by James Quinn
“She's long gone,” said Gorilla, who even now was moving position as Marquez's Tokarev fired at where he thought the voice had come from. “Give up the girl.” Again Gorilla had moved as soon as he spoke, and he heard the silenced bullets take shards out of the stone where he'd stood only seconds before. He crouched down at the base of a column, scanning the area by the steps where he thought the shots had come from. He watched and waited. If he'd calculated correctly, the killer should be moving along to his left any second now.
Moments later, Gorilla was rewarded when he saw a pair of shadows edging along the curvature of the building. They stopped and he could see the rear of one trouser leg jutting from the cover of the stone column. Then it moved, hidden behind the stone column. Gone!
Gorilla began to track along the passageway between the blocks. There was more movement of feet, echoing here and there. The acoustics inside the amphitheater proved disorientating. What sounded like it was coming from one direction, was in fact coming from the opposite way. Gorilla scanned around; temporarily frightened that he'd lost his bearings on them. Suddenly he heard a noise only a few feet away, a gasp. As though someone had been pulled suddenly and the shock had caught them unawares. Nicole.
From his peripheral vision, he was aware of the side of a man's body less than two columns away, about twenty feet. The right side rear of the man was showing; a back, a leg and an elbow. They must have passed, moving only a few meters from each other in the darkness, until Marquez and Nicole were now at his rear.
Gorilla immediately twisted his upper body around in one smooth motion and thrust out his weapon arm. The gun was pointed at Marquez's back, like a firebrand preacher berating a congregation with an accusing finger, and as he was about to fire, he saw the man begin to move as if he had sensed an attack from behind.
Gorilla's instincts, as fast as ever, instantly recalculated a new target. He moved the line of the gun by a fraction, found his new target and fired. He heard the scream from Marquez, and then once more heard the shuffling of feet as the two bodies moved with purpose.
Gorilla moved along, testing the corners, wary of a surprise attack. He glanced down to where his prey had been standing. A blood trail. Further along there was more, then more about the stone seating area as if the man had rested momentarily before moving off to recover what was left of his plan. A wounded opponent was the best type to have, thought Gorilla. They were easier to track, easier to finally take down and easier to ramp up the pressure on. “You've run out of time. You can't win,” he said. Not shouting despite the size of the building they were inside, but speaking in a casual, matter of fact tone.
The reply from Marquez came back instantaneously, the voice full of both pain and anger. “Fuck you – this is my game and I always win!”
Gorilla decided to try a different tack. The amphitheater was just too big for them to continue stalking each other indefinitely. He had already wounded Marquez, but the longer he left it, the greater the risk to Nicole. He needed to resolve this quickly. Weapons had been used and had failed; now something different was needed from the gunfighter's arsenal, namely deception.
“QJ/WIN,” he called. Silence from the walkway. Then the shuffling of feet, as if one person was moving another. “QJ/WIN? Do you hear me? I have a message.” Aside from the beating rain, there was silence. “The message is from Mr. Knight,” continued Gorilla. In the distance Gorilla heard the shuffling of feet moving frantically, but no response. “Come on out and I'll explain,” prompted Gorilla.
“You think me a fool. I wouldn't make it three feet before you shot me down,” came the rebuke from Marquez.
No, you're anything but a fool, thought Gorilla. Brutal, sadistic, ruthless, but not a fool. “I'll put the gun away. Just come out with the girl.”
The silence hung in the air once more, and then, as if making up his mind Marquez shouted, “I can see you from here. Put the weapon away and we'll come out!”
Gorilla held the gun up high to show that he'd understood and was willing to comply. Then he quickly removed the silencer from the Smith and Wesson before placing them both back in the holster at his hip. He began to move backwards; two steps, three steps, four steps, and five. He lowered his hands to chest height, not so far that he couldn't reach the '39 in case he should need it, but far enough so that it reassured Marquez. “Okay, the gun's away. Now bring her out.”
At first, Gorilla thought he hadn't shouted loud enough. Then slowly, they emerged from beneath the arches twenty yards away, Marquez held her from behind, like one lover caressing another. He had one hand arched around her throat and the other held the silenced Tokarev to her temple. Marquez was using her body as a shield to protect himself, in case the other man decided to make a move.
Gorilla took in the scene. The shot had seemingly hit Marquez in his left leg, blood poured from the wound, giving the leg of his trousers a wet, silky sheen. He thought the man looked at the end of his tether. Worn out, stressed, desperate. He'd seen the same look in the eyes of agents back from a long haul behind enemy lines and he saw it now in the eyes of his quarry. Desperate indeed… but desperate men are liable to do desperate things if they're backed into a corner, and the last thing he needed was a bloodbath.
Gorilla wondered if there was a masochistic streak prevalent for some field agents, contractors and mercenaries. Even though they are aware of a trap, they can't seem to help themselves but walk right into it? Was it blind faith, overconfidence or the delusion that they could master and beat the odds? Either way, this killer had gone the length of the rope and now needed to be redacted.
He turned his gaze to Nicole. She seemed unharmed, her coat buttoned up to the top. Her hands were handcuffed together in front of her. A slim metal link chain was looped through the handcuffs and encircled her waist, pinching together the fabric of her coat. Marquez had also taped and gagged up her mouth, a sensible precaution in case she should cry out during the hunt through the Coliseum, thought Gorilla.
“What is the message?” asked Marquez.
Gorilla stood there with rivulets of rain running down his face. Now he had a lie to sell. He just hoped his acting skills were up to it. “Mr. Knight says the contract is complete. It's time to stop. Hand over the girl and you can go free.”
Marquez looked doubtful. “You are CIA?”
Gorilla shook his head. “Let's just say, I'm an interested party.”
“Then, if that is the case, we are on the same side?”
“I don't have sides QJ/WIN, I'm a one-man army. Just let the girl go. Now!”
Gorilla heard the other man chuckle, a soft bitter laugh. “Please don't try to control me, my friend.”
“The thought never crossed my mind. But this operation is over,” growled Gorilla.
But your tone says otherwise, my friend, thought Marquez. It was the age-old ploy, tell the enemy exactly what they want to hear, then when he is relaxed, you slip a stiletto between his shoulder blades. Well, not this time my little monkey man! Marquez moved himself further behind the frame of the girl, the gun still pressing into her head. “How can it be over? There can only be one winner.”
Gorilla shrugged in response. “Then make it about us, Marquez. We can settle this between us. The girl isn't a part of this anymore. Let her go.”
Gorilla counted the beats in his head. Two, three, four. Marquez was definitely weighing up his options; to believe or dismiss, cut or run, kill or spare. He knew time was not on the Catalan killer's side. He was bleeding and his options were now limited. Who to believe in this game of smoke and mirrors?
Gorilla decided to force the issue and ramp up the pressure. “Marquez! If you don't let her go, you'll die! Walk way, now!”
The rain drummed against the stone floor. They had entered a momentary no-man's land, when the outcome could go either way. Then the fire returned to Marquez's eyes and he shouted, “In that case – have her!”
Gorilla watched as Marquez pushed Nicole from behind, causing her to
topple forward. The killer then turned and ran into the shadows of the covered walkway dragging his wounded leg behind him. Gorilla was stuck between running forward to catch Nicole from tottering forward on her heels or picking up the '39 and going after Marquez to finish him off.
His mind weighed up the tactical and operational considerations. He instantly opted for the '39 and going for the kill. Nicole was safe; she was here, coming towards him. What he needed to do was close down his quarry and redact him.
That was his mission, and he had never defaulted on a mission before. The decision to go for the '39 saved his life.
In a split second, Gorilla took two huge strides forward, bent down smoothly to one knee and drew the weapon from the holster on his hip. He was a fast draw, always had been, and even now his hand was coming up, the iron sight beginning to center on Marquez's back as he limped away. He turned his gaze to Nicole, who had just… well… she was standing still… not moving. Why wasn't she running towards him? Come on girl, get moving over here, quickly, he thought. He held out his hand to her, a smile of devilment on his face that he was trying to share with her.
But Nicole started to back up, started to move away from him, her eyes burning into him, pleading with him. There was fear in those eyes. His finger relaxed on the trigger, some unknown sense gave him pause. He stood and slowly began to walk towards her, as if in a daze. He thought at that moment, that standing there in the rain looking fragile and innocent, with the stylish coat, the elegant heels and her dark hair plastered to the side of her face, that she had never looked more beautiful.
He had only taken a handful of steps when the flash took him and he was blown backwards onto the hard cold floor of the Coliseum.
* * *
The MK 2 Fragmentation grenade that Marquez had tied to the back of Nicole's chain belt had a five-second delay fuse. When the time was right, he had simply pulled the restraining pin, causing the clip to fly off, which in turn released the acid burning fuse which raced towards the high explosive at the grenade's center.
Nicole Quayle had heard the click of the grenade's pin being pulled, and then felt a jolt as Marquez's strong hand pushed her forward and out towards Gorilla.
She knew it was coming, had known from the moment Marquez had handcuffed her, and had shown her the grenade he was duct taping to the chain looped around her waist and ran through the handcuffs. She tried to warn Gorilla, but it was no use. Marquez had played a double bluff and Gorilla had simply not seen it; in truth, how could he? She just hoped Gorilla would survive and for her, death would be quick. He was a good man; she would have liked to have known him in a different life.
She stood still and turned her face towards the rain. I'm coming, mamma, she thought. Don't worry, I'll be with you soon.
* * *
The explosion had popped his ear drums and aside from an internal ringing, he could only hear the muffled sounds of the environment around him. The air was permeated with a reddish matter that combined with the rain, created a crimson mist. He knew what it was, didn't want to look at it or think about where it had come from.
He turned his head to look at the spot where Nicole had been standing. Through the dark and smoke-filled haze he could see the small crater the grenade had created. He looked and he saw the brutalized remains of Nicole.
And there, in the theatre of death, he knelt down on his hands and knees, the rain and blood from what was left of Nicole Quayle's shattered body running along the stone pathway and down onto his splayed fingers.
He lowered his forehead to the ground as if in prayer, and for the first time in many a year, Jack Duncan Grant wept.
Chapter Five
Bath, England – June 1965
The memorial service for Nicole Quayle, former member of the Foreign Office, took place at Haycombe Cemetery, near her family's home town of Bath. It was a clear crisp day, with a radiant sun, and everybody agreed that it was the kind of day Nicole herself would have enjoyed.
It was attended by her father, looking his most frail but sporting his wartime medals, and a compendium of aunts and uncles, cousins, and immediate friends from her school days. All gathered around the patriarch of the family like a shield wall. It was a memorial service. Not so much a funeral per say, after all, how could you have a burial when there was so little of the body remaining? But the vicar said the correct things and everyone agreed that the choice of hymns was well picked. Who couldn't fail to be stirred by 'Jerusalem'?
Of her colleagues from work, only a handful attended, and those who did were there in an official capacity. All had been briefed on how to answer the question of her death.
“Terrible business, I'm afraid, the office was distraught about the death of a much-valued member of our staff. A gas explosion at her apartment – of course, foreign standards of workmanship aren't up to scratch like they are back in England, are they? Italy? Oh, yes – very glamorous, very La Dolce Vita. It seems she was seconded for a brief period, to cover some overlap of Embassy personnel leaving for another posting. Very decent of her, what with it being at such short notice, just a tragic way for a young life to end…”
The majority of these questions were fielded by Nicole's former department head, in truth, an SIS officer who had actually never met her, but was brought in to 'stage manage' the affair and to, in his own rather unfortunate choice of words, “kill this bloody scandal as quickly as possible, before every intelligence network in Europe comes crashing down on our bloody heads!”
The other official mourners from the Foreign Office were a tall, broad man with an unmistakable military bearing about him, “Call me Stephen, and yes, I had the good fortune to have worked with Nicole for a few weeks recently. It was the least I could do, to come over and pay my respects.”
In fact, Masterman was here more as a 'minder' for the other man who had accompanied him. A small, stocky man with short blond hair who sat glowering at the back of the church. He looked like a Golem – on his own, and isolated from the rest of the congregation.
* * *
“Such a beautiful service,” said Masterman. “One of the few I've been to recently where it hasn't been raining.”
Once again, they were walking, as was their habit, from the cemetery, across the church grounds and heading to Masterman's car. Masterman was setting the pace, keeping it slow, wanting the other man to get the pent-up rage out of his system.
Off to the side and heading along the main road to a waiting car, Masterman noticed Toby and his 'Burrowers'; the old copper and the young lady with the scarred face, linked arm-in-arm. They had sat apart from the rest of the SIS people in the church, like ghosts at a wake.
“I always think it's a blessing when the sun shines on such a somber occasion. It doesn't seem half as gloomy and depressing,” said Masterman.
There was a snort of derision from Grant. Not quite a laugh, but not a growl either.
“I say something funny, Jack?”
Grant had his head down, watching as his feet pounded into the grass. “Oh no, Colonel, not at all. Gloomy, well, I'll tell her father and her family that it's alright because the sun's shining and every cloud has a silver lining and about half a dozen other clichés that I can think of. They'll be chuffed to bits.”
Masterman knew what it was that was eating at the smaller man. Known it since he'd received the telephone call that night from Rome: Grant in a hotel lobby somewhere, exhausted, out of breath and telling him that the operation was a failure. The girl dead and Marquez was gone! Bloody hell!
Masterman risked a sideways glance at Grant as they walked; saw the fury smeared across his face. Grant had looked the same when he'd finally made it home after the aborted Rome operation. He had paced back and forth before Masterman's desk, swearing revenge and wanting a 'hunting license' to go after Marquez wherever he was. Masterman had calmed him down, temporarily, but still that mark of rage stayed with him over the passing weeks. So had the talk of revenge.
“Let's go this way,”
said Masterman. He knew how Grant worked and he thought it best to let his rage run its course. “We'll take the long way back to the car.”
“You see, I ran, Colonel, I ran like a fucking coward. I let that girl down, an officer under my care, I let her walk into a trap and she paid the price for my bloody mindedness. Then I scarpered before the Carabinieri got there. Because that's what we do, isn't it? We run away because we're deniable. Deniable fucking cowards who run,” said Grant, determined not to let the conversation trail off.
Masterman rested a gentle hand on Grant's shoulder. “You did what was expected – your job. You're not paid to get caught, you're paid to be able to disappear when you have to. Nicole knew the risks, just as you do. You shouldn't carry this guilt on your shoulders.”
Grant stopped and turned. He already knew what he was going to say to Masterman, had been rehearsing it for over a week. “Then let me go after him! I found him once, I can find him again. He's too dangerous to let live! For us, the Americans and even the Russians!”
“Sorry Jack, that ship has sailed. Orders from the top. The Chief and the Americans have come to an understanding, so I'm told. Something of mutual benefit for both our services and something far above our security clearance,” said Masterman.
“Look, this is important! One of our field agents has been murdered! I've killed people for less on your orders! Why is this so very different?” shouted Grant, his hands clenching and unclenching in his coat pockets.
“Because the last time I looked, you weren't the man in charge of the British Secret Service and you don't make those decisions, Jack.”
“If we don't react to this, then every agent in our network will doubt our intentions in the future! Well, won't they?” It was Grant's last roll of the dice and the one he hoped would sway the Head of the Redaction Unit over to his cause.
But Masterman was a player of hardball and simply glowered down at his protégé. He'd had enough of this self-flagellation of Grant's over the past few weeks. It was time to give him the hard facts. “Are you serious, Jack? You think that this operation has global significance? Well, let me educate you; it doesn't. It has been just one shitty operation in a whole week of shitty operations, and no one outside of our dirty little game will care one jot about whether we saved the lives of a team of patriotic British agents or not. They're more interested in their mortgages, rock and roll, and which stripper is performing down the local boozer this week. MACE was nothing unusual; we do it all the time. We do our best, we get the job done and we move onto the next task. So don't go giving yourself heirs and graces and imagine that you're some kind of a diva.”