A Game for Assassins (The Redaction Chronicles Book 1)

by James Quinn

  Gioradze just hoped they didn't end up going to war with the Guerini Clan because this stupid German ended up insulting them over an imagined slight. War – no, it wouldn't come to that, he knew. Marquez would take the German for a boat ride and only the Catalan killer would end up returning. They walked quickly, heading down to the harbor, Nadel walking at a pace to work his frustration out of his system, Gioradze to catch up with him.

  “So what is it then, Alfred?” asked Gioradze.

  “What?”

  “You fucking know what. You're acting like we owe you a fucking living, complaining, moaning about the slightest thing. Is this how it was in the SS? No wonder you fuckers lost.”

  “Fuck you, Magyar pig!”

  The Georgian grabbed the bigger man by the arm and dragged him back to a halt. He raised his sunglasses and placed them on top of his head, all the better to look the big German directly in the eyes. “You know, for a broken down old man without a pot to piss in, you're acting like some kind of prima donna here.”

  “I was a respected soldier; I fought against terrorists, I was an intelligence officer in the SD, I—”

  “Oh please, that's ancient history, a long time ago, Alfred. This is our contract and you work for us. It's as simple as that, and the sooner you wake up to that fact, the better. We say jump on this contract and you say how high!”

  The German was fuming, but as if to show that he wasn't frightened of the bigger, older man, the Georgian craned his neck up to meet the other man's face, until they were almost nose-to-nose. “Listen, Alfred, you're a fucking beggar in this game, understand? If you don't like it, you can piss off back to hide under that rock where I found you… understand!”

  The German knew there was no going back in this game. You weren't allowed to walk away from a job of this magnitude halfway through; you completed the full terms, or you ended up dead. The only question was, who was going to eliminate you – the people you were working against, or the people you were working with.

  “Look. I think we both need to calm down,” Gioradze said. “This is a good number for you and Marquez is a good operator. The word I have, is that if we do this right, there's more work on the way. And let's face it, none of us are getting any younger. It would make a nice little retirement plan, eh?” Gioradze watched the German's face carefully. His placating seemed to be doing the trick, and he watched as Nadel calmed himself down, rationalizing it out in his own head.

  “Okay, okay… maybe if you included me in the planning more.”

  Gioradze threw up his hands in exasperation and smiled. “Of course, Alfred, of course. We'll include you all you like. Just as long as you remember that we pay the bills and our word is final. Now have your walk, maybe grab a pastis, then straighten your head out and get your ass back to the Azure. We have a fucking job to plan out.” The Georgian started to walk away, but only took a couple of steps before he stopped and turned. “Oh, and Alfred? This is your last chance. You understand me?”

  Nadel watched Gioradze as he walked away, disappearing into the maze of streets. The threat was clear. He noticed his hands were shaking imperceptibly, and he was sure that a drink at his favorite cafe along the shoreline would settle him.

  * * *

  They had been in Marseilles for less than a week.

  Following the lead that had been 'coerced' from the forger in Belgium and given to Toby and his team back in London, Grant and Nicole had settled back into an operational hibernation in Paris. They were good days; Nicole had the opportunity to enjoy the city she'd fallen in love with as a teenager when she visited with her father, whilst Grant had packed them each an overnight bag, just in case, and taken to pacing the floor to an irritating degree.

  Several days later the call came from London which once again spurred them into action. “It's Marseilles,” declared Toby, down the telephone. “The names of Vincent Joosen and Donal Rattigan were flagged as having both travelled separately to Marseille Provence Airport, that's the main airport which services the Old Port. Both were on connecting flights from Orly.”

  “So we can assume they originated from Paris?” said Grant.

  “Well, one did, certainly, but the Joosen name shows up as travelling in from Germany a day earlier. From there he flew Orly to Marseilles. After that, we assume he took a taxi to his final destination, but what that final destination actually is we don't know. Nothing has shown up yet.”

  “And that's all we've got to go on?” asked Grant.

  “For the moment I'm afraid, yes. Counter-intelligence is not an exact science, we deal with the obtuse,” said Toby, defending his chosen trade stoically.

  “You can say that again, sunshine.” Grant, for all his careful planning still preferred the simple and direct approach; it had kept him alive for many years. He knew that it was only when things began to get complicated or abstract that problems started to occur for the operatives in the intelligence world.

  “My advice is to get yourselves down to Marseilles double quick, at least that way, you're on the ground should something crop up. We'll keep going through the latest travel information that comes in. As soon as we know, you'll know,” Toby announced.

  They moved quickly and had immediately taken the first train from Gare du Nord, Paris to Gare Saint-Charles in Marseilles. The journey was a combined blur of exotic seascapes and arid, dry fields peppered with the occasional rundown farm buildings. The conversation was kept light and away from business.

  “So his name's Lenin? Why did he name himself after Lenin? What is he, a communist?” asked Grant, only half serious.

  “No,” said Nicole, rolling her eyes at him in exasperation. “Not Lenin. Lenn-on!”

  “Oh…”

  “He's the lead singer. He plays the guitar.”

  Grant shook his head in wonderment. “And the others are Paul, George and… wait, let me get this right… Ringo! Honestly… Ringo?”

  “What's wrong with Ringo?”

  “If you have to ask… And these lads are a musical group called The Beatle Band, is that right?”

  “No, Jack, The Beatles, they're just called The Beatles. Where have you been for the past eighteen months? Living in a cave?”

  In truth, Grant had little time for 'modern' music, and only limited interest in music of any kind. He had been born at the tail end of the depression era and had experienced destitution, poverty and squalor. There was little time for the luxury of entertainment, no matter how much it was needed. His formative adult years had been built around surviving the austerity and hardship of the post-war era, where once again, circumstances had dictated that his attentions be geared more to survival than relaxation.

  Now movies, that was a different matter. He loved movies. He could revel for hours in the wonders of Chaplin, John Ford, De Mille and Welles.

  And so the conversations had gone between them on the train with both trying to keep the topics light and carefree, both pushing to the back of their minds – even just for a few hours – the potential threat and danger that awaited them.

  They had arrived in Marseille that very same evening. An apartment had been hastily arranged for them on a month-by-month contract through an SIS 'front company', which specialized in such matters. They settled into a three bedroom, first floor apartment in a quiet block in the 6th Arrondissement on the edge of the city. The Marseilles apartment was better than the squalid Paris base, but not by much. SIS seemed to have the monopoly on picking rundown accommodation for their undercover officers, thought Nicole. It had that dilapidated look that her Dad would have said belonged to a retired, aging pimp; run-down, dry, and smelling of desperation.

  They had a bedroom each with the third being used as their ad hoc operations room, and while it wasn't as cosmopolitan as their initial base in Paris, it did have the added advantage of having its own telephone line, which was vital in case they had to react quickly to a lead from London. They lived frugally and ventured out only when necessary, once again playing the cove
r role of newlyweds, so the rarity of leaving the apartment fitted their story well.

  After securing the apartment and setting up their base and equipment, they had nothing to do but wait for the Burrowers back in London to give them a tip-off; something, anything that could point them in the right direction and spur them into action. So they waited.

  By day five, the London team realized they were searching for a needle in a haystack and settled in for the long haul, both mentally and physically. The Burrowers had alerted their contacts with the police and intelligence informants in France, but so far, cast-iron information was proving to be scarce. The killers weren't registered in any of the main hotels, nothing appeared for car hires or flights out of the country – at least, not yet – and there was always the possibility that they'd taken a train to another destination. So the search continued, relentlessly.

  By day six, Grant was bouncing off the walls, and he could see that the confinement was taking its toll on Nicole, also. He made an executive decision, more for his own sanity rather than for operational reasons. “Okay, we need to scout the area, get our bearings,” Grant had said. “If they're here, we'll find them.”

  “True,” agreed Nicole, toweling her hair dry after another shower – anything to kill the time. “And we're not going to find them sitting around here. Besides, I've never been to Marseilles and I'd like to see a bit more than these four walls and the view of the street outside.”

  Grant nodded. “Alright, some ground rules. We have to be careful not to draw attention to ourselves, the local police are riddled with informers for the Corsican gangs and we don't want to step on the toes of the local underworld. We'll see what comes back from London's police contacts before we start getting in too deep.”

  They dressed well, as honeymooners would. Nicole in a stylish cream shift dress with a short red jacket, her hair tied back in a carefree manner. Grant wore a lightweight summer suit and a light blue shirt, open at the neck. Nicole had picked it out for him.

  “There,” she pronounced inspecting them both in the wardrobe mirror. “We look fabulous enough for you to take me to lunch.”

  “We are meant to be at work, you know,” he grumbled, but didn't sound as if he meant it.

  She smiled, sensing she'd scored a victory point in their pretend marriage. Teasing Grant was no challenge, she decided. He was such easy fodder.

  His one operational insistence, however, was the carrying of their weapons. His was secured in the leather inside-the-waistband holster that sat on his right hip. Nicole compromised and placed her weapon at the bottom of her handbag. She hated the thing.

  They had strolled into town and enjoyed the warm and relaxing atmosphere of the Mediterranean sun. If it hadn't been for the fact that they were holding hands or linking arms, the casual observer could have been forgiven for thinking that Nicole was the plaything of a rich businessman and the smaller man at her side was her hired thug of a bodyguard. The crueler observers might have made the assumption that he was, in fact, the young lady's 'bit of rough'.

  They found a small cafe on the outskirts of town and dined on pan fried duck and vegetables, complimenting it with a good, robust red wine. After lunch, they decided to take a stroll down to the busy Old Port.

  “Time to switch back on,” said Grant. “Keep your eyes peeled and see if you can spot our two mugs. Holiday time is over.”

  Her eyes were constantly moving as they walked, flicking from one face to another, registering and then dismissing them.

  A few possible suspects; men with suntanned skins, jet black hair swept back, a certain walk or swagger, found Nicole digging deep into her memory of that night in the Dominican Republic for the faces of two killers she'd seen for only a matter of minutes. The streets, cafes, cars and pedestrians swept by as they walked the streets of Marseille, but so far, nothing.

  The next day, they repeated the process with the exception of choosing a different family-run restaurant on the opposite side of town. They were due to meet with the local SIS officer at the consulate on the Avenue Prado at two o'clock.

  “It's a shame we have to go back to work,” Nicole said, enjoying the sun on her bare back. “I could quite get used to this.”

  Grant considered her comment for a moment. Really, his meeting with the local station officer was a formality, just a courtesy call to let the Head of Station know they were in town. “I'll go, there's no need for us both to be there, and it's only a welcome-to-town chat. Enjoy the afternoon and I'll meet you back at the apartment around three. If there's a problem, phone the apartment directly and I'll come and get you.”

  So Nicole had wandered, quite often catching the eye of swarthy, handsome men, bathing in the multitude of accents and dialects and living the life, at least in her eyes, of a spy in a foreign city.

  Chapter Three

  There are times in almost every intelligence operation, where fate intervenes and hands the agents on the ground a great big bouquet of good, old-fashioned luck. There's no rhyme or reason as to when it arrives, just that on the occasions when everything seems at its gloomiest, and with all hope lost, the patron saint of spies seems to hand out the clue, the picture, the source or the information that everyone is waiting for.

  In the case of Operation MACE, it was given to Nicole Quayle, fledgling field agent. She had the good fortune to stop and browse at a small boutique, which advertised the season's latest designer fashion wear. The breeze had strengthened along the coast, making the air cooler and the walk along the storefronts selling dresses, make up and fashionable jewelry had given her a sense of reality again. This is what she would be doing back home in London; how fabulous that she was able to do it here as part of her job.

  Her eyes stopped, moved away, before once again returning to two men, one middle aged, the other a few years younger –no more than twenty feet away across the square. The older, big and powerful, the younger, smaller and hard-looking. Arguing by all accounts, she thought, as she watched the gesticulation of fingers increasing at a rapid pace. Then the smaller, younger man ripped off his sunglasses and thrust his head forward so that he was virtually touching the other man's nose.

  It couldn't be, could it? Then there it was, the confirmation she'd been scanning for; the scar. If she'd suspected it was a trick of the light before, that slash confirmed it. In that moment, she was whisked back in her mind's eye to a drinking hole in the Caribbean and the image of the two mercenaries talking with the American spy.

  She realized that she was standing, stock still, staring at them with her mouth open. You'll look like you're mad, she thought, and quickly turned away, putting her sunglasses on and checking that she hadn't been spotted by the two men. She moved along the boutiques, casually glancing and all the time keeping the image of the two men's reflections in the windows of the stores. What to do? Okay, keep calm, she thought. Remember your training, Agent Quayle!

  First thing, had she been 'made', as the American police shows called it. No, seemingly all clear. Next, could she confirm his ID? She could certainly get a bit nearer, but judging from the distance they had been from each other, taking into account the build of the man, and the scar – yes – she was ninety-nine percent certain that he was one of the men.

  Finally, don't lose them… Oh bloody hell! She turned in time to see the shorter man, her man, walking off into the warren-like streets of Marseilles. She would never catch up with him at that speed.

  Grant is going to kill me, she thought. He never truly wanted me on this operation, he voiced it loudly enough, and now I've only gone and given him the ammunition he needs to have me returned to London. Damn, damn, bloody damn!

  But all was not lost and in those few moments of clarity, she saw a way back. It wasn't perfect, but it was a start, and while she didn't have the location of her man, she did have the next best thing. She had a wonderful 'live' target in her sights, a target who she could follow and watch and who would hopefully lead her to the two killers they had travelled so v
ery far to find.

  * * *

  It was just after three and she decided to risk that Grant had returned to the apartment. She pumped the jeton into the machine and as soon as the receiver was picked up on the other end, she blurted out; “Jack, I've seen them!”

  “Who?”

  “Our men. Well, at least one of them. The smaller of the two. Short hair, scar on his face. He was talking to an older, larger man down by the harbor.”

  “You're sure?” Grant questioned.

  “I'm certain. No, no, I'm positive.”

  Grant nodded to himself. Whilst he was eager to get into the game, he wanted to be sure they weren't jumping at shadows. He'd been back an hour from the meeting with the local SIS officer when the telephone in their apartment rang. The meeting had been a non-starter, a total waste of time with a Nothing Recorded Against and no news as of yet. The killers hadn't checked into anywhere 'legitimate'. In truth, they could have left Marseilles as soon as they'd arrived.

  Grant refocused on Nicole. “Talk me through it. What did you see?”

  Nicole took a breath, calmed herself and concentrated on the memory. This was the main reason she had been brought into this operation; to ID the two killers. Now that she had achieved that, she wanted to be sure she had every detail correct. “Two men down by the harbor; one tall and well built, one shorter and tough looking. It was only when the shorter man removed his sunglasses that I spotted the scar on his face. It was him; I'd stake my life on it.”

  “Let's hope you don't have to. What happened next?”

  She thought some more, trying to keep the excitement out of her voice and the conversation as brief as possible. “They seemed to be arguing, it was getting quite heated at one point, and then the shorter man turned and walked away. He was gone in seconds; I'd never have caught him.”

  “What about the other man, the taller of the two, was that the other man you saw in the Caribbean?” he asked, hoping that both of his targets were here.