Names of the Dead

by Mark Leggatt

  “Really? How did he work that out?”

  “When you were arrested there was a steak knife on the table next to you. You didn’t even look at it. Policemen see these things.” Pilgrim took off his glasses and carefully polished the lenses.

  “So what do you think?” said Montrose.

  “I think you’re looking for a steak knife. However, I go by deeds. I, too, think you are an honest man, and one who is prepared to put himself in harm’s way for our country.”

  Yeah, but I’m not planning on making a habit of it. If the guy was looking for a martyr, he could go whistle Dixie. “Just what is it you do, Mr. Pilgrim?”

  “I collect lost souls. I really do.”

  “You’re going to have to do a little better than that.” Montrose sipped the coffee. “But let me help you get to the point. What do you want?”

  “I want you, Mr. Montrose. I want to offer you a job.”

  The guy sure had some balls. Sits down at my table, scares the crap out of me and then asks me if I want a job. Probably some right-wing crazy looking for a vigilante. He may have been impressed with the heroin deal, but next on the list would be silenced black helicopters and a Soviet doppelganger for the President. Friend of Mossad or not, he’d better get the message. Montrose pointed towards the door. “Take a hike, fella. If I want a job, I’ll look in the small ads.”

  “My offer is genuine. And I can assure you I am not from the NSA, FBI or any other august organization.” Pilgrim paused, then opened his palms on the table. “All of our people are ex-security services or military. Those with a moral core that made them stand up against what is wrong with our country. Or good patriots who have been forced to retire before their time because they opposed the excesses of some of their operations. Which is why they became targets. They were prepared to speak up. They are people of honor and action.”

  “Fascinating.” Montrose leaned over the table. “But I’m not interested.”

  “Oh, I think you are. You see, I can give you what you want.”

  A new passport and a ticket to somewhere quiet is all I want right now. And to get far away from Mossad and Mr. Texas Loony Tunes. “Yeah, and what would that be?”

  “I can give you back your freedom.”

  “Really? That’s mighty big of you. What’s the price?”

  “You commit yourself to my organization.”

  Montrose gave him a sideways look.

  “I can see you are skeptical.”

  You’re madder than a box of frogs. “Believe me, I’m more than skeptical.”

  “I understand. Many of our people felt the same way. In your circumstances it is quite reasonable. I know you love your country. That’s why you are here today. There are, of course, things I cannot tell you. But what I can tell you is that our work is vital. And it has no place for faint hearts. We have to make tough decisions. We don’t always get them right. Sometimes people die.

  But we don’t set out to kill everyone who disagrees with us.”

  “Well, that’s quite a refreshing approach.”

  “We act as a foil, Mr. Montrose, against the more zealous members of our security agencies. Politicians and their insane schemes come and go. I’ve been to Afghanistan. I’ve seen what we’ve done there. And I’ve seen the valleys full of poppies. You saved a lot of lives, although I’d have preferred it to be settled in a less dramatic way.”

  Montrose shook his head. “You and me both, buddy.”

  “I can give you a job, a purpose in life. To serve your country as you did before.”

  “Yeah, right. You know, I can’t work out whether you’re looking for a gimp or a bitch. Whatever. I’m not on the market.”

  “This is a genuine offer, Mr. Montrose, though I admit there are several problems.”

  Your problems, buddy. Don’t make them mine.

  “The first of which is the CIA.”

  “Yeah, I’ll bet I’m still on the payroll. Are they waiting for me to turn up and collect my pay check?”

  “They think you are dead, Mr. Montrose. And they have very good reason to be happy about that.”

  “Oh, you think so? They set Kessler and his thugs on me. And Charlotte. And they nearly succeeded. I don’t give a shit whether they think I’m alive or dead.”

  “You should. But they had no idea about Charlotte. None whatsoever. I’m not their advocate, Mr. Montrose, but try to see it through their eyes. They were convinced you were a murderer and psychologically unstable. But more importantly, you had previously uncovered information that was particularly dangerous. Information that would make the Wikileaks scandal look like a little white lie.”

  Montrose smirked. “I’ve got no idea what you are talking about. And that’s the way it’s gonna stay.”

  Pilgrim closed his eyes and nodded slowly, lost in thought. “Let me hypothesize about what you may have uncovered. A Black Ops base in Mexico for extraordinary rendition flights, where prisoners are held for interrogation. Prisoners from all over the globe. And no one knows.”

  Holy shit. How does he know? Who is this guy? Whatever. Play dumb. Montrose shrugged. “Couldn’t say.”

  “And potentially, the history of flights to South American countries in the eighties, in support of brutal regimes and the torture of dissidents. Am I getting close?”

  The eighties? I don’t know anything about that shit. Christ, they must be crapping themselves.

  “You uncovered an extremely serious security weakness. I’m told the Director was horrified, but impressed.”

  “It was an accident. The firewall was wide open. Anyway, I said I’d keep quiet and they sent me to Interpol to get me outta town. No big deal.”

  “That was then, Mr. Montrose. This is now.”

  You got that straight.

  “The CIA were extremely concerned that, following the murders, you would walk straight into a foreign embassy and claim political asylum.”

  Montrose leaned over the table. “They think I’m a rat? They think I was gonna stand up on Al Jazeera and tell the world how the Great Satan is operating covert teams and kidnapping citizens all over the globe? Shit, if I was going to do that, I’d be on the front cover of Time by now.” He pointed a finger at Pilgrim. “I’m no traitor. I was looking for the guy with a private jet that sold my sister into slavery and turned her into a junkie. And I will find that piece of shit, and I will eat his fucking heart!”

  Pilgrim bowed his head. “A little quieter, please, Mr. Montrose. Walls have ears.”

  Montrose sat back in the chair, his face tight. I will find him.

  Pilgrim drew a deep breath and leaned forward. “There is absolutely no doubt in my mind that you are a patriot. And that you will not reveal anything, to anyone. But you have to understand the desperation of the CIA to . . . take care of you. They don’t want another Edward Snowden, who is, unfortunately, temporarily beyond my reach.”

  “Yeah? Well, he’s a whistle-blower. Ain’t he on your team? The team with no name?”

  Pilgrim looked down and tapped an index finger against the table for a few moments. “Mr. Snowden’s actions were not in the interests of our country. The entire Wikileaks episode could have been dealt with in a much more efficient manner. His actions have been extremely damaging. The US has lost the trust of every government in the European Union. Think what you like about what we were doing, but it was very valuable for us. His were not the actions of a patriot. His were the actions of a traitor. A simple word in the ear of a trusted journalist would have reined in some of the more excessive actions.”

  “So, nobody likes us and we don’t care. No change there.”

  “If what we are doing stops another 9/11, it will have been worth it. I have no doubt.”

  Montrose pushed a hand through his hair and leaned back in the chair. “I’m with ya there, buddy.”

  “However, I can deal with the CIA. They are convinced you are dead. But they are not your most pressing issue.”

  “Pressing issue, ye
ah. What would that be? Some weirdo turning up unannounced and offering me a job?” He could see that Pilgrim was offended by the tightening of his small, rosebud mouth.

  Pilgrim shook his head and resumed his placid demeanor. “Wolfgang Kessler. The man whose son died in Paris and the man who ordered your death.”

  Montrose sat up. “Where is he?”

  “Somewhere that even Mossad can’t get him.”

  “I thought Mossad were everywhere.”

  “They were, until the Iranian Revolution of 1979 and the fall of the American Embassy in Tehran. For the CIA and Mossad it was an unprecedented disaster. To this day, they have never fully recovered. When the Iranians seized the American Embassy they captured a great deal of extraordinarily sensitive information. Much of it had been shredded, but the Iranians employed women specializing in intricate weaving, to piece together hundreds of thousands of strips of paper and reconstruct many classified documents. Amongst them was a CIA dossier detailing the history of Mossad’s operations across the globe. China, Europe, USSR, information that was disastrous for Mossad. Including their Iranian contacts. Every CIA and Mossad informant disappeared overnight. You can imagine their fate.”

  “You would have thought the Iranians would have kept quiet about it.”

  “They had their reasons. The things we did to that country are unspeakable. Supporting the Shah of Iran and his puppet regime against the will of the people, and plundering their oil reserves. We suppressed democracy at the very roots. The list goes on. Has it taught us anything?” He shook his head and looked down at the table. “Prior to the revolution, Mossad also trained the Savak, the murderous Iranian Secret Service. Perhaps the only place we are detested more is in Iraq. It’s a close run thing.”

  “So? Where exactly is Kessler?”

  “Tehran. He’s safe. When the French police discovered the bodies of his son and the Afghan Ambassador to France at the airport, he fled the country to Iran. They struck a deal. Kessler needed somewhere to hide. Not least from the Afghanis. And the Iranians need his skills in finance. They are crippled by international sanctions and Kessler can help them a great deal. Ironically, they also have a very serious interest in Afghan oil.”

  “Really? I’d have loved to listen to that job interview.”

  Pilgrim smiled. “Kessler is also being protected by the CIA. They have been tentatively active since the revolution, though they have much to do before operations can have any real effect. I think they want to recruit Kessler as a double agent. However, I suspect the real reason is that many important men have funds held in his bank. Men who you cross at your peril. They want their money back and the Swiss are not being too cooperative.”

  “Yeah, right. Plus all the crooked politicians and crime bosses across the globe.”

  “That’s reasonably accurate. You see, apart from the Israelis, nobody wants to see him dead.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “Think about it. Only Kessler can get their money. They’re happy for him to set up in Iran and then recover their funds. He still has many friends in Switzerland.”

  “Unbelievable. I would have thought he was a dead man.”

  Pilgrim shrugged. “Once they have their money, I’m sure Herr Kessler will be watching his back, but since he is protected by so many interested parties, your problem only multiplies.”

  “How?”

  “The death of his son. Kessler wants you and Charlotte dead, Mr. Montrose. He is prepared to do absolutely anything to make that happen.”

  Charlotte. Montrose felt his chest tighten. Kessler could call on the best muscle in Europe. He had the funds to do anything he liked. No matter how long it took. “I can’t get to him. There’s nothing I can do.”

  “On the contrary. Mossad have a score to settle with Kessler. So do you. Where there’s a will . . .”

  “I’m not an assassin.”

  “I know. If you were, I wouldn’t be talking to you. Kessler won’t go away. He’ll find you.”

  “Mossad aren’t going to tell him.”

  “No, but I did my own investigation. The young lady is, of course, from France. Charlotte Marceau. They know you are together, and . . .”

  “She’s nobody’s fucking business.”

  “Language, please. I mean that she may have left the country with you. I know she has previously vacationed in Tunisia and Algeria. Morocco is a popular destination for the French. As an ex-colony, their language is spoken and their money accepted. If I was going to look for her, this is the first place I would start.”

  “Yeah? So what’s your point?”

  “Well, if I can work it out, so can Kessler and his hired killers. I’m sure it won’t take them long.” Pilgrim pointed down at the newspaper. “I see you’re reading The Herald and Tribune. Tell me, where did you buy it?”

  “At a newsagents, of course.”

  “Was there any one watching, or any one hanging around outside?”

  “Why?”

  “Because they are looking for an American and it is well known we like to read our own newspapers. They have your photograph.”

  The newsagents had been full of tourists. French, Italian, maybe some Brits. Outside, the guy sitting on the sidewalk. A student. Could have been American. Jeans and backpack. Was he a spotter?

  “Do you remember anyone?”

  “No,” said Montrose. “It seemed quiet.”

  “Good. Perhaps you are ahead of them. However, I think I can say without any undue drama, that you will never be safe. My advice would be to eliminate the problem.”

  “I’ve told you. I’m not an assassin. It’s a suicide mission. I won’t do it.”

  Pilgrim closed his eyes and inclined his head. “This is an example of the tough choices my organization face every day. But I admire your honesty, Mr. Montrose. I really do.” He looked up. “Kessler will never stop searching for you. However, I’ll respect whatever decision you make.”

  I’ll have to run for the rest of my life. Charlotte too. “I’ll think about it.”

  Pilgrim held out his hands. “That’s all I ask. Now, I have something for you. Let’s hope you never have to use it.” He laid a newspaper on the table.

  Montrose saw the bulge in the paper.

  “Don’t go back to your hotel, Mr. Montrose.”

  He flinched as a cold stab of adrenalin shot though his chest. His legs began to tremble. “What . . . What do you mean by that?”

  “She’s gone. Where, I have no idea. I’m afraid I am not party to that information.” He stood up. “I’ll be in the Hotel Opera for a few days. Call me anytime. I shall leave you now. Good luck, Mr. Montrose.”

  Montrose watched him go. Pilgrim didn’t look back. He took small, neat steps around the tables then disappeared through the door.

  His coffee was cold. He put the glass down. It clattered against the table and he realized his hands were shaking.

  She’s gone? No, Mr. Fruit-Loops was . . . Why would he lie? Mossad would take care of her. Maybe they think I’m a threat. His mind flashed back to the newsagents. The guy in the jeans. A spotter? Shit, there’s no such thing as coincidence.

  He lifted the corner of the newspaper and saw a Walther PPK fitted with a short silencer. At least the odds had improved. Below was an envelope with a phone number. He opened it up, and saw a wad of cash. Moroccan dirhams, euros and dollars. I’ll have to move fast.

  He pulled four pink tablets from his pocket and downed them with the coffee. Once they kick in I’ll be stoned out of my mind. Folding the paper over his knees, he held the Walther below the table and chambered a round then pocketed the cash.

  If the spotter had told his contact they would have had plenty time to get a team up. Could be outside the café right now. They wouldn’t come in. It wouldn’t happen like that. They’d wait outside then follow me. A bullet in the back of the head down a side street or a knife through the liver in a busy market. He rubbed his injured calf as he stood and, using the newspaper as a
shield, slipped the Walther in his pocket. No one gave him a second glance. He faced the exit. It starts now.

  He stood just inside the door and checked the square. Locals crammed the tables outside the café. Nobody was looking his way.

  Above the rooftops, he could see the pointed tower of a minaret. The apartment is one hundred yards due south from the mosque and the Medina. Keep your eye on the minaret. Take a different route. See who follows.

  He turned and skirted the edge of the square then ducked down an alley. He began to pick up the pace as the pain in his calf eased. Drugs and adrenalin. Ditch the walking stick. To his right, a wide, tiled doorway led into a restaurant. He could see an open door at the far end of the room, leading onto a sunlit courtyard. He stepped into the doorway and slotted his stick into a rickety hat stand by the door. His sneakers squeaked on the ancient mosaic floor as he strode past tables of tourists drinking coffee and garishly-colored pastries, and looked up at the high, painted ceiling, lined by pillars and carvings.

  Jeez, what’s the hurry? She’s not there. Maybe Mossad heard someone is in town. Someone like Kessler. Or his goons. Did she leave a note? He emerged into the courtyard and headed for a small alley leading towards the mosque. I have to know.

  The alley was lined with butcher shops and men carrying carcasses of lamb hoisted high on their shoulders squeezed past each other. I can’t be far. He stopped at the corner and glanced back, but the alley was crammed with faces.

  This is it. The baker’s alley. A window opened by his head and a blast of hot air, carrying the scent of lemon and mint, washed over him. Shouts came from the kitchen and he made for the alley. At the end, he could see a line of workmen standing with their clay pots of tagine in their hands, ready to go into the hot ashes of the baker’s oven. By midday, their lunch would be ready.

  He stood behind the line and watched the baker’s shop. An old man came out, wiping his flour-covered hands. His day was done. Two old men sat near the doorway of the building, shouting at kids kicking a ball against the wall. Montrose crossed the alley and into the archway of the apartment building. He ran up to the first floor where the door to the apartment stood slightly ajar. He listened for a moment and then tapped it open with his foot.