by James Quinn
Dempsey smiled politely. He was no fool and knew exactly what the DCI was up to. He was both keeping them out of the loop for the next few weeks and bribing them with promotion. It was a game, and Dempsey was happy to play along with it. Carrot and stick, his old man would have called it, carrot and stick.
Book Six: Shadow Moves
Chapter One
Charles 'Chuck' Ferrera, better known by his cryptonym of Mr. Maurice Knight, ran a hand through his close-cropped salt and pepper hair to calm himself and sighed.
The Hotel San Domingo was one of the best that Mexico City had to offer and aside from a few other venues scattered around Europe, it had been his main base of operations for the past year. He feared that his time as an honored guest of this fine hotel would soon be at an end.
His operation was slowly starting to unravel. He knew it would happen at some point, for no 'False Flag' operation can hide in the shadows indefinitely, but he'd hoped that with the Russian, Krivitsky dead, the hit-team would be able to concentrate on removing the rest of the target list. But the last time he'd spoken to his agent QJ/WIN, the normally composed Marquez had sounded shattered and stressed.
In fact, he sounded rattled, perhaps even scared.
It had been one of their routine check-in times that fluctuated between his hotel room telephone and the street telephone booths in the locale. Judging by what Marquez had told him, it would be the last time that they would speak. The news was not good. A shoot out in Paris! WI/ROGUE possibly dead! The Catalan killer wounded!
In truth, Ferrera thought the Catalan had done far better than he'd originally envisioned and had taken down more targets than he thought possible. Marquez was a useful action agent and his reputation had preceded him certainly, but his success on this operation was enviable. A true professional, he'd picked his contractor well. It was just a pity that he wouldn't be receiving the balance of his stipend.
That was the beauty of a double cross; they do all the work and expect a big payout at the end, you cut them off at the knees and leave them swinging in the wind.
It was a warm, sticky evening so Ferrara stripped off his clothes and lay naked on top of his bed, enjoying the coolness of the air conditioning. On the bed next to him, was a half-full bottle of Jack Daniels and a fully loaded .38 revolver. He was trying to decide which one he would choose to blow his brains out with. The .38 or the booze? One would make it permanent while the other would be temporary, at least until the hangover had dissipated and then he would have to endure the hell of real life again.
He closed his eyes and relaxed in the luxury that his plan, after months of preparation and scheming, had finally come to fruition. The murderer of his son had gotten his head blown off in Paris by an assassin's bullet, several Soviet agents had also been eliminated from active operations across Europe, causing a major blow to Russian Intelligence, and the CIA was going to be hung out to dry. Good job.
But what to do next? Front it out, or run and hide somewhere? He still had enough private money to make it happen, but for how long? And even his not inconsiderable wealth would run out at some point, and after that… what? Of course, there was the third way. The .38 way.
He traced his finger along the barrel of the revolver. Maybe, soon? It was long overdue, but not yet, he decided. He closed his eyes to help him review the events of the past few years, which had led him to be a will-o'-the-wisp flitting across the world, and ultimately to this luxury hotel room where he was contemplating suicide.
It had all been born of remorse and sadness certainly, but there had also been something invigorating and alive about working back in his old trade of subterfuge, running agents and planning covert operations in foreign countries. He enjoyed being, what the old intelligence hands called, 'back in the game'.
Despite all of this, the 'game' only really began with the murder of a young patriotic man in Poland and the subsequent shattered grief, remorse and love of a desperate father.
Chapter Two
The game that Ferrera had instigated, when it had finally played out to its lethal conclusion, would later be judged by the survivors and those on the sidelines to have effectively have been created out of a mere nugget of trivia, a kernel of information seemingly of no use to anyone.
Like most operations of the 'great game' it didn't come from a single source. Instead, it filtered down from a variety of avenues, like rice flung far and wide in the sky. Eventually, enough grains made up the meal upon the plate. A grain here, a grain there, none of them seemingly connected.
In a very real sense, the maelstrom began with the destruction of the CIA's Black Orchestra network in Poland. Black Orchestra was a long term intelligence-run network that had been born in the aftermath of the Second World War, when former Nazi's and anti-communist elements were played back against the encroaching threat of Russia. In time, and with many additions to its agent list, it had grown to become one of the foremost CIA networks behind the Iron Curtain.
Over the years, Black Orchestra had been handled by many case officers, most of whom had cut their teeth in the war against Germany. But over recent years, Langley had felt that a 'new breed' of CIA officer was needed to be the next ones to keep the flame alive and the network running smoothly. But as with most intelligence professionals, the case officers were routinely re-routed and moved on, either through age, retirement, or from having their accredited cover blown making them persona non grata.
There was also the relentless surveillance on the CIA's Polish Stations, which made it difficult for the station officers on the ground to operate on a day-to-day basis.
It was decided by the Soviet Operations desk at Langley that what was needed was a covert action team capable of operating outside of the Embassy and diplomatic protection channels. They would enter the various countries – Poland, Hungary, Czechoslovakia, Bulgaria – 'on the black' with no diplomatic immunity and would therefore be deniable. This specialist team of men and women would enter the target country under commercial or civilian cover, get in, meet their agents, empty a dead letter box and receive useable intelligence products from the informants, before getting out without anyone being the wiser.
These people would be self-sufficient, with impeccable cover stories and nerves of steel.
The Agency set out on a recruitment and training program, looking for people with the 'right stuff', before narrowing the recruits down to just twelve people; ten men and two women. They were to be the elite of the Agency's agent handling sections. All the candidates had some unique quality; languages, previous intelligence experience, a background in the commercial world.
Candidate number six was a tall, fit twenty-seven-year-old who had already been through the CIA's recruitment process. His name was Daniel Samuel Ferrera. He had been in and out of Poland several times to collect messages, meet contacts or to service a dead drop. This time was no different than before. A regular pick up at a dead drop site in Warsaw Zoo. It was business as usual.
* * *
Charles Ferrera had been at home, having breakfast when the call came. The voice was one he didn't recognize, someone from the Director's office, a woman who spoke in clipped tones and who was terse to the point of rudeness. “Chuck, don't come in today. Stay at home. You have a visitor coming to see you. Someone you'll know,” the voice said.
Confused, he took off his suit jacket, folded it neatly and sat at the dining table to drink his coffee and read through that morning's paper. It was a habit he'd slowly fallen into, following the death of his wife Theresa.
The house was a sprawling six-bedroom affair in the Georgetown suburbs. Since Theresa had passed away several years before, and his son had moved out to start his own life, he'd almost felt swamped by the scale of the house. His plan had been to limit the rooms he used; kitchen, lounge, bathroom and master bedroom – that way he didn't feel as alone or like a pea rattling around in a tin can. In fact, at times it felt cozy. It worked.
He was a Senior Executive Officer in th
e Near East/South Asia Division of the Directorate of Plans. He had cut his teeth, like most of them, being dropped behind enemy lines during the war and had carried on when the OSS was dissolved and went through its various incarnations, until it had been reformed into the CIA.
He was halfway through an article regarding the crisis in Cuba, when he heard a car pull onto the drive. There were footsteps, a pause, and then a confident knock on the door. Ferrera downed the dregs of his coffee and made his way to the front door.
Before him, looking fit, tanned and successful, was his comrade, brother-in-law and friend, Richard Higgins. Higgins, the Assistant Director of Plans at CIA, was second only to the big man in the Plans Directorate, the Director of Plans. He was also Ferrera's direct superior and an old-school cold warrior, not known for backing down or pulling his punches.
And yet this morning, as his colleague and friend sat in his living room, Charles Ferrera sensed there was something more, something hidden going on behind the dark sunglasses. It was only when Higgins removed them, that it was revealed they were being worn not to diffuse the sun's glare, but to hide reddened and tearful eyes.
“Richard, what is it?” Ferrera said. His own voice sounded pensive and worried.
Higgins began to speak. “Chuck, I'm sorry to have to tell you this…”
Later, as he tried to review the conversation in his mind, Ferrera could only remember fragments of what his friend had told him. Daniel… A black operation in Poland… A confirmed fatality… The Polish network rolled up… The body disposed of by the KGB.
Daniel…
The noise which came from him had started as a mewling sound, and quickly degenerated into a desperate roar of pain. All pretense of control was gone; instead it was replaced by the noise of a wounded animal. He slipped to the floor, his hands ripping at his hair and his fists beating on the floor. Higgins held him for a while, both men curled up, trying to gain control of each other and failing.
He had wept at Theresa's bedside all those years ago when the cancer took her; he had been strong then, for the boy, for Daniel. But the wrenching away of his son, the suddenness, the brutality of it was too much to comprehend. We never know, thought Ferrara. We never know that when we say goodbye to someone for even the most mundane of reasons, if we will ever see them again.
As the moment passed, the two men wiped away the tears which had been streaming down their faces for the past twenty minutes, uncontrollable sobs which racked body and soul. They sat back and regarded each other, one the father, one the uncle.
“Tell me everything,” said Ferrera.
* * *
Charles Ferrera always thought of his son in the moments before he slept and how God had given him a blessed life. He'd enjoyed an affluent lifestyle, a good career, and had a caring and loving wife. But it was his only child whom he prized, far above all these other things.
He was a second-generation Italian immigrant from Bologna. Grandfather Enzo Ferrera had been a shrewd businessman who had succeeded in taking his small import/export company specializing in a reciprocal trade between America and Italy, and turned it into something he was eventually able to float on the stock market.
The family had earned their wealth and were the new breed of immigrants to America. They were rich and successful. The money had paid for Enzo's grandson, Charles, to buy his way into Yale and establish the Ferrera family into the upper echelons of American society.
At the beginning of his first term, Charles Ferrera had been roomed up with a young man by the name of Richard Higgins. It was on their first spring break when Higgins invited his friend to spend a week with them at his family's home in Connecticut, where he'd been introduced to Higgins' sister, Theresa.
It had been love at first sight for both of them; he the tall, dark haired, good-looking Italian boy and she the willowy blonde debutante. Their courtship was brief and with university completed, they'd decided to marry as quickly as possible. Charles tried his hand at journalism – his grandfather and father had wanted him to take over the family business – but he felt commerce was too restricting. He had a world to explore and wanted to make his own mark upon it.
In 1935, their only son Daniel was born. Charles was actually in Europe at the time, reporting on the growing economic and military rumblings from Germany. He returned home two months later. His thoughts of work and the rest of the world were thrown aside as they dealt with the new addition to the Ferrera family. Having a son changed Chuck Ferrera. He'd seen a hint of the violence that was coming, violence that would engulf every nation on the planet, and he was determined to protect his son from it at all costs.
Seven years later, with the world at war and America's part in it becoming more prevalent, he was approached by his wife's father. Retired US Army Colonel William Higgins had heard, through his private old boys' network, of a new organization being built from the ground up and thought it would suit Charles perfectly. “Top secret at the moment and they're looking for bright young fellows with language skills. It's a lot safer than getting your head blown off in a trench,” his father-in-law had said.
Unfortunately, that wasn't to be an accurate appraisal.
The organization Ferrera was recruited into was the Office of Strategic Services, and his first operational foray into the field was assisting the partisans in Yugoslavia. He'd been dropped behind enemy lines as part of a five-man team, there to liaise with Tito's forces and to recruit informants. Ferrera was the radio man. The team leader was Richard Higgins. It had been a bloody and frenetic operation, but both men, comrades in arms, had survived, thanks to the trust each had for the other.
The rest of the war had been a whirlwind for Ferrera and Higgins. Operations in Italy, Greece and eventually France in the lead up to D-Day had ensured the two men had become well embroiled in the secret war against the soon-to-be defeated Germany.
Not that their partnership had ended with the dropping of the bombs in Japan in 1945; far from it. They had immediately switched from the wartime intelligence organizations of the United States to the newly created civilian version. The two men were now secret warriors, through and through. They had acquired a taste for covert operations and neither relished the thought of returning to their pre-war occupations. They were, and would be forever more, post-war cold warriors.
The lifeblood of the Central Intelligence Agency ran through their veins.
* * *
To a son, a father can be a hero, and the irrefutable truth is that son's follow their father's footsteps, whether they admit it or not.
To Daniel Ferrera his 'pop' was the greatest living hero he'd ever known. He read comic books with his classmates, stories of cowboys, aviators, explorers and spacemen. With each new edition he would say to his pals; “Those guys are okay, but none of them stand up next to my Dad!”
Daniel knew his father was involved in some kind of secret work, what it involved he didn't know, but there was certainly a lot of travelling, working late and whispered telephone conversations. In a sense, not knowing what his father did made it all the more exciting and mysterious.
But the best times were when the two of them would travel up to their lodge in Vermont, on the rare times when Charles wasn't away on operations, and go hunting, fishing and walking in the mountains. It was their time together, time that allowed them to bond. On one of these occasions when he was fifteen, Daniel had asked his father: “Pop, are you a spy?”
Charles Ferrera had turned to his son as they walked the mountain paths and smiled. “No, I'm not a spy, I'm the guy who tells the spy what to do,” he'd said. When Daniel had asked what his father meant, Charles simply shook his head and laughed. “All in good time, little man, all in good time. Let's get cleaned up for supper.”
Ten years later, it was inevitable that Daniel would be drawn into the intelligence business, and while Charles hadn't exactly pushed Dan into applying for the Agency, he'd certainly made it sound like an attractive career prospect. He had done nothing to di
scourage him. Hell, he'd even opened a few doors for his son. Why the hell not? What was the point of being a senior operations officer at CIA, if you couldn't search out new talent?
And talent was what Daniel Ferrera had in spades. He was young, intelligent, good-looking and patriotic. He had also inherited his father's skill and courage for operating in the field. To Charles Ferrera, his son was the role model for a new generation of CIA officer: elite, resourceful and brave. With an army of men like that, the CIA would be a force to be reckoned with across the intelligence community.
But all that had ended with a bullet on a cold winter's day in Poland.
Chapter Three
Three months after the news of Daniel's death, and at the end of his compassionate leave, Charles Ferrera was moved from active operations to a desk job. The Agency 'shrink' had declared him fit for duty, but with the caveat that he be kept away from front-line operations for the foreseeable future.
For Ferrera, it had been another blow. Following the death of Daniel, he'd hit the booze. It had been hard going. His neighbors had tried to stand by him as best they could, but after finding him lying in the gutter outside the family home, covered in vomit and urine, they'd quickly distanced themselves from him. When he was finally sober enough to return to work, he'd been hit with the third hammer blow. A desk job! Not operational, for a man who had parachuted into Nazi-occupied Europe and run agents behind the Iron Curtain, was very much like having a thoroughbred racehorse pulling a milk-cart. It was purgatory.
So with his son murdered, his wife having long since passed away and now being tied to a desk in Langley, he'd hit the bourbon once more. He was a man lost.
And yet deep down inside in the pit of his stomach, he burned. Burned with a violent fury, burned with the frustration of a man unable to right a wrong, burned at the injustice of the way his child, his boy, had been ripped from him. His anger grew over how the great and powerful secret arm of the American government had been impotent in its reply to the Russians.