A Game for Assassins (The Redaction Chronicles Book 1)

by James Quinn

  It was in that moment when Cowan began to realize that this was no sex-game, this was something else entirely, and began to panic. His body, trying to fight gravity, began to jerk and buck. But Marquez was an experienced murderer and had accounted for his victim's reaction. He shifted his weight to his left side and thrust his right knee into the small of the man's back, pressing him further down into the bed.

  Marquez imagined that he looked like a rider trying to control a wild horse, the garrote his reigns as he stretched back, making the wire as taut as possible. He could see Cowan's face turning a bright red as his brain searched for oxygen, a croaking sound came from somewhere deep within his throat…and still Marquez pulled on the wire, pulled so hard that the sweat poured from his body due to the sheer physicality of the act.

  He had no idea how long it had been since he slipped the garrote around the man's neck, it seemed like hours, but still he pulled and still he held the weight of the body down. He gave a final surge of effort and was rewarded with an arterial fountain of blood leaping free from the side of Cowan's neck.

  The wire had cut so deeply it had severed the man's main artery, and the blood pumping onto the bed covered the once white sheets in a layer of crimson. Marquez felt the man beneath him lose strength and his body slumped forward like a balloon which has had the air slowly released from it. He worked the garrote now with a sawing motion, moving it from side to side, feeling the wire cutting through tissue and sinew until it eventually reached Cowan's spine.

  He let go of the blood-soaked garrote's toggles, his hands aching from the exertion, and let them fall onto Cowan's naked back. Then he reached forward, grabbed Cowan's hair tightly with both hands and ripped the head backwards.

  The head swiveled as if it was attached to Cowan's body with a one-sided hinge, turning to stare accusingly at Marquez. He looked down at the body on the bed, resembling so much butchered meat, and wrinkled his nose in disgust. Now that the killing was over, he could allow himself to feel. Not at the time, though, during the midst of a kill he was too focused and motivated on doing what was necessary.

  Garroting was a first for him. Knives, guns, poisons and explosions – he had used all of them, many times in the past, but thus far, he'd never used the Italian rope. He reflected on the fact that the method of execution for this wretch of an Englishman was intimately plausible in the context of his death. What could be more personal, than murdering someone you had just had sex with using your own hands? It was quite fitting, in Marquez's opinion.

  He lifted himself off the body, made his way to the bathroom and stared at himself in the shaving mirror for a long time. The mental battle raged in his head until he was finally satisfied that he'd justified his actions to his own conscience. A job, nothing more… this man meant nothing to you. You fucked him and then killed him. That is all.

  He carefully removed the false moustache he'd worn for the last few nights during his surveillance of the Englishman. The disguise was no longer necessary. Then he found Cowan's shaving brush in the bathroom and dipped it into a pool of its owner's blood. On the wall over the bed, he daubed the word 'hure' – whore. When the body was eventually discovered, it would be assumed that the man had been the victim of a psychopathic lover or queer-basher who had taken his anger too far. By which time, Marquez would be back on a plane and making his way to Zurich.

  The first 'hit' of the contract was complete.

  * * *

  Vaclav Kader sat in the back of his chauffeur-driven Mercedes, working on the paperwork needed by the start of business that morning, and reflected on how blessed his life was.

  He signed his name on several documents and scanned a cursory eye over several more, before placing them neatly by his side on the upholstered leather seat. Outside, the gentle flurries of snow increased giving the streets of Vaduz, Liechtenstein a dusting of white.

  “Dieter, turn the heating up, please. I feel as if someone just walked over my grave,” he said to the driver. Dieter, his chauffeur/bodyguard, smiled in the mirror and set about adjusting the Mercedes' heating system. Dieter was a good man. Reliable, dependable, trustworthy, and a good man to have on your side in a fight, or to take care of any unpleasant business.

  They had both been in the same displaced persons camp after the war, and had come up the hard way. Black market goods and a little smuggling had made Vaclav, the wheeler dealer, and Dieter, the young enforcer, successful. But that was an age ago. Now Vaclav Kader was the CEO of one of the most successful companies in Liechtenstein.

  Not that Vaclav Kader hadn't had a little help to build his post-war shipping and transportation empire; oh no, far from it. A member of the Czechoslovakian Communist Party all his life, he had been picked up by the Russians, recruited as an agent and had been 'played back' into the displaced person camps in Austria in the immediate post-war era. His mission was to infiltrate himself into western society, gain a foothold and see where it led. In truth, he was one of dozens of small time agents that the Russians would routinely 'ship' over the border, in order to worm their way into the West.

  After months in the camps, where he'd gained a reputation as both a trader and fixer, he had been released with legitimate identity cards and a bright new future. The hopeful spy had then set about building his new life.

  A year later he had, through the funding of a covert Russian intelligence investment, established himself in the city of Liechtenstein where he set about building Schon International Shipping Ltd into the global company it was today. But that was many years ago, and the excitement of running his legitimate business empire was far overshadowed by the thrill and danger of running his far more lucrative and illegal business, that of international arms dealer.

  He had never fired a weapon in his life, had certainly never killed a man, but Vaclav Kader could reel off verbatim the pros and cons of various types of explosives, small arms, artillery and heavy-mechanized hardware. He had warehouses in Belgium, North Africa and Bolivia. He had a fleet of aircraft and ships that could be called upon to transport his secret cargoes all over the world. He had dined with warlords and revolutionaries, terrorists and presidents. He was known and respected. His work for the KGB these days was his crowning glory and the role that truly satisfied him. It was the business he had been born to run and he took pride in the title of 'Merchant of Death', which had been bestowed upon him.

  He would regularly travel all over the world, ostensibly on Schon shipping business, but in reality to buy, broker, and transport all manner of small arms and munitions to KGB-backed end-users. Africa, South America, Cuba, and the Middle East had all fallen within his fiefdom over the past decade or more. He enjoyed the good life; expensive suits, the finest wines and first class travel, which for a committed Communist as wealthy as he, was a difficult juggling trick to manage with his own conscience. It was all the more remarkable, because the police and security services of the West had no real proof he was involved in any of this illegal trade.

  The Mercedes turned the corner into the main street which housed the offices of Schon International Shipping Ltd. The pavements were already starting to fill with people scurrying to work, trying in vain to avoid the increasing snow fall.

  His wife, a red headed beauty from Bremen, ran Schon for him these days. She was an excellent CEO and ran the company like a well-oiled machine, leaving him free to dedicate himself to his less public operations for the Russians. He knew that she had already been at work for an hour, in preparation for an important client meeting today. She was his rock and he loved her simply and completely.

  “I'll pull up right outside, the snow's getting quite heavy,” murmured Dieter as the car began to slow down. As they approached the ornate entrance to his business headquarters Vaclav Kader was aware of the main double doors to Schon swinging open and his wife striding out to greet him, a radiant smile spreading across her stunning features.

  Yes, he decided as he heaved himself out of his luxury car, greeting his beautiful wife ou
tside of his global business headquarters – he really was blessed with a good life.

  * * *

  David Gioradze sat concealed in his perch and cradled the 'Eagle' in his hands.

  The perch was a grey tarpaulin hide that he'd constructed the previous night, made from old hessian sacking. Not enough to provide cover and concealment up close, but from a distance, he would blend into the flat roof of the apartment building.

  He had chosen his spot well; it was far enough away to keep from the prying eyes of the locals, but within the effective range of his killing ground. When the time was right, he would simply pop up out of the hide, center on his target and melt back into the landscape before anyone could figure out where the explosion had come from.

  The 'Eagle' was the nickname he'd given to the Rocket-Propelled Grenade launcher that was his weapon of choice for this type of long range killing. The RPG-7 was a 40mm warhead that would send a kinetic shockwave through anything it hit. Its main military function was to destroy heavy artillery and vehicles. He knew that against a normal car, its effect would be devastating.

  Back in his Legion days, Gioradze had attended a course as part of his basic training, on the tactical battlefield use of rocket propelled weaponry. His instructor had been – before his fresh start with the Legion – a former SS commando who had used the Panzerfaust to great effect on the Eastern front against Soviet tanks. “My boy,” the scarred German veteran had said, “they are the greatest weapons in the world if used correctly and aimed at the right target. They are like the eagle, swooping down, bringing death to the small lamb.”

  He knew his target did most of his legitimate business from his company offices located on Stadtle Street, the main thoroughfare in Vaduz. International shipping, so the intelligence files said, which in Gioradze's opinion was a useful business to have when you're buying and selling arms and munitions to the dictators of Africa and Central America. He thought it strange that a committed Communist agent who supplied military hardware to KGB-backed end-users was also in love with money for its own ends. Strange. Who knew, maybe it was the thrill of putting the deals together that was the rush, rather than venal thoughts.

  Gioradze had driven the 700 kilometers overnight from France, easily passing over the border in his little camper van with the RPG-7 carefully hidden in the concealed tubing which had been expertly welded to the undercarriage of the vehicle. He had arrived as dawn was breaking over the small town of Vaduz.

  His first job had been to scout out the target location, a non-descript, three story office block that was the headquarters of Schon International. Then he'd driven the campervan around the circular one-way street and stored it at the rear of the building which was to be his 'perch' for the next few hours.

  Scaling the outside of the buildings had been child's play. It had merely been a case of climbing up one outside metal drain pipe, the RPG broken down into two sections and carried in a fishing bag, and then he'd clambered up onto the roof of a small outhouse. From there, it was like climbing up slowly ascending building blocks, until he reached the second story roof of the restaurant he'd chosen to be his sniper position. With the hide made, there was nothing left to do but shiver against the icy cold and keep the warhead from freezing by snuggling it against his prone body.

  He checked his watch regularly. He knew his target would be arriving for work that morning at 8.45am to the minute. Again, the trusted intelligence reports had provided this information. Every morning during the working week, the arms dealer arrived precisely fifteen minutes before the rest of his staff. He would arrive in a grey Mercedes, driven by his chauffeur-bodyguard.

  At 8.30am, just as the town of Vaduz was coming to life, Gioradze carefully assembled the two pieces of the RPG and locked the warhead into its firing tube. A small clunk and he was satisfied it was secured in place. All he had left to do now was fire. He knew what would happen when he pulled the trigger of the RPG-2. The trigger would send an electrical impulse signal to the rocket motor, which in turn would initiate the propellant, causing the grenade to leave the launcher. The grenade would then 'sprout' seven metallic fins, giving it stability in flight. Basically, Gioradze thought of it as a modern version of an archer's arrow.

  He pushed back the sacking from above his head and peered up at the grey sky; a light covering of snow had turned the rooftop white. He craned his neck and chanced a look down onto Stadtle Street. It was just a normal suburban street, a few cars dotted here and there, and many people on their way to work, battling against the increasing snowfall. A check of his watch told him it was now 8.43am. Keep it together, keep it together, came the mantra in his head. He locked his gaze on the front of the building; he didn't want to miss the target.

  Less than thirty seconds later, the target made his way along the main stretch of the road. Closer, closer, keep coming, he told the Mercedes, willing the car along its normal route, begging that today wasn't the day that the target deviated from his normal course of action. The Mercedes, a dark grey, powerful machine, cruised up to the entrance of Schon International. With no other cars parked in the vicinity, the driver brought it right to the door, eager to get as close as possible so that his employer wouldn't be exposed to the elements.

  Gioradze heard the engine stop and watched as a large, heavyset man in a business suit climbed out of the driver's seat. The protection, laughed Gioradze to himself. But not today Mon ami. The bodyguard adjusted his jacket and spryly moved around to the pavement side to open the door for his employer. On the rooftop, Gioradze smoothly folded back the sacking which had been a makeshift blanket and stood, lofting the RPG to his shoulder and clicking the cocking button. He carefully peered through the metal sights, aligning the forward sight with the roof of the Mercedes.

  Two things happened simultaneously. A woman, tall and red headed, emerged from the entrance to Schon, just as the target – the arms dealer – exited the car. Gioradze just had time to see the fit-looking arms dealer turn to inspect the street, before the woman appeared in the sights. A smile of recognition spread across the arms dealers' face when the woman came forward to embrace him. Old friends, perhaps? A lover? A wife? It didn't matter. Her death would merely be incidental.

  The trigger, pull the trigger! Gioradze's head screamed. Now, do it now! He braced himself, the launcher tight against his shoulder when he pulled the trigger. There was a deafening whoosh against his right ear and then the grey morning was illuminated momentarily with a brilliant flash. He watched as the eagle of death flew toward its target.

  The grenade took approximately two seconds to reach the car. It hit the vehicle directly, killing the target, the woman and the bodyguard instantly. They were simply vaporized; with the exception of a clothed limb here and there. The Mercedes seemed to be picked up by an invisible hand and then slammed back down onto the road with such force, the doors and wheels seemed to burst outwards from the main bulk of the vehicle. Then there was fire, and a lot of screaming.

  Like a child watching a fireworks display, Gioradze let his eyes linger on the violent spectacle that lay below him in the street. It was a myriad of fire, smoke, charred metal, and screams. Then something else flashed into his mind, a remark from the old German who'd taught the boys how to use the 'Eagle' in the Legion.

  “And when you've done the killing, don't hang around to admire the roaring fire you've created; you turn and run unless you want some sharp-eyed sniper to target your firing position.”

  Gioradze dropped the launcher tube and walked briskly to the rear of the roof. He hurried down, down, down through the buildings until moments later, he reached street level. There was no worry about anyone targeting this building just yet, there would be too much panic on the street and he suspected with the chaos surrounding him, it would be a while before the police arrived. He estimated he had a good ten-minutes of getaway time, which was more than enough, given that his vehicle was literally parked around the corner. From there, he would take the main arterial route out of Vad
uz.

  He walked out onto the Stadtle, keeping his gaze lowered. He was aware of people behind him, around him, to the side of him. People were running towards the chaos, whilst he walked in the opposite direction. He glanced back, aware of the smoke in the distance, before increasing his pace. A young girl, perhaps a waitress on her way to work a morning breakfast shift, briefly locked eyes with him. He pulled his cap further down, partly to conceal the top half of his face and partly to protect himself from the snow.

  Moments later he was back in the campervan. He checked around for witnesses, seeing none, he gently removed the false beard which had been glued in place, and then took of the hat, the wig and the spectacles. They would be dumped on the roadside, as soon as he left Vaduz. He turned the key in the ignition and started the engine and the nondescript little campervan gently ambled out onto the road, heading away from the flames.

  'Hit' number two had been completed.

  * * *

  Over 2000 miles away Mr. Knight, the American, received a letter from Europe. Because of the distance involved, it had taken a little over two weeks to arrive. He sat and breakfasted on coffee and pancakes while he watched the young girls swimming in the hotel's pool below and then he picked up the letter, which had been delivered to his hotel suite. European postmarks. He slit open the envelope and caught the two pieces of paper which fell out. Both were clippings from German newspapers.

  One covered the assassination of a respected Liechtenstein resident and businessman, in the quiet town of Vaduz.

  The report stated that Vaclav Kader, the Chairman of Schon International Shipping had been assassinated in a targeted attack. His wife and driver had also been killed. The assassins had escaped. It was assumed because of his alleged (and so far unproven) connections to the illegal arms trade that he had been killed by a rival who was trying to muscle in on this deadly and lucrative business. Police were continuing their enquiries.