by James Quinn
The last time that he had seen Ulrich Vogel had been in East Germany thirty years ago, when they had been enemies on either side of the political divide of Berlin. Ulrich Vogel had been a ruthless Stasi operative with a reputation for being both cruel and intelligent. The years had not been kind to him. In his youth, he had been tall, physically fit and arrogant – exactly the kind of recruit that the SSD had wanted to protect the German Democratic Republic – but that was a long time ago. Now, he was stooped, bone thin, and haggard.
The ringing of the phone wrenched him from his memories. Grant didn't even wait for permission, he just moved quickly to the telephone and picked up the handset.
“Katy? Katy can you hear me. It's me… Dad,” he said.
On the other end he could hear mumbling, someone giving hushed instructions, then he heard, “Dad… Dad… it's me. I can hear you.”
There was no time for tears, no time for emotion, he needed information and quick. “Are you okay? Have you been hurt?”
“I'm okay. I'm not hurt.”
He tried another idea, hoping that she might pick up on the clue. “Do you have food? Water?”
She paused for a moment and then said, “Daddy, I'm fine…I had Schnitzel last night… not as good as yours, but –”
The line went dead. They'd cut her off.
Good girl. Schnitzel – she understood where he was going with the question about food and water. Schnitzel equalled Germany. It was another clue. Vogel, the blond assassin – it all led back to the GDR and now Katy had just confirmed it for sure. He put the phone down and turned back to face Ulrich Vogel. “You hurt her and I will kill you,” he said.
The German sneered. “We had a deal. You have talked to Katherine, you know she is alive and well. Now we talk business. Agreed?”
Jack Grant nodded. “Okay. What do I have to do to get my daughter back? Tell me!”
Colonel Ulrich Vogel of the SSD smiled. All the pieces of his plan were coming together. “I want you to do what you are good at, Gorilla Grant. I want you to kill a man!”
The man she knew as Peter had cut the call. He had been listening in on the brief conversation, his head as close as possible to the receiver.
“That was a stupid thing to do, Katherine,” he said. His tone was gentle, matter-of-fact; as if he was talking to a wilful child. “Come, let us return you to your quarters.”
She chose the wiser option of saying nothing rather than reacting. He shook his head sadly, disappointed. She observed him as he escorted her back to her room. Peter, her kidnapper, moved like a cat, powerful and graceful. There seemed to be a contradiction to him in tone. Back in Rome, he had been like a machine, never-ending and relentless. But now, here in Germany… somewhere… he was both patient and gentle in his new role as guardian and jailer.
Her days had settled into a routine. Up early and a knock on the door brought her breakfast. The same routine applied for lunch and dinner. Occasionally, the old man, Ulrich, would demand to see her in his study where he would ask her questions about her life, her childhood, her father. She did her best to give vague or non-committal answers, which caused the old man to grow frustrated and snap at her before sending her back to her room.
But she had not seen the old man for the past several days, which was fine by her; he absolutely gave her the creeps. Aside from those interruptions, she was confined to her room to sleep, read, or watch old imported VHS videos to pass the time.
They were almost at her room when she asked him, “Do you think I could go out for a walk tomorrow?”
He looked down at her suspiciously; he was over half a head taller than her. “I will see.”
“Just some air and to stretch my legs. The countryside looks so beautiful, it would be a shame to waste it.”
“I will see.”
“Do you have to ask your father for permission?” she asked – half teasing, half digging for information.
He smiled. “No. My father is away on business for the next few days.”
They got to her room and she jumped in front of him, barring his way. “Look, just thirty minutes of fresh air and exercise is all I ask. I won't try to run away or shout out for help, or anything like that. It's just, if I'm going to be here for who knows how long while your father and my father sort out whatever issues they have, I might as well be comfortable with it all.”
He frowned and said, “Your father… he's…”
“What?” she asked. Then she noted he caught himself, as if he had started to let emotion get in the way of his professionalism. Was it something to do with what that crazy old man, her kidnapper?
“Nothing. Forget it. It will be explained to you in good time,” he said. “But you should get some extra rest tonight.”
“Why?” she said, concerned.
He said, “Because if we are to explore the grounds tomorrow, you will need to keep up with my punishing pace!”
“Deal,” she said. “Thank you. I look forward to it.”
She let herself into her room and sat on the bed. This was at least progress. She had spoken to her dad, albeit briefly. She knew he was alive, he knew she was, too. She also felt that she was starting to connect with the blond man, Peter. He seemed much more approachable when the old man, Ulrich, wasn't around. The old man gave off an air of toxicity that invaded everywhere in the building.
It was a shame that this blond young man, Peter, was a killer, she thought. He had such a genuine smile when he opened up. In many respects he reminded her of her dad.
Chapter Four
Jack Grant slumped down in the chair next to the pool. Vogel, tired now from all the standing, had finally given in to the pain and returned to his wheelchair. “Let us retire outside where we can talk freely,” he had said.
They sat in the shade, under a parasol, cooler than the direct burning heat. Drinks had been brought by one of the suits; vodka. Jack Grant took a slug of the vodka and started to work out all the variables and plays in his mind. He was at the centre of a steel trap; a nudge to the left or the right and a spike would cut him in half. The two old enemies, two old men, stared at each other; the blue reflection from the swimming pool gave their faces a serious gravity and intensity. But then again, discussing murder was a serious and intense business.
Finally, Grant said simply, “Who?”
“Aaah… I have intrigued you? Good!” said Vogel.
Grant shook his head. “Not intrigued, no. It's just that I don't seem to have much of a choice at the minute. Not if I'm to secure my daughter's release.”
“And no moral high ground on your part? No angst about taking yet another human life?” queried Vogel. He was genuinely interested; he wanted to know if this man still had an assassin's heart.
“Not when my daughter's life is at stake – no!” said Grant sharply.
Vogel thought for a moment, debating how to explain what he had planned for after all this time. “To you he is nothing; a target, a name on a list, nothing more. After that, you and your daughter can go back to your banal lives. I have no interest in either of you.”
“I'm still not hearing a name, or at least what I would be expected to deal with, or why you want this target dead,” said Grant. He was in operational mode now, and if Katy was to have any chance of making it out of this situation alive, he had to view this as just another contract.
“The details of why the target needs to be killed are not your concern, only the how. The target is a powerful man. You should expect security to be the best – bodyguards, secret police, all the trappings of power. It will not be easy for you,” conceded Vogel.
It wasn't the first time that Gorilla Grant had been contracted to eliminate a 'powerful' man with the best security. In his opinion, the more powerful the man, the easier it was to find a chink in his armour. “And when the hit is done, you will help with my escape?”
Vogel cackled. “I won't deceive you, Grant – I don't expect you to survive! In fact, that is what I'm hoping for. However, an
d against my better judgement, if you survive and aren't taken by my enemies, I will reunite you and your daughter. But that is the limit of my involvement.”
“So, why me? You are Stasi. You have agents and operatives of your own. Why go outside normal channels?”
“I have watched your career over many years, Gorilla Grant. I have made you my private project. I have kept you on a string for many a decade, waiting for the moment when I could use you and ultimately bring about your death. I know what you have achieved – the assassinations, the operations. I know all of it. But sometimes in this great game of espionage we have to step outside of the usual networks for… shall we say, sensitive operations?” said Vogel.
Jack Grant pondered this for a moment. He could see through the lies and deceptions. Vogel wanted a patsy, a trained killer, to go on a suicide mission, so he could portray it as a former British agent that has gone 'rogue' to carry out an assassination; plausible deniability. Which was the other bonus for Colonel Ulrich Vogel; he would get long-sought-after revenge by proxy. Well, not if he, Jack Grant, had anything to do with it!
“A rogue western agent sent to kill on contract! Is that how you would sell it?” asked Grant.
“If you were caught or discovered, of course! What could be better?” said Vogel honestly.
Grant shrugged. “So who is the target?”
Vogel closed his eyes as he remembered the details of the contract. “His name is Dimitri Sobolev and he will be attending a meeting in two weeks' time. We do not want that meeting to take place.”
“A Russian? Is he KGB?” asked Grant. A hit was one thing, but taking out a KGB officer was another matter; after all, he didn't need that kind of heat for the rest of his life.
“No, he is not KGB,” said Vogel, his voice rising in anger. “He is an apparatchik; a politician.”
Grant nodded, weighing up his options. “And the where? What's the location of the meeting?”
“Austria. The exact details will be revealed in good time.”
“Okay. Do we have good intelligence on the target and his movements?” asked Grant.
“Of course. The SSD is nothing if not thorough. I have prepared an intelligence briefing pack for you. This is the one location that we have narrowed down where he will be vulnerable. We have a very short window of opportunity,” said Vogel.
Jack Grant considered the parameters of the hit. Single target with a professional security team, a neutral country with numerous options to escape across several borders, restrictive timeframe… not the worst contract he had ever taken, not by a long shot. Grant nodded in appreciation of the intelligence. “Okay. I will need to look into it to see if it is feasible, but in theory it sounds possible. But if this hit is going ahead, I have several conditions.”
“Go on.”
“First, I do my own planning. I don't want any outside interference,” said Grant.
Vogel nodded. “Agreed. Continue.”
“I get regular phone calls to my daughter, so I know that she's okay. That doesn't happen and I walk away from the mission instantly. They are my conditions.”
Again there was a nod from Vogel. “That can be arranged. But I, too, have a condition of the contract.”
Jack Grant frowned. “Go on.”
“To ensure that you do not deviate from the plan and don't try to derail this operation, I'm going to have my best operative assist you. He'll be there to watch your back, get you what you need, drive, run surveillance,” said Vogel. It would be a good way of keeping track of Gorilla Grant, by having a spy inside his camp. Besides, if he wasn't killed on the mission, the Harlequin would be ordered to eliminate him at the end of it, anyway.
“Is this the bastard that hunted us in Rome? The Harlequin?” guessed Grant.
Vogel raised an eyebrow at that. “I see that you are well informed?”
“I try. I still keep an ear to the ground. It keeps me alive,” growled Grant.
“Then yes, the Harlequin. He has had the best training. He can assist you and provide logistical support. Is that acceptable?”
And put a bullet in the back of my head once the contract is completed, thought Grant. He considered the proposal for a moment and then said, “If he gets in my way, Vogel, I'll take him out, too. I'm not fucking around here. The only thing that matters to me is my daughter!”
Ulrich Vogel merely smiled at the irony of life and the games that he played; wheels within wheels. He said, “Go back to your hotel. You return to London tomorrow evening. We will contact you there with further instructions.”
Jack Grant raised himself off the chair. In truth, he was glad to be out Vogel's company; the man repulsed him. He was halfway back to the interior of the villa when he had a thought. He turned and looked back at the crippled old man.
“The baby. What happened to him?” asked Grant.
Vogel turned the wheelchair around, the sun catching him in the eyes. He raised a hand to block out the light. He thought it would help hide the devious expression on his face. “Baby? What baby? I do not understand,” he said.
“The baby! Don't toy with me,” said Grant, barely holding his anger in check.
Vogel thought for a moment, as if he was retrieving a long forgotten memory. “Ah, I see. The baby. Well, it was a difficult time, a confusing time. The decision was taken out of my hands. I believe my superiors placed him in an orphanage away from Germany; Ukraine, I heard. Yes, Ukraine, that sounds about right. That was the last I ever saw of him.”
Jack Grant glared at the vile man in front of him for a moment, the hate seething within him. Then he nodded, accepting the explanation. He lowered his head and took a breath and when he had composed himself, he said, “Just get the information to me in London. I'll take care of the target.”
Then he turned and left.
The drive back was a carbon copy of the initial journey; the hood, the hands of the bodyguards manoeuvring him around and into the vehicle. The darkness gave him the time to focus and calm his mind. With so much information to process, it was vital that he was able to look at all the angles uninterrupted.
He was being dragged back into a profession he swore he had left behind and, while the feeling was that of familiarity, it was not something he thought he would ever have to do again, taking up weapons and killing on contract. But his daughter's life was at stake and that superseded anything else. She was all he had and he would fight and kill to get her back with him.
And Vogel! After all this time, it had been Ulrich Vogel, SSD Operations Officer, who was pulling the strings. In the years since he had last seen Vogel in the flesh, Jack Grant had had no idea if the man was alive or dead. Over the years in the intelligence world, Grant had kept a close ear to the ground to listen out for whispers or rumours about the man. This man who had shattered his life almost thirty years ago and who had wounded his family in the worst way possible was playing with him like a puppet. Whatever Vogel had been up to and had become, he had been clever enough to stay off the radar of most of the Western intelligence networks. One thing for sure was that Vogel had been patient, good at staying hidden and proving that he was without a doubt a ruthless and professional operator.
And what of the target, Dimitri Sobolev?
Grant had never heard of him, knew nothing about him. So why would an aging and crippled SSD officer use an outsider for the assassination of a minor politician? To keep his hands clean and the Stasi out of the loop? Probably. Or was it a two-handed play; eliminate a target and use Jack Grant, an old enemy, to take the fall for it? It was a plan of Machiavellian proportions, and one that Grant didn't have all the information about yet.
Not that he didn't have a few aces up his sleeve still. He hoped that his final question had been enough to convince Vogel that he had given up hope about the boy. Vogel had seemed to enjoy his pain, which Grant took as confirmation that Vogel believed that he believed what he had been told.
But Jack Grant didn't believe him. In fact, he knew better and wasn't
above having his own wheels within wheels moments himself.
The anomaly in the whole agreement was the inclusion of the Harlequin as part of the hit-team and that presented an interesting opportunity. If he could get close to the Harlequin and get inside his head, make a connection, he might just be able to turn this thing around and exploit what information he knew about the man behind the mask of the Harlequin.
He had a counter-plan forming in his head. Much of it was still fragmented and haphazard, but to make it work he would need more information than he had now. He would need outside help and to do that he needed to be back on home ground, in London.
“Was the meeting satisfactory, Herr Oberst?”
Ulrich Vogel was lost in thought when his personal bodyguard and assistant, Franz, came into the lounge of the villa that they had rented. By tonight, they would be gone from this place and be heading back to Germany. No evidence that they had been here would exist.
“What? Yes, perfectly,” said Vogel, his mind turning over the meeting with Jack Grant. “Franz, do we have any contractors in Tangier that we use for wet work?”
Franz considered the request. “I believe there are a couple on file. They would be average by comparison to our own teams, of course, but I can check?”
Vogel smiled. “Excellent. I think two operatives should do it. Give them Grant's details; tell them to follow him over the next twenty-four hours until he has to leave Morocco. Tell them not to be subtle. I want Grant intimidated by their presence, and if the opportunity should present itself they have permission to conduct combative action.”
“Is that permanent combative action?” asked Franz.
Vogel snapped. “Don't be a fool, Franz! We need the Gorilla in the short term. After that, he is expendable. No, just enough pain to put him out of action for a few days. After all, we don't want our assassin going back into the field if he has lost his edge, do we? This will be a test of his reactions and skills.”