready to be used when he required it.
Many times over the past few hours, he'd watched the coming and goings of the people crossing the bridge, traipsing backwards and forwards like ants, to and fro. More than once, he'd toyed with the idea of what it would be like to sit here in his sniper position and ruthlessly start shooting at the innocent and unwary on the streets of Paris. Would they scream? Would they flee? How many, he wondered, would rush to help their fellow citizens? It was a banal fantasy to help him pass the time, nothing more. An amateur would glory in causing a massacre, a professional – like himself – would only commit to a targeted killing shot.
He checked his watch and looked once more at the kill zone. At first, there was nothing and then he saw the tall Englishman, the Soldier, whom he knew from the photograph. The man ambled his way over the bridge. He looked as if he was in no hurry as he carefully negotiated the pedestrians coming from the opposite direction. Marquez picked up the rifle and settled it in place against his shoulder and cheek, moving the rifle carefully, trying not to dislodge the telescopic sight's tracking.
He saw the Englishmen tense for a moment, halt in his step, and confusion filtered across his face, before he regained his composure and carried on walking. What had made him falter? Marquez tracked across to the opposite side of the bridge. It had to be the contact, th
e KGB contact. That's who he was meeting here. But the Englishman met his controller here regularly, so why the pause? To the casual observer on the bridge, it wouldn't have been noticed. But through the magnified scope, the expression on the Englishman's face was vivid.
Marquez scanned the other faces; beautiful women, beautiful men, children, priests, but nothing…
Then he saw him in clear, magnified detail. The squat body, the ill-fitting suit, the toad-like appearance all matched the description and fuzzy photograph he'd been given. He looked again. It was him! The KGB network controller! The one Mr. Knight called the 'Prime Target'. The one who the American had told him trumped all other targets. Marquez had been given an open kill policy on the Russian. In any city, in any country, if he was seen meeting with any of the agents on the hit-list, then the orders were to eliminate the Russian on sight first.
He felt the heat from his own body, the perspiration soaking his hand. He squeezed the discomfort from his mind. And with his quarry in view, he carefully moved his eye to the scope, centered on his target, squeezed the grip safety to arm the rifle, took up the pressure on the trigger and began to close in for the kill.
* * *
Major Edward Barrington rose slightly later than normal that Sunday, permitting himself an extra thirty minutes in bed before finally rising at 7.30. He showered, breakfasted on his usual cup of cafe au lait and croissant, read yesterday's copy of Le Monde, before dressing in his usual weekend wear of slacks, casual jacket, shirt and sturdy walking shoes.
It was a normal weekend for him. A normal Sunday, that involved a 'crash' meeting with his KGB case officer. Every Sunday, come fair weather or foul, he took the long walk from his apartment which was a stone's throw from NATO headquarters on the Palais de Challot and walked along the banks of the Seine. Then when he reached the Pont Neuf, he would open up the small bag of breadcrumbs from his stale baguettes and casually scatter them to the wind, watching as they floated down onto the flowing river below.
Occasionally, as was his want, and if the opportunity presented itself, he would engage in some unremarkable conversation with a passing Parisian pensioner engaged in the same activity, or even, if fate had decreed it, a lovely French mademoiselle, for even though the Major was now well into his late fifties, he still had an eye for ladies half his age.
His French colleagues and friends thought it one of his uniquely British eccentricities. And so he would walk the route, taking in his surroundings, enjoying the views and chatting amiably with the people passing him. But the Pont Neuf was the key, the end result of the whole charade of the Sunday walks. To meet with the enemy.
The protocol was simple. They passed each other on the bridge. If the Russian case officer stopped and mentioned the weather, as strangers sometimes do, it was safe and he hadn't been the subject of hostile surveillance. With the all clear in place, they would make their way over to the far side of the bridge separately, take a bench along the embankment and conduct their business.
However, if the case officer carried on walking past and over to the other side of the bridge with no dialogue, then the meeting was aborted, for whatever reason, and they immediately went to the fallback plan. So far, in the years he'd been based in Paris, Barrington had never had an aborted meeting. He scattered the last of the bread crumbs out of the bag, admired the view and then made his way towards the statue across the bridge. It was when he was halfway there that he saw the Russian. It made him pause, jerk to a stop. He quickly confirmed the face in his head, to make sure he wasn't hallucinating and then, hesitantly, started to walk again.
It was the Russian, but not his regular Russian. It wasn't the normal Rezidentura flunky with the bad breath. No, not this time – this time it was the big man from Moscow, his original recruiter and controller of the network. The man known to him as 'Ivan', whom he knew was in fact, Vladimir Krivitsky. He was squat and vulgar in his manner and always wore a somber, baggy suit giving him the duck-like waddle that fat men have when they're rushing. To the fearful, he was a monster known as Svarog.
Krivitsky was old school KGB. He'd been earmarked for great things; a possible seat at KGB Director Semichastney's high table, it had been rumored. That was, until some scandal he'd been involved in several years ago in Poland, a shooting, the rumor mill said, but even now the details were sketchy.
Barrington smiled as his contact approached and just as they were almost shoulder-to-shoulder, preparing to pass each other, the Russian opened his mouth and began to speak, turning his body towards the Englishman. It was the Russian who started the recognition code which meant he had no surveillance on him, he was able to talk.
“My friend, the weather is good for…” said Krivitsky, in a deep rumble of a voice.
“Entertaining,” said Barrington, completing the code.
They both stopped. Krivitsky glanced down at his watch, as if he was giving the time to a stranger. “My friend, there is grave news. The network has been betrayed, you must be cautious about your personal security. We—”
The sentence was left dead in the air as a bullet ripped into the Russian's head. A splatter of blood covered Barrington's face, momentarily blinding him. The Russian's head looked like a watermelon which had been hit with a ball hammer and his body fell forward, onto Barrington. Struggling to keep the dead man's weight upright, he quickly admitted defeat and lowered him to the ground.
* * *
They were walking alongside the Seine; honeymooners once again. Nicole and Gorilla had 'tagged' Agent Cirius as soon as he had left his apartment. They'd been in place for thirty minutes before Barrington emerged. They were ready, focused and armed. “We'll keep well back. We don't want to spook him,” cautioned Gorilla.
They had trailed after him, ambling along, blending in and trying not to be seen. Thirty minutes into the walk, the crowds had started to increase and they relaxed a little more. It was better for cover and concealment and they watched the back of Cirius as he wandered towards his destination.
“You're not too tired?” said Gorilla, turning to Nicole. She had linked her arm through his and they were walking like lovers would. His hands were thrust deep into his coat pockets, his right hand resting against the weapon on his right hip.
“You just worry about yourself. Keep your eyes on the target and don't get distracted.” She'd kept looking straight ahead, her eyes never wavering from their principal ahead of them. But the voice had been hard and cold. Gorilla raised an eyebrow at that.
Things had definitely changed in his brief absence. When Nicole had picked him up from the airport, there had been tiredness around her eyes and her manner was abrasive. “Get in, we're on the clock,” she'd barked as he threw his overnight bag into the back seat of a new, but equally shabby, Renault before she gunned the engine and thundered away, driving Parisian style. He had seen that look before on agents just back from a long stretch in hostile territory; a hardness, an independence, a self-sufficiency which had manifested itself while he'd been away.
It had been a long operation for Nicole and he suspected she would have liked to return to England with him. She'd been living a vagabond lifestyle for the past few months and he knew even the briefest break from active operations could give a field agent a new zeal. But her pride and stubbornness wouldn't let her admit she was exhausted. She'd dug her heels in and set about moving their base of operations to the Hotel Peletier on the Rue le Peletier.
They were approaching the embankment leading to the bridge. They both knew that now was the most vulnerable time for Cirius. They gave each other a final look. In truth, they'd already discussed what their immediate action plan was going to be, once the attack on Barrington was initiated. For Gorilla, it was simply a case of being quicker to the draw than the hidden assassin and for Nicole, it was to get their agent out and away from the kill zone quickly.
Nicole took a breath as they walked up onto the entrance to the bridge. The bridge was busy and her eyes were scanning constantly. Men, women, c
hildren, pets. She had learned harsh lessons from her time in Marseilles, but now she was intent on searching out that one face, the one face she'd last seen years ago in the Caribbean.
Gorilla stopped and turned, embracing her as a lover would. “You see anything, any faces?” he whispered in her ear.
She shook her head and she felt his hand move out of his pocket, ready for the quick draw that would have to happen soon. They moved once again at a slower pace, a good thirty feet away from Barrington who was nearly at the statue. She saw him falter in his step and then he moved cautiously towards an ugly toad of a man who was undoubtedly his Russian contact. Nicole gave a brief look in Gorilla's direction. His eyes were everywhere, high and low and the effort of concentration was evident on his face
She looked over at the two men, saw them pause to casually speak to each other and then she saw the KGB man's head explode!
She knew then the honeymoon was over.
* * *
It was the screams of the couple passing the scene which first roused Barrington from his shock, and being a soldier who'd seen battle more than a few times, he immediately did what he was trained to do and found cover behind one of the stone alcoves dotted across the bridge.
Spat… Spat. He heard two more successive shots ricochet off the stonework, trying to pick him off behind his meagre cover position. A sniper! A silenced weapon! A bolt action, hence the pause as the marksman took time to reload. Barrington peered around frantically. Where was the shooter? On the bridge? Not judging by the angles and distance.
Cars were slowing down to rubberneck at the commotion and people were running frantically in all directions. Fathers protecting their children, lovers in each other's arms, running in a crouch, all trying desperately to get away.