by James Quinn
She sighed and once more let silence fill the gap.
“Penny for them,” he said. The quiet continued and at first, he thought she wasn't going to answer him.
“I was just thinking about being back in the bar at the Savoy; champagne and malt whisky. It seems a hundred years ago now. I wish we were back there.”
“Do you regret it? Meeting me and then all this?” he said, waving an invisible arm in the darkness to illustrate the mayhem of the past few months.
She laughed, a harsh, bitter laugh. “Don't be so hard on yourself, Jack, you were wonderful. As for the rest of it, the mission, the killings, well, I'll just have to learn to live with it. Besides, it's my own fault for falling under the spell of the first spy who bought me a few drinks and then promised to take me on a top secret mission.”
Despite the teasing, he could hear the drowsiness in her voice. He felt the warmth of the room and the comfort of the mattress and knew that sleep was beginning to take a hold of him.
Nicole draped a lazy arm over his chest and snuggled into his body, the rough material of his jacket brushing against her cheek. She didn't mind that though, it felt warm, safe and secure.
She tried to ask one more question; what it was going to be, even she wasn't sure. She never made it though, because moments later they were both asleep.
Chapter Two
“Yes.”
“This is QJ/WIN,” said Marquez into the telephone. The code was an old habit now, especially after all the reports they had conducted over the past few months. If Marquez announced himself as 'QJ/WIN', it meant he was operating freely. However, if he simply referred to himself as 'WIN', it meant he'd been captured and was speaking under duress. It was simple, but effective.
“Report,” said Mr. Knight.
“The Paris job was compromised.”
There was a sharp intake of breath from the American. “Compromised how?”
“A man and a woman came to the Soldier's assistance.”
“Good Samaritans?”
“No, the man was armed, a professional. He came after me, wounded me. The woman helped the soldier escape.”
“Police, perhaps?”
“No, I don't think so. I think the operation must have been compromised.”
Mr. Knight gave out a nervous laugh. “Impossible, our security has been excellent.”
Marquez grunted. “And yet these people were at the same location as the targets, at exactly the same time. It could be that the Russians are aware of what we are doing.”
Mr. Knight thought this eminently possible. You don't start killing Soviet agents without someone at the KGB becoming suspicious and starting to connect the dots. He'd hoped they would be further along with the operation before the KGB became aware of what was happening. Still, never mind. “What about the targets?” he asked.
“One confirmed kill. One escaped with a flesh wound,” replied Marquez.
“Who was the kill?”
“It was the Russian, the prime target. Not the spy. The KGB officer.”
There was silence down the phone. Then a murmur, as if Mr. Knight was whispering something. To Marquez, it sounded as if he was praying. “That is acceptable. I think my superiors can live with that.”
Marquez thought he detected a hint of relief and pleasure in Mr. Knight's voice, which was very strange, very strange indeed. “There is one other thing,” continued Marquez.
“Go on.”
“It's WI/ROGUE. He hasn't checked in since the last job against the Engineer.”
“Perhaps he's decided to keep a low profile. Perhaps he has a woman somewhere and is hiding out.”
“No, it's not his style, especially when we're working. He doesn't break protocol. I received the phone code confirming the job had been completed, and then… nothing.”
Marquez was disturbed. Things weren't adding up. It was almost as if there was a hidden force working against them, which in this case seemed to be a KGB team. On its own, these things probably meant nothing, but when you connected them, the disappearance of the German in Marseilles, the attack of the Hotel Azure, the missing Gioradze and now the interference of the man in Paris – no, things were definitely askew. Protocol dictated that if a contract was compromised, then the operator closed down the operation quickly and left the game.
“What do you want to do?” asked Mr. Knight, breaking the silence.
“I don't know… I need to think,” said Marquez. The pain in his hand was excruciating and wasn't helped by the stress of having to make difficult decisions on the fly.
“You have done remarkably well, better than we could have imagined. There would be no shame in stopping now. The last target, we will get some time, somewhere,” said the American.
“I said, I need to think. I will call back later today with my decision.” Marquez put the phone down.
Following the shoot-out at the Pont Neuf he'd escaped from the area, thrown off the tracking of the small blond man, dumped the bullet-ridden car and hailed a taxi to take him to a hotel in Montmartre. He'd bandaged up his wounded left hand, the little finger and half the ring fingers were missing. The pain was unbearable, so he donned a pair of gloves and set out to find a backstreet pharmacist to buy some 'off the books' morphine.
He returned, took a dose of the morphine and for the rest of the day he lay on the bed in his little hotel room and flitted between sleeping and thinking. His mind was a whirlwind of possible outcomes and backtracking for clues. Where was the leak? Was it the Russians who were after them? If so, how long had they been there? Since Marseilles, or before that?
Finally, several hours later, he'd made up his mind and donned his current disguise from his small suitcase; a pair of sunglasses, an old sports coat and a beret. He needed to lose the rifle, dispose of it somehow, and the most likely way was to break down the unusual-looking weapon into its component parts and scatter it across the city.
An hour later the stock had been dropped into a nearby canal, the bolt action had been slipped down a manhole cover in another part of the city, the scope had been thrown into a garbage collection pile and the bullets had been thrown into the Seine. Afterwards, he wandered the streets of Paris, a city he'd once called home, feeling lost like a stranger, alone in his thoughts.
Marquez was pretty sure Gioradze had fallen somewhere between Cornwall and returning to France. There had been no contact, overt or covert on any of the communication lines. That wasn't like the Georgian. Not like him at all. Maybe the German had been killed in Marseilles, after all. Maybe he hadn't simply pulled out of the operation, but had instead been eliminated, perhaps as a result of the little blond man or one of his compatriots.
He found himself feeling melancholy for his former partner. Whilst Gioradze had simply been a colleague and a mercenary devoted only to money, Marquez realized he would miss the likeable 'Rogue'. Oh, they'd never been friends in the classic sense of the word, but they'd shared many experiences and adventures over the last five years. Marquez would see his woman right. He would send some money to the bar in Portugal where Gioradze had made his home. The rest of the stipend he would, of course, keep for himself. Now, as the sole contractor, it was only right that he should keep the lion's share of the contract fee.
Which brought him back to the current contract for the CIA: what should he do?
The easy option would be to cut his losses and walk away. But that didn't sit easy with him. He'd never quit a contract before and he wasn't going to start now. If he did, he feared he would never be employed again by the CIA. The Americans had a way of remembering little things like that; besides, his own integrity and stubbornness wouldn't let him quit. He was committed to seeing this through, even if it meant capture and death.
He walked back into the center of Montmartre and found a bar that was quiet, ordered himself a small glass of wine, drank it in one go and then made his way to the telephone booth near the back. He inserted a jeton and punched in the number. Almost at once, the handse
t was picked up. Mr. Knight must have been waiting, poised and ready for his call. “Yes.”
“This is QJ/WIN. I have made a decision.”
“I hope it's the right one.”
“It is.”
“In that case…”
“My answer is this. Watch the news over the coming weeks. I am going to shake the Russian intelligence network in Europe to its core. The contract is still on.”
Chapter Three
New York – April 1965
It was late at night when the telephone rang at the private residence. A flicking of the study room light, a tightening of the dressing gown belt, a rub of the eyes and the man picked up the handset. “Hello!”
“This is SENTINEL.”
The man paused to search his memory. A codename! Then he remembered. “Good to hear from you, it's been a while.”
“Did I disturb you? What with it being the middle of the night?”
“Not at all, SENTINEL, I had to get up anyway, the phone was ringing.” It was an old and terrible joke that had passed between them for years. “To what do I owe the pleasure at this godforsaken time?”
“I've a little present for you. Some information, unofficial at the moment, just between you and me, and I wondered if you could shed some light on it.”
The man rubbed the sleep from his eyes and tried to focus. “If I can, sure. Anything for an old friend, even an unofficial one.”
“It's about an operation your people are running in Europe.”
“Is this line secured, SENTINEL?” The man knew that his private phone line was 'cleaned' and monitored daily to ensure no third party was using electronic measures to 'bug' the line. But he couldn't be sure his caller's line had the same integrity.
“No, it's not been cleaned. That's why I'd like to meet face to face. I'm in New York.”
The man laughed. “And it couldn't have waited until morning? Jeez.”
“What can I say; I was eager to speak to you. Would tomorrow morning be convenient? Say about eleven.”
“Sure, just swing by the office.”
“Ah, would it be possible to have a chat somewhere more neutral? I was thinking of 350 Fifth Avenue, on the eighty-sixth floor. You know where I mean, don't you? I've never been before and would relish the opportunity.”
“How very theatrical, not like you.”
“Well, at least there'll be no one in a building overlooking us. Plus, it makes it easier to spot anyone taking an unhealthy interest in two old friends having a chat.”
“Yeah, plus we can always toss them over the side if we don't like the look of them!”
* * *
350 Fifth Avenue is better known by its more iconic title of the Empire State Building. The lower observation deck is situated on the eighty-sixth floor and it was here that Masterman stood at 10.55am.
His early arrival had nothing to do with the covert meeting and running a counter-surveillance assessment. Instead, he just wanted to spend some time enjoying the spectacular vista. It had been well worth both the cost in time and the extra expense as he took in the sprawling view of Manhattan.
“I'll say one thing for you Brits; you certainly do pick the most impressive meeting points.”
Masterman turned and looked at the man walking towards him. It had been, what? Four, five years since they'd last worked together in the bad old days of Berlin. CIA officer Troy Dempsey was of a similar hue to Masterman. Tall, powerful in the shoulders, he looked like an American Football linebacker. The well-cut suit seemed to be molded to his body, his physical strength and the lilting Texas drawl belying a sharp and ruthless mind.
“Troy, it's good to see you again. Come, let's have a stroll and enjoy the view,” said Masterman. They walked casually on; each man aware of the people around them and each checking for signs of people showing an interest.
“How's work these days? I hear your people closed down the old office,” said Masterman.
Dempsey frowned. It had been a torrid few years for him at the CIA. After being one of the prime architects of the Executive Action department, the unit responsible for covert action and assassination, he had watched in horror as the CIA top floor and congress had essentially stripped Executive Action down to a shadow of its former self. Operations which had been months in the planning had been dismantled overnight, Grade 1 agents had been dropped and left out in the cold, and loyal officers had been thrown to the political wolves.
Dempsey had been lucky. He was too much of a valued CIA man to be let loose into the commercial world. Instead, he'd been moved sideways and given a lesser post, running operations against Iron Curtain assets at the United Nations. He shrugged as if it was just one of those things. “You know the brass; they always know best. Makes you wonder what we'd all do without them. So what's this all about, Stephen? Not that I'm not glad to see you again, you understand. It's just that coming all this way to see me, well, it's mighty intriguing.”
Masterman smiled. “I hope that alone tells you how important my people consider this information. I mean, flying first class to New York, have you seen the price of airline tickets these days? It appears, and I admit it is a little unusual, but not without precedent, that we are on opposing sides on this occasion.”
Dempsey's head snapped around, military style and he looked hard at Masterman, trying to read what the British intelligence officer was up to. “You're kidding?” he said.
They'd stopped and both men stared out across the Hudson River. The observation deck was growing busy with tourists and sightseers, so the two spies moved along several times until they found a spot where they wouldn't be disturbed. They spoke casually in a level tone; as old friends do when they're having a private conversation.
Masterman gave the CIA man the edited version of events; technical surveillance which had uncovered an American plot to kill British and European citizens, the assassins operating in Europe and even the possibility of attempting a hit on British soil. He gave just enough information to get Dempsey interested and laid out the evidence bit-by-bit to keep him hooked. He retained the active involvement of the British Redaction team, at least for the time being, for no intelligence officer likes to give away his ace too early. That would come soon enough, but at a tactical time of Masterman's choosing. Now it was time to twist the knife.
“So it seems that someone in the CIA has returned to their old ways and hired a bunch of killers to attack various targets across Europe. This team has had several scores – Hamburg, Zurich, Lichtenstein, if my reports are correct,” said Masterman.
Dempsey's face filled with contempt. He'd heard some crazy shit in his time at the Agency, but this was off the wall. “Ummm… obviously I can neither confirm nor deny anything, but it does all sound rather unlikely. Impossible, in fact! The Agency would never target British citizens without consent from your offices first; besides, what makes you think it's a CIA operation? It could be another service, or even a criminal organization, taking it upon itself to get involved. What's the intel and where did you come by it?”
“I'd rather not say at the moment, but needless to say, we have it on the very best authority that Americans are involved.”
“Bullshit! Besides, you know the agreement; no poaching on each other's turf!”
Masterman knew of the CIA/SIS agreement, certainly, but he also knew that it wouldn't count for much if some over-ambitious zealot wanted to change it on a whim. “Indeed. However, it appears that the message doesn't seem to have reached the ears of the contractors. If I were to say the codename QJ/WIN to you, would it mean anything?”
The question blindsided Dempsey, and for a fraction of a second, the shock of hearing the secret codename of a CIA contract agent had thrown him. Even in a secret organization like the CIA, people talk, and as Dempsey had been an active operations officer in the clandestine service, he more than anyone was aware of the 'legends' that certain contract agents had become, even if he didn't know their individual details.
Dempsey
paused, his bright blue eyes taking in the Englishman's face, searching for any signs of deception. He knew he had to tread carefully. “Ummm, now you know I can't confirm nor deny anything. It sounds like bad fiction. That stuff just doesn't happen in the real world.”
“Well then, it appears that the Agency has a bit of a mystery on its hands; namely, that someone out there is recruiting hired killers, former CIA contract agents, to actively murder people in the name of the American government. It sounds like you either have a bit of a leaky ship, or a bit of a rogue elephant,” said Masterman.
Dempsey turned away for a moment, to collect his thoughts before looking back over his shoulder. “Then we've reached a bit of an impasse. Unless you can give me something more concrete, like evidence, I can't really approach anyone at the Agency about it. I'd get laughed out of Langley.”
“I understand, Troy,” said Masterman, reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out a sealed envelope. “That's as much as we can provide; it's not everything by any means, but it should get you started. A few names, dates, locations – you know the way these things work.”
“Well, let's hope it's enough to keep the Director of Plans convinced,” said Dempsey, still not certain that he was going to be able to sell this to his superiors.
“Ah, there we may have a problem. I'm sure the DP is a trustworthy chap, but the condition of this is that it goes directly to the top. The DCI only, I'm afraid,” said Masterman. “Those are the conditions from my Chief.”
Dempsey frowned. “The Director of Central Intelligence! Stephen, there is no way the DCI would see me, even if he did believe me. I'm an operations officer, in a relatively outlying intelligence post. The guy probably can't even remember me.”
“Don't concern yourself too much. My Chief will be getting in touch with your DCI sometime over the next day or so. We'd like you to read and digest the information first. Who knows, it might be a lot of nonsense, it might even be explainable, or it might just be another scandal lurking around the corner for the CIA. At least this way, your people can chop the head off any rogue agents before they start a great big bloody war,” said Masterman, gripping his friend's arm in what he hoped was a congenial manner.