Rogue Wolves

by James Quinn

  Once more, he was the prey of the man in the shadows, the dark man, with only his huge hands visible, that large metal watch glinting in the ambient light as he rested them on the table in front of him. At some point over the last few days, the questioning had stopped. Whether Caravaggio had run out of questions, or whether he had simply become bored with the answers, Gorilla wasn't sure.

  But something had changed. Now, the dark man talked and his captive listened. Now, instead of it being an interrogation, it felt like a confessional. It was as if Caravaggio was absolving himself of his sins and had decided that Gorilla Grant would be the man to hear them; to hear them and to understand.

  The voice of the dark man was hypnotic. It was the same voice that had brought him here and had taunted him for days; that deep, rumbling bass voice that at once both seduced and educated.

  “I once spent a year getting close to a target. To a man I had been paid to kill. That was my commitment, my level of professionalism. I took on no other contracts, no other work. I became obsessed with this man, with how I would assassinate him. I could not make love… could not relax until I had him in my sights and had pulled the trigger.

  “To be an assassin, I think, requires a great deal of love and empathy for our fellow man, do you not think? People assume that we are all cold-hearted killers. Perhaps the amateur ones are, or the people who boast of it, but to a professional, a dedicated craftsman of the art, it requires a level of understanding of what it is to be a human being.”

  The voice stopped for a few moments, as if it were considering where this train of thought was going. “Have you ever felt emotions for your targets, Mr Grant? Have you ever been disgusted with yourself at your actions?” said the voice.

  Gorilla thought back to a dark night in Cornwall many years ago, an operation of the past, when he had a man tied to a chair, a chair not unlike the one he was shackled to now. He had interrogated the man, pumped him full of drugs and then cut open his veins in order for him to bleed out. He had caught the blood in a bucket. Then he had rushed to the door and puked all over the porch steps. He had been ashamed of the way he had murdered that particular target.

  Gorilla raised his head and looked in the direction of the dark man's hands.

  “No, never,” he lied weakly, through split lips.

  The dark shape stared back at him from the shadows for many moments. “I don't believe you, Mr Grant. But we will talk of this again when you are feeling more… receptive. Chang?” he added softly

  The figure behind him, the iron fist in the Master's velvet glove, moved in. Gorilla felt the expert touch of the Chinese man's fingers as they dug into his nerve points, the points that only an expert in torture and pain would know existed, and he felt his head explode.

  He screamed.

  That night, Caravaggio once again visited his new 'pet Gorilla', as he liked to say. He sat in the shadows again, a bottle of red wine and a single glass on the table before him. The wine had been poured and left to breathe. Gorilla could make out the aroma of the strong, fruity grapes. Its colour reminded him of blood.

  The Master took a delicate sip before returning the glass back to the table. Chang had been dismissed and the guard from outside the dungeon's door had been ordered out of earshot. For now, it was a private audience of two, the Master and the Gorilla. No other players were allowed.

  “So, Mr Grant, let us begin properly. The time for questions is over and our time together will soon be at an end. So, I would like you to hear my story – my confession, if you like. I would like you, Gorilla Grant, to bear witness to my tale.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “I was born Nicolai Vlcek. My father was a Czech industrial engineer, very successful, and my mother was an Italian music protégée who played the violin and had performed all over the world. They met in Rome and their love was one of the greatest love affairs of the age.

  “I was raised on the island of Sardinia. My family had wealth, status, opportunities and respect. My father arranged to have the best tutors in Europe teach me. I was a scion of Italian aristocracy. I had privilege.

  “As a young man, my life was as luxurious as my childhood. But now, I had the opportunity to travel and have adventures, and travel I did – Europe, the Middle East, Asia, the Americas. I was ravenous for experiences, to see the world and explore. I climbed the Matterhorn in my twenties. I have run illegal narcotics in Asia, hunted wild animals in Africa and have been a regular at every luxury hotel across Europe several times over.

  “I was known within high society. In my life, I have bedded lovers of both sexes and have fathered many children, none of which know my name or who I am. But all this, all these adventures, never truly satisfied me, Mr Grant. Quite soon, they all lost their edge. I was constantly searching for the next fix, the next thing that made me come alive. I was already rich from my family inheritance, so even money could not excite me or motivate me.”

  “I was first recruited by an intelligence organisation in the 1930s. I was naïve and was embarrassingly green about the whole spy games milieu. But I was a quick learner, Mr Grant. I had to be. Well, you know this. After all, our trade has no time for poor players.

  “The Russians taught me the tradecraft of espionage, the Germans taught me the skills of sabotage and assassination and from the Japanese masters I learned the ways of silent killing, the way of the blade and the use of poisons. I excelled in all of them. I have been an agent, a double agent, even a triple agent at times, throughout many wars and conflicts. I have been a whore in who I have worked for. It mattered not to me. Ideology was a luxury that only affected lesser people.

  “I have killed on contract more times than I can remember, but I will always remember the face of the first man that I killed… always. I have lied, cheated, deceived and manipulated and I regret none of it.”

  Gorilla thought back to the rumours that he had heard about this man from fellow spies, enemies, and lovers. Could he be all of these complex characters rolled into one living body? This was no ordinary hit man, in Gorilla's opinion. This man had been an integral part of the espionage trade for nearly half a century and had survived. He doubted that the rumours did the real man justice.

  “Do you know who Janus, was Mr Grant?” said Caravaggio. “He was the Roman God of gateways, duality and passages. He is often depicted as having two faces. These faces look to the past and the future at the same time. That was who I was. I was known on the international stage as a wealthy Italian aristocrat and playboy. That was my outward persona and it was a good cover. But my true life, my real personality, the one I relished more than any other, was that of my cryptonym, Caravaggio. Mr Grant, I was born to the life of espionage. It is my calling.”

  The dark man stopped and took another long pull at the red wine, then refilled the glass. He waited, as if unsure of where he wanted to go next. Then, once again, those smooth, deep, hypnotic tones flowed into the gloom of the dungeon.

  “When you are perceived as a legend, you take on a level of commitment to your chosen profession. For me, it was never about the money or the ideology. It was never about revenge. At one point in my life, I used to think that my secret lives, my missions, my adventures, were all about the experiences. To live to a different beat than my fellow man, to be something beyond the norm. That may still be true, but it is not what has motivated me for a very long time.

  “It was always about being the best in the world – to be the best intelligence agent, the perfect assassin, to test myself. It was always truly about being an artist at my craft. The original Caravaggio was one of the greatest artists, a great master. He could create beauty upon his canvas. My version of Caravaggio was to be an artist in death and deception and the Cold War was my canvas. The rifle, knife and garrotte were my brushes. The targets were my muse. It was my job to bring all these elements together to make one perfect kill.”

  He paused, took a sip of wine and continued.

  “Mr Grant, I have a secret I wish
to share with you. For a man like me, 'secret' is a dangerous word, but you are the only person I wish to share this with. I think that you are probably the only one that will understand.

  “For many years, I have wanted to retire, leave this life and be free of the constant bickering of the Cold War and the spies who run it. Like my earlier life, their adventures were becoming passé, boring… predictable. Another double agent assassinated, a coup organised, a kidnapping… there were too many amateurs playing in games that they had no business being involved in as they lacked experience.

  “I had become disillusioned with the intelligence game. I wished to be free of it. But unfortunately, a legend does not get to leave, it seems. The spymasters were constantly trying to pull me back in – with money at first, then later, with threats. I grew tired of their feeble attempts very quickly. So, I decided to play them at their own game. I cut my links with all of my former contacts – eliminated them in some cases. Anyone that could lead back to me had to be removed.”

  “Like in New Orleans and Athens?” said Gorilla

  “Exactly. Why would I take the risk that someone would betray me?”

  Caravaggio then turned his thoughts to something that they had in common; the assassination of the Hungarian in the Casino in Nice.

  “The Hungarian spy, Szabo, had also been a part of my private network for many years. He was someone who I had worked for and who had worked for me. It was a mutually beneficial relationship. However, he decided to betray me and pass on what he knew of my operations to the French when he defected. He should have known better. He had worked with me long enough to know that I would not tolerate betrayal. Hence he had to die.

  “Although I will admit that it was a surprise to find you there protecting him!” he added. “That, I had not expected.”

  “I hope I didn't disappoint,” said Gorilla. “A bullet in the hand tends to do that.”

  “On the contrary, Mr Grant, I was emboldened. I had wanted to meet the great Gorilla Grant for so long. I had heard many good things about you. Now, I had a chance to witness them for myself,” said Caravaggio.

  Gorilla snorted. Even in his weakened state, he was not going to fall for flattery.

  Caravaggio returned to his story. “I have in my safe here on the island, a dossier compiled against the Americans, the French, the Germans and the Russians of every intelligence mission and dirty operation that I have conducted for them. The information in those files would be explosive to the right people. It has the potential to rip apart spy networks across the globe. The details stretch from the lowest spy on the ground, all the way up to the intelligence officials that run them… even up to their political masters that own them. I am not exaggerating when I say that it could bring down governments.

  “So you see, the SDECE and the CIA have lied to both yourself and Miss Brown. Your mission to track me down and Redact or capture me wasn't because I had planned to assassinate the Presidents of both countries. It was because I had enough blackmail material to frustrate their efforts to control me. After all, an agent out of control, one who has gone rogue, is a dangerous weapon to have roaming free. Spymasters fear what they cannot control.”

  Too right, thought Gorilla.

  “Despite my wishes to retire, and my various former employers' attempts to try and stop that, I still crave the need to pit myself against the best. Retiring from the secret world is one thing, but the desire to constantly test myself is something else.

  “I have watched you, Gorilla Grant. I have watched you for many years now. Several times now, our paths have almost crossed. I have seen the way you have risen in our business. I like the way you carry yourself. Oh, you can be a little crude at times, a little rough around the edges, but I can recognise someone of a similar ilk to myself. I can feel a kinship.

  “You were born to do this type of work, Mr Grant. You are a natural like me. It is who I am and I do not think that will ever go away. So it was fortuitous when the French Secret Service decided to send the one operative that I would wish to test myself against, to track me down and kill me – assassin against assassin. It is why I orchestrated your visit to my island.”

  Gorilla cocked an inquisitive eyebrow at that. Could it be true that every aspect of this operation, all the tracking and killing, had been for nothing, just so that he and Eunice could be brought here at Caravaggio's bidding? In the darkness, he could sense Caravaggio smiling to himself, secure in the knowledge that all along, his pet Gorilla had had no idea that he was being lured here.

  When Caravaggio continued, it was as if he were reading Gorilla's mind. “It was easy really, a rumour that we planted here or there, a paid informant to give you information, even finding the clues that Chang had dropped on purpose. It was all a part of the road that led you to this island. But, please… do not concern yourself with the details now, Mr Grant. It is done.

  “Can I ask you, do you know the tale of The Scorpion and the Frog? No? It is a relatively recent fable that is based on much older ones. The tale is an apocryphal one that I would like to share with you. A scorpion and a frog meet on the bank of a stream. The scorpion asks the frog to carry him across on its back. 'How do I know that you won't sting me?' asks the frog. The scorpion says, 'Because if I do, I will die also.'

  “The frog is satisfied and agrees. They set out across the stream. Halfway across, the scorpion stings the frog. The frog feels the onset of paralysis and starts to sink, knowing that they will both sink and drown. He has just enough time to plead, 'Why?' The scorpion replies coldly, 'I had to. It's in my nature… it's what I do.'

  “It is what we are, Mr Grant, it is stamped on our soul. We cannot change what we are, any more than we can change the colour of our eyes or the genetics that run through our body. We are like the scorpion – we act because it is what we know we must do.”

  Somewhere in these confessions, Gorilla began to see beyond the myth that had surrounded this man. At the beginning of this operation, the man known as Caravaggio had been nothing but a target, a ghost at best. He was unidentifiable, unknown, a man without thought or emotions. He was just a figure that Gorilla Grant had been sent to kill. When Gorilla had started in this business more than a decade ago, the international assassin known as Caravaggio was one of the few operatives that could be called truly legendary. His exploits had been taught and analysed on the training programs of fledgling spies the world over.

  And yet here he was now; the man, the real man, stripped bare and exposing his soul. The fact that he was telling his deepest, darkest secrets to a man like Jack Grant was not a coincidence. Perhaps the only person who would understand was someone like him, another killer.

  Caravaggio sat in silence for a while, as if contemplating all that he had shared. Eventually, he leaned forward and clicked off the desk lamp, leaving the room in a gloomy darkness.

  Gorilla, in his weakened state, was aware of the other man getting up and moving slowly toward where he sat. Caravaggio stood over him and rested a gentle hand on Gorilla's head.

  “That is enough for one night. Rest now. There is still much work to do, but for now… sleep,” cooed Caravaggio. And with that, he pressed a thumb into the nerve behind Gorilla's right ear.

  There was a flash of white light in Gorilla's head, a stab of pain, and then he passed out into the darkness of unconsciousness.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  THE DAY OF THE DEAD – 2nd November 1973

  Gorilla awoke to find his hands resting gently in his lap. He was no longer handcuffed to the chair, as he had been for the past few days. Instead, he was lying in the foetal position on a mattress in the corner of the dungeon.

  He slowly sat upright and took stock of his surroundings. Things were different. For one, his whole body had been washed and cleaned. The dried blood and detritus had been replaced with clean, oiled skin. Secondly, his wounds had been treated with some kind of ointment, he assumed to help them heal. He looked around him.

  On Caravaggio's inter
rogator's table, there was a brightly lit desk lamp that gave the surroundings a warm, comforting glow. Next to it was a small plate that contained a little rice, some vegetables, and bread. A glass of fresh orange juice sat beside the plate.

  He stood, stretched, heard his bones click as he elongated his spine, and then he ate quickly. He didn't know if this was a trick, perhaps one of Caravaggio's mind games, and to be fair, he didn't care. He was starving and he knew that if he was to have any chance of escape, of finding Eunice, he would need the energy that the food and juice could provide.

  Once he was finished, he picked up the lamp and shone it around the rest of the room. In the opposite corner were the two chairs. On one was a steel wash bowl with face cloth and towel and on the other was a zipped-up holdall.

  Gorilla splashed some cool, clean water over his face and neck and then wiped his whole body down with the towel. Once finished, he unzipped the holdall and took out its contents. Inside were his light-coloured linen suit, shirt, shoes, socks and new underwear. All had been freshly laundered. He dressed quickly and was surprised to find his watch and cut-throat razor in the jacket's inside pocket. He put the watch on his wrist – it showed 8.30 p.m. – and the razor in his left-hand trouser pocket.

  He walked towards the dungeon's door. When he pushed against the heavy wooden door, it yielded easily. Surprised to find it unlocked, he opened it wide and stepped through. No guards, no alarms, nothing, only thick stone steps that led upwards.

  Gorilla started to ascend and the further up the winding steps he got, the more he could hear… snatches of music in the distance, subdued voices. At the top of the steps there was a second door. Once again, he pushed against it and again it opened wide. He walked out into a glass-fronted lounge area.

  The furniture was expensive and chosen by someone who had good taste – Italian designer chairs, French tables, Greek statues. Beyond the glass-fronted walls was an expansive lawn with a large, kidney-shaped swimming pool at its centre.