by James Quinn
Berlin was a city still rebuilding itself. It was going through a state of schizophrenia, as if it had multiple personalities fostered by the influence of the powers that controlled it. To the West of the city there were the British, French and American Sectors, while to the East stood the Soviet domain; hard and unrelenting. The whole city was a vacuum of tension and palpable hysteria. A city half destroyed a decade and a half earlier was now in the throes of being rebuilt; the rubbish mountains of decimated buildings were being replaced with housing projects, new builds and the formation of the new governments on both side of the divide. Along the Kurfurstendamm, the lights shone and offered the promise of the West and its capitalistic nature; by contrast, Unter Den Linden greeted the visitor with the stark greyness of the GDR.
And somewhere between the light of the West and the dark of the East was the underworld of Berlin. The underbelly; the place where black marketeers, vice kings, criminals and spies thrived and operated. Know the right people and you could get a girl, a boy, a gun, or drugs. But for the Gutterfighters, whose stock in trade was espionage, you could also buy and sell information, blackmail an enemy agent and have a man killed!
It was that crack in the fabric of Berlin that the Gutterfighters would have to learn to survive and thrive in.
Then a job came up, a rush job, orders from London, something a bit special that fitted the unconventional remit of the newly founded Gutterfighters. And for their fledgling operation, it was as real as it got.
Masterman had called them all into the Ops room. He stood his full height and looked them all squarely in the eyes, his tone serious.
“It's a hit. Chap living under an assumed identity. I don't know the full details of why 'Six' want him dealt with, but the orders are clear. They want him eliminated. My best guess is that he's in the way of someone that Six are running. Either that, or he's too close to the source and is seen as a potential threat. None of that is our concern. Our job is to take him out of the game. The only specification is that it's to be made to look like an accident. There has to be no intelligence connection.”
They all looked around at each other. Assassination: but what they were really thinking was murder. Dress it up how you want, it would still be killing a man in cold blood. It was Masterman, as usual, who broke their self-reflection and turned to more practical matters.
“I know what you are thinking. But this is still a war and this target is an enemy. It's as simple as that. Part of our brief is that it has to look like an accident,” he reminded them. “So let's focus on that.”
“Car accident? Hit and run,” suggested Simon.
“Or a robbery? Make it look like a black market deal gone wrong?” said Johnny Blease.
“Who is he?” asked Jack Grant.
Masterman flicked through the file in his hands and then pushed several sheets of paper across to each of them. It was a biography of their target and included his photograph, physical description, address and known haunts.
“The name he currently goes under is Hans Winter, a clerk in the Ministry of Justice. Single, lives alone, boring. In reality, he is none other than Wolfgang Muller, former SS Major who was responsible for the deaths of several SOE and SIS agents and their networks throughout France. So it's a double whammy. We take out a threat to a potential source and a Nazi!” He grinned wolfishly.
“He doesn't look much,” said Johnny.
“Yeah and he's nearly fifty years of age. It says his health hasn't been too good recently – heart. Is that something that we can use?” suggested Grant.
“First thing we need to do is take a peek behind the curtain. Put some local boys on him, bit of discreet surveillance to see if we can spot a pattern and an opportunity,” said Bob, sipping at his mug of tea. Over the past month he'd managed to recruit some locals to help him with a bit of ad hoc surveillance work. He called them his 'Street Angels'. He'd given them some 'test' operations to try out and so far they had performed well, but this would be their first 'live' operation against a target that may well be twitchy on the street.
Masterman nodded in approval. “Excellent. Good idea. Bob, we'll leave that with you for the moment. Let us know when you have something. Jack?”
Grant looked up. “Yes, boss?”
“I'd like you to be team leader on this one. Once we have the intelligence about the target's movements from the surveillance team, I want you to plan it out. Give me options. Okay?”
“No problem,” said Grant, looking forward to the challenge of the Gutterfighters' first operation.
“Right, that's it,” said Masterman. “This is the COG's first operation. I want it to go smoothly. We are only effective and useful to SIS Berlin if we are covert and don't get caught. I want you to check, check and check again. Leave nothing to chance. Our operational survival may just depend on it.”
The surveillance team run by Bob Knights and backed up by the rest of the team spent the better part of a week tracking 'Hans Winter'. Bob was insistent on everything being done at arm's length. Nothing too aggressive, nothing too rushed. Better to lose him than to 'show out'.
“A target like that, living under an assumed identity, with his past? Well, he's bound to be twitchy,” said Bob, ever the field man.
“You've got to admire the balls on him though, haven't you?” said Simon, as they sat in one of the Gutterfighters' surveillance vans waiting for the target to come out of his apartment on Nordenhammer Strasse.
“In what way?” asked Bob, his eyes never leaving the target building.
“Well, he's murdered British agents and still feels confident enough to live in the British Sector,” replied Simon.
The Street Angels picked him up as he took the tram near to his office at the Ministry of Justice. The teams did relays around the building, plotting up, in case their target came out at some point during the day. Which he never did. So whatever nefarious activities SIS suspected him of, it was obviously happening inside the building.
At six o' clock, the surveillance teams followed him all the way back to his apartment, some of them in vehicles and several of them on the trams. He would come home, stay in the building for an hour and then come out carrying a lead and a small dog, which one of the Street Angels identified as a miniature Schnauzer. He walked the dog east, heading towards the river and then proceeded to walk along the banks of the Spree. The walk took about thirty-five minutes, round trip, and then he would come home and remain in for the rest of the night.
The team met back at the Gutterfighters' base for debriefing. “Anything unusual?” asked Grant. “Anything we can work with?”
“Nothing so far Jack,” said Simon. “At least nothing that sticks out.”
“It's too early to tell,” said Bob, their surveillance guru.
“Okay, so what's the next play?” asked Johnny Blease.
Bob smiled. “That's easy, Tiny. We do it again tomorrow, and the next day and the next day, until we have a pattern. So you lads better get some rest. We have a busy few days ahead.”
Three days later, Jack Grant was in Masterman's office with the bare bones of an operational plan.
“He has a dog,” said Grant.
“A dog?”
“Yeah, a little rat-like thing that he walks in the evening.”
“And that helps us how?” asked Masterman.
“He comes home from work, changes clothes, gets his lead and walks the dog most nights between seven and eight o clock. When they have done their constitutional, he heads home and retires for the evening. That's his routine,” said Grant.
“Okay, I get that you can narrow him down to a routine, but…”
Grant continued. “He walks his dog down by the river. It's about a mile walk there and back from his apartment. It's the time he's vulnerable. At one point he has to pass under a bridge. That's where we hit him.”
Masterman nodded. “Good. I like it. Hit him how, though?”
Grant shrugged. “We make it look like an accident. It gets
slippy under those little bridges. Water gets thrown onto the pavement and a slime forms that makes it easy to slide and fall over. What if our target slipped and seriously banged his head before tumbling into the river and drowning?”
“So – an ambush? You attack in the dark, when it's quiet?” said Masterman.
“Exactly! We wouldn't need to use any fancy equipment, either. Half a house brick would do it. Two decent hits and then we just shove him into the Spree. If he doesn't drown, bloody hypothermia will get him within minutes!”
“Okay. It reminds me a bit of the stuff that we used to do during the war. Funny how much hasn't changed. What do you need?” asked Masterman, turning his mind to the nuts and bolts of the operation.
Grant thought for a moment. “Tiny and I will handle the rough stuff, Simon and Bob can tip us off when he is ready to approach the bridge. That's it.”
“And if, as these things tend to happen, you don't have privacy? What then?”
“Simple. We just walk away and come back the next night. The trick for us is to remain unseen and that when we do go for it, we have to go for it quickly,” said Grant.
Masterman nodded. He liked the way his protégé was handling the responsibility; he had chosen well in Jack Grant. “Well, SIS Berlin Station seems to want this done as soon as possible. There is a timeframe that they aren't willing to share with us Gutterfighters. How soon can you make this happen, realistically?”
Jack Grant looked down at his notes and weighed up the options. Finally he said, “Give me and the lads a day to practice at the scene, then another day to sort out any problems. End of the week sound okay?”
Masterman said end of the week was fine. Then he turned his mind to other matters. “And everyone is okay with this?”
Grant cocked his head, confused. “What do you mean, boss?”
“It's a hit, Jack. Not everyone is geared for this. This is a special type of intelligence work,” said Masterman, remembering the first time he'd had to kill in cold blood… How the knife had felt slippery in his hands, and the noise of the poor bastard whose throat he had gutted… and how he had vomited his guts up straight afterwards.
“I know. But it's like you said – it's a war! They are the enemy,” replied Grant.
“Ask them all, Jack. No shame against anyone who wants to stand down. They are a good bunch of men, but this type of work doesn't suit everyone,” cautioned Masterman.
“I already asked them!”
“And?”
Jack Grant smiled. “And they all said yes. We won't let you down, Colonel. None of us will. We are a team… and we'll be ready!”
It was a standard November night in Berlin. In other words, bloody freezing, thought Jack Grant. Even more so down by the river, where the wind-chill factor made it almost sub-zero. They all had thick coats, scarves and caps on. Partly to keep out the cold, but also as part of their disguise in case they were seen.
Grant's biggest fear was that it would be too cold for Winter to walk his dog and it would be another night wasted. The previous night, they had secreted themselves in their standby positions – Grant and Tiny in a bush at the far end of the short underpass, Simon and Bob on the adjacent bridge and embankment respectively. Simon and Bob were the lookouts, there to alert Tiny and Grant – the attack team. Everything had been planned perfectly and the conditions for the hit to go ahead were as good as they were ever going to be. And then, minutes before the target was due to do his routine walk, a bloody 'tom' and her 'client' started to get down to business in the darkest part of the underpass.
“For fuck's sake! Let me scare them off,” said Tiny.
But Grant was cautious and aborted; better to get him on a better night rather than making a scene with a prostitute. So the team walked away; splitting up and making their respective ways back to base.
But tonight, they all had a good feeling. They were ready and in place. Bob and Simon were the lookouts and potential backup; Grant and Tiny were there to carry out the violence. Tiny had already volunteered to be the one to do the killing, while Grant would be there to block Winter's path and tackle him to the ground if need be.
There were two bushes, deep and thick, at either end of the bridge. They were perfect for concealment, but it also allowed Grant and Tiny to communicate to each other without being seen by anyone on the footpath under the bridge. Grant would be at the far end, to block Winter's path and Tiny would ambush him from behind and hit him with a concrete brick that matched the floor. Each of them clock-watched. They were in the final few moments before Winter was due to make his habitual walk with his dog.
Grant looked up and saw Simon on the bridge in his vantage point. He casually waved his newspaper twice in front of his face, as though he were shooing away a fly. It was the signal – Winter had been spotted walking along the embankment and would be here in minutes. They were on standby.
Grant poked his head out of the bush and whispered, “Tiny, it's a go!”
But Tiny John Blease was shaking his head as if something was wrong, then he started motioning for Grant to come over. Grant held his hands up as if to say, 'What the fuck is the matter?, but this just made Tiny even more insistent. With the seconds counting down, Grant scrabbled over the grassy scrubland to Tiny's side of the bridge.
“What's up?” asked Grant, confused.
“I can't do it, Jack. I just can't… not like this,” said Tiny Blease. His face, even in the darkness of the night, was ashen.
Grant looked over at the concrete brick. “What? You sure?” he asked, his mind reeling.
Tiny nodded vehemently.
“Okay. Give it to me,” said Grant.
Gently, he took the brick from Tiny's hand. He gripped it, felt its weight and its coldness. He was not even sure that he could do it. But then his operational mind clicked in and he reasoned that someone had to and it might as bloody well be him. He had to be like that lump of concrete; cold and dispassionate.
He looked up at Tiny. “I'll do it.”
“You sure?” said Tiny, relieved and ashamed at the same time.
Grant nodded. “Yeah, I'm sure. Can you hold him for me, though, around the arms? Can you do that for me, mate?”
“I can't look at him. I'll have to close my eyes. I don't mind hitting him, but I don't want to watch him die,” said Tiny.
Grant nodded. “That's fine, John. You just grip him, I'll do the rest. Now, let's swap sides of the bridge. You grip him and I'll hit him from behind. Okay?”
It was the footsteps that they heard first in the distance. Getting closer and closer, coupled with the odd yap of the small dog. And there, heading towards the bridge, was not a butcher, a murderer, an epitome of Nazi evil, but instead, one tubby little middle-aged functionary with a small dog.
But then again, thought Jack Grant, that's what evil would look like. Not all horned monsters, breathing fire – just a by-the-book accountant who coldly ticked off lives in a log book. And he raised his hand.
Hans Winter, for that was how he thought of himself these days, was at his happiest when he was walking his little dog, Fritz.
He had left behind the internal politics and humdrum air of his office environment and was now free to walk, relax and spend time in his own isolation. He considered himself blessed. Not that it had always been that way. In his old life, he had been hunted in the years following the fall of Berlin. He was lucky enough, though, to still have friends that could protect him; new identification, new job, new life…
Was it perfect? Of course not! He still missed the glory days of hunting spies, terrorists and saboteurs. That feeling of tracking a prey and delivering the coup de grâce. Not that his new life was completely redundant; the odd bit of blackmail of a fellow office worker. The man was a closet homosexual, and he, Winter, was making things difficult for the young man in the office. Soon, he would start to demand money for his silence and after that… who knows, maybe he would denounce him anyway, as a security risk. He smiled to himself; yes,
things weren't too bad after all.
He shook himself from his musings as he walked along the dark embankment. You could never be too careful. Berlin was still a rough city at times and these days, he was far more concerned with being robbed of his wallet than he was of the police kicking down his door with a warrant for his arrest. So he was cautious.
It was as he reached the halfway point underneath the dark bridge that the giant figure stepped out in front of him on the footpath. The figure was huge and dark in the shadows. For a bizarre moment, Winter had the thought that a giant troll lived under the bridge and had come to life, like in a child's fairy tale. He paused, the giant paused and Fritz barked.
Then two things seemed to happen at once. The giant took two huge strides forward and clamped his freakishly large hands on Winter's shoulders, pinning him in place, stopping him from struggling. He heard Fritz bark again and he looked up into the giant's face. It was masked, covered by a scarf and a cap. The giant turned his head away and closed his eyes, shutting them tight.
How strange, thought Winter. Why would he do that?
Then, without warning, he felt a blinding pain at the top of his head. It was if someone was trying to smash his head through his shoulders and into his body. He felt his knees go weak as the strength began to leave him. Then another crash of pain in the same spot and he didn't care anymore because he knew that he was dead.
It was the practicalities of the professional killer.
They smeared a patch of the footpath with Winter's brains and blood to make it look like he had tripped (perhaps over his own dog lead) and smashed his head on the hard concrete floor. Then a quick roll and the dead body tumbled into the river. It floated for a few minutes and then began to sink quickly. They guessed it would turn up later the next day, spotted by a witness, or by a boat captain further downstream.
The whole hit had taken literally a few moments out of their lives. It was done. It was over. It was a relief.
