by James Quinn
Spat… Spat; two more hit the stonework above his head.
The bugger's getting closer, he thought; I've got to move and fast! He'd spotted the near side of the bridge wall, which would provide better cover than the exposed position he was in. How far away though… twenty… thirty feet? Possible, even for an old duffer like him who was used to chairing meetings these days rather than running under fire.
Spat… Spat!
“Ahhh!” The second round ripped across his bicep. He felt the initial sting, then the slow burn of the metal churning up his flesh before he suffered excruciating pain. He clutched a hand over the wound, and blood oozed from between his fingers. It was a flesh wound, bad but bearable. Move man, or you are going to die here!
Just as he was about to launch himself once more into combat, two things happened almost simultaneously.
The first, was that he noticed a small, blond-haired man in a business suit and thick winter overcoat sprint at full speed across the bridge towards the opposite side. The man didn't look as if he was running away from the gunfire, far from it, in fact he looked as if he was running towards it. His legs were pounding like a man possessed, and his right hand seemed to be reaching beneath his heavy coat, either to hold something in place, or to draw it from his waist.
The second remarkable thing, in amongst the scene of chaos and bloodshed, was the hand that firmly grabbed him by the shoulder and was dragging him away from the imaginary security of the old bridge's stone viewing balcony. He looked up and saw the face of one of the prettiest girls he'd ever had the pleasure to see while he was being shot at. “Come on, Major, move!” she was yelling at him.
“What… who… get down girl, for heaven's sake, there's a sniper somewhere,” he babbled.
The young woman fixed him with a grim look and shouted directly into his face, “Cirius, get on your feet now and run!”
* * *
Gorilla had spotted where the sniper was firing from almost at once. While everyone else was running for cover, his eyes followed the line of sight, tracing the bullet's path from the dead Russian to… where? A window in the hotel opposite the bridge, it had to be. Then he'd seen the fluttering of a curtain through the open window and the shape of a long, thick rifle barrel as it was retracted.
He set off at a sprint, determined to bust his way into the hotel and find the room if he had to. He'd reached the corner of Dauphine Square when he saw the man with a small suitcase leaving the hotel in a hurry. Not a run by any means, but at a pace which suggested he would rather be somewhere else right at that moment. And yes, it had to be the same man from Marseilles; same build, same height and the face held the same characteristics of the wartime photo he'd seen in the man's file.
Gorilla watched as the man strode quickly through the square and away. Gorilla bought a newspaper from a vendor, threw whatever change he had in his pockets at him, and began to hurry after the assassin. The newspaper was there to cover the pistol and silencer, which he would have to use very soon. After all a shootout in the middle of Paris was not the way to handle this Redaction. No, track the man, isolate him and then finish him off.
He was always amused by the movies when the hero would shout 'Freeze' or 'Don't move' or 'Put your hands up', and he supposed if the hero was a policeman, that would have been the correct thing to do. But Gorilla wasn't a policeman, he was a Redactor and Redactors shot first, without warning. To warn your enemy was to give him an advantage, an advantage which could be terminal.
They'd reached the entrance to the embankment leading off from the Quai des Grands Augustins. Perfect, Gorilla thought. The sloping slip road led down to the river. It was still busy down there, but he would have more of an opportunity to quietly deal with this Marquez and perhaps even get rid of the body in the water.
He looked left and right; people were strolling, a few artists with easels were painting the view of the river. He ducked into a shop doorway and quickly removed the pistol and silencer from the leather holster on his right hip. With his back turned to the street, he rapidly screwed the two pieces together; after a cursory chamber-check he concealed the weapon beneath the newspaper. If anybody had taken the time to notice him, they would have seen a man holding a rolled up newspaper across his body at waist height. All Gorilla would have to do was walk up alongside the assassin, and put two rounds into the man's spine. A lowering of the newspaper to his side and two more shots into the head as the man hit the floor would bring the operation to a swift conclusion. He just had to get within a few feet of Marquez and it would be game over. He'd lost the bastard once in Marseilles, this time he was going to have his pound of flesh.
He made his way back onto the street, following, edging closer and closer through the crowds. In the distance, he could hear the wail of sirens; the police and ambulances on their way to the scene at the Pont Neuf. The Sunday crowds were both a help and a hindrance. They were good for cover, but also made it slow going as he fought his way through them.
Marquez turned onto the quiet side street, the Rue des Grands Augustin. Gorilla increased his pace to catch up with the target. The more time Marquez was out of eye contact, the more the risk of his escape increased. Gorilla reached the corner and paused. Counted one, two, and three. Then he casually sauntered around the corner away from the busy main street, his newspaper still held at his waist.
What he saw caused his step to falter and he quickly moved into the doorway of a restaurant, trying his best to stay in the shadows. He risked another glance and saw the man, Marquez, standing at the driver's door of a Citroën DS19.
The door was open as if he was about to drive off, but was hampered by the fact that he'd been stopped by a young police constable of La Surete Nationale. Gorilla thought the copper looked like he was fresh faced and just out of police training, but to his credit, he was taking control of the situation and detaining Marquez in a random 'stop and search'.
Gorilla guessed the call had gone out quickly about the shooting further up the riverbank – that and the fact that his swarthy complexion could easily have Marquez down as a possible OAS terrorist, which would definitely make him a person of interest to the police.
The Sûreté constable was asking Marquez questions and gesticulating towards the small suitcase he was carrying. Marquez shrugged and offered a response that Gorilla couldn't make out. Marquez seemed to acquiesce and then handed over the suitcase, but just as the constable took the weight of the case, the bigger man leaped forward and gripped him by the throat with his left hand. At the same time, his other fished into his coat pocket, and with a flash of steel, a glinting switchblade sprung into life.
The policeman desperately tried to reach for the gun at his hip, but the bigger man's stiletto was fast moving and in constant motion as it pumped in, again and again, at the younger man's throat. A woman walking on the opposite side of the road had turned and witnessed the attack. Her scream caused Marquez to break off his knifing and he let the policeman slump to the ground, all life gone out of him as the blood cascaded over his uniform.
Marquez threw the case into the car and was about to climb into the driver's seat when he caught sight of Gorilla moving out of the shadows. They saw each other as only two people who are of the same ilk can, with a clarity and recognition of the breed they are.
Gorilla swung the newspaper up, a fast moving blur, and centered it on the man framed against the car. Almost instantly, Marquez ducked into the car, leaving only his hand resting on the roof as he tried to move his tall frame inside. Gorilla took the shot; the end of the newspaper snapped once as the bullet sped out from the barrel and blew two fingers from Marquez's hand.
Even before Marquez screamed with pain, Gorilla knew his shot had hit home. It was his skill after all, for even though the majority of his Redactions took place in close quarters, Gorilla still prided himself on being an expert shot for long distance pistol work.
Gorilla started to move forward slowly, taking his time and carefully placing his sho
ts.
The bullets took out the passenger's side window and skimmed off the roof, and Gorilla cursed; going for the quick kill headshot had caused the bullets to bounce high. To his credit and despite the gunshot wound, Marquez was nimble enough to get the car moving, slowly at first and then faster as the engine reached a whining crescendo. The car lurched forward as its power increased, before speeding away, its door flapping open and closed until the car's momentum was strong enough to slam it shut.
Gorilla stood framed in the narrow street; the newspaper now abandoned and the '39 up and aimed as he carefully shot out the rear lights and splintered the back window… twenty-five feet… thirty feet… until the car careered away, swinging around the corner into the distant Rue Saint Andre des Arts.
Gorilla picked up the spent ammunition casings from the ground. He checked around. The few remaining witnesses were at the far end of the street and from this distance, wouldn't have a clear view of him. In the distance, the police sirens were getting closer.
The police would already be twitchy after the scene on the Pont Neuf and now with a secondary shooting less than half a mile away, the last thing he needed was for his description from two sets of witnesses to be relayed to the authorities. He knew he had to get out of the area and meet Nicole back at the emergency rendezvous. He turned and without looking back, quickly made his way back towards the river.
“I've seen you sunshine,” he whispered to himself. “I've seen you now and I never forget a face.”
* * *
Nicole had one hand stuffed into her handbag, clutching the Walther pistol, and one hand holding onto the upper bicep of her recently-acquired Agent Cirius, like a bodyguard moving a protected VIP out of danger.
They'd been hurrying along the Quai des Tuileries for a good ten minutes following the shooting when Barrington pulled her up. Nicole turned to him. The man looked ashen; partly through the injury and partly from shock.
“Wait… I need to rest,” he said, panting.
“No, we have to keep moving, we have to put some distance between us and what happened back there,” she said. They'd not long passed the entrance to the Louvre. There were crowds of people everywhere and each one of them could have been a threat. Who knew how many contractors these killers might have recruited? Nicole tightened her grip on the gun in her handbag. “A little further, then we can stop and talk.”
“But I need answers… and… I don't feel well,” said Barrington.
She put one arm under his and lifted him up. “Walk with me, put your arm around me and I'll hold you up. Pretend we're out for a stroll. Just a little further, until we can't hear the sirens or see the flashing lights anymore. Then we can stop.”
Barrington allowed himself to be lifted and nodded. “Alright… alright… I could quite get used to this,” he said, a flirtatious smile on his lips.
“Don't get too carried away, Major. If anyone tries to come at us, I want you to drop to the floor while I deal with them. You understand?”
“Young lady, you certainly have a way of killing a romantic moment.”
They carried on walking for a further ten minutes, until they turned off the main route and onto the Avenue Dutuit which led them on to beautifully manicured parkland. They made their way to the side of the Petit Palais past its ornate facade, until they found the rather more drab service entrance to the rear. She pulled him into an inlet that was accessed by five steps and led down to a solid metal door. It would hide them, she decided, while she had to do what she had to do.
“Take off your jacket and let me see how bad it is,” she ordered him.
Barrington carefully took off his casual jacket, wincing as he revealed the arm which had taken the shot. Nicole inspected it carefully. “It hasn't gone in, just a graze, a flesh wound. That Russian taking the shot probably saved your life. Do you have a handkerchief? A proper one, mind you, not that paper rubbish they use these days.”
Barrington nodded and removed the handkerchief from his pocket. Nicole took it from him, ripped it down the center until it had two prongs and then carefully tied it around the open wound. “Now put your jacket back on. It's not perfect, but it will have to do for now.”
“Who are you people? You and the other fellow?” asked Barrington, his senses and suspicion coming back to him.
“We've been sent here to watch over you Cirius. Porter sent us,” she said simply.
“The Russian said I was in danger…”
Nicole nodded. “The Russian was right. There's been a big operation in play for the past few months. Someone's been trying to eliminate the network. We've been trying to stop them.”
“You mean you and the chap you were with?”
She nodded. A moment of pride lit her up inside. Yes, she and her partner from the Redaction Unit, Gorilla; a team. Saving lives and stopping extremists. Wasn't that the truth of it all?
“How many of the agents have been killed. Where do I come on the list?” he asked. He'd slipped his jacket back on and some of the color had returned to his cheeks. Although the events of the last thirty minutes still seemed surreal, his mind was now returning to its usual sharp self.
“You don't need to know. It wouldn't do you any good, even if you did. All that should concern you right here, right now, is that you're still in play. Your cover is intact. As of this moment, as far as the Russians are concerned, you're still Major Edward Barrington, KGB spy inside NATO.”
He was silent for a moment as he digested this information. “What should I do?”
She looked him square in the eye. “Play it for real. Get in touch with the Russians.”
“What! How? My contact's just had his bloody head blown off!” He looked down at the smudges of dried blood which splattered his shirt. He brushed an involuntary hand over them, as if to shoo them away.
Nicole stood her full height and looked directly at him. She was the agent-runner now and the only thing that would bring this spy back to order was to speak to him with authority and confidence. She just hoped that Cirius fell for it. “There must be an emergency contact procedure, there always is. They'll want to talk to you sooner, rather than later, to find out what happened on the bridge. The best advice is to make contact with them first, tell them what happened and get your shot in, if you'll excuse the pun.”
A smile came to Barrington's face. The good advice and humor had brought him back to reality. “Yes, yes of course. It's the logical thing to do,” he said.
“Who knows, this might help strengthen your cover story with the Russians even more. Compose yourself, Cirius, and do what you've been told. We'll be in touch.”
“When?”
“Soon. Don't worry, it will all work out.” She glanced over her shoulder to make sure there were no witnesses and the coast was clear.
“How can I thank you?” It was all he could think of to say. A cliché, perhaps, but it was the best he could do.
She stared at him for a few moments, as if deciding what the best response would be; something witty or something blasé? In the end she opted for plain honesty. “By staying alive, Cirius. There's too much blood being shed to fail at this late stage of the game.”
She looked at him a moment longer, then turned and climbed the steps.
* * *
Gorilla returned to their hotel at a little after eleven o clock that night. He'd been on the run for the past ten hours and a day of stress and exhaustion from running counter-surveillance drills had taken its toll on him. He just hoped Nicole had gotten away safely with Cirius.
He turned the key in the door and stepped into the hotel room. It was dark; the only ambient light came from the street lights outside. He heard the door click gently behind him and for the first time all day, he felt secure.
On the bed was a shape; Nicole, laying in repose. She was still wearing her clothes, coat and shoes. Her hands rested gently on her chest.
“You awake?” he whispered, as he lowered his body onto the bed next to her. A chasm of s
everal inches lay between them, separating their bodies.
“Barely,” he heard her reply.
Christ, she sounded as exhausted as he felt. He grunted in understanding. “Did Cirius get away?”
“He got away. I gave him his marching orders and set him off. He'll be fine,” she said.
“And you? You get away alright?”
She had spent the afternoon covering her back; running counter-surveillance tactics, stopping for drinks, shopping, getting in and out of buses, taxis and trains.
Hours later and satisfied she hadn't been spotted or was being watched, she decided to risk it and make her way back to their hotel. She suspected Gorilla had been doing much the same for the majority of the day. “I wasn't followed, if that's what you mean. Did you get the dead-eye?”
He smiled to himself in the darkness. He liked the way she'd begun to pick up the patois of the Redaction team. “No… he escaped. I only wounded him.”
He heard her groan. It was the sound of someone who had expected a better result from a superior officer and realizes that the work isn't finished just yet. “If it's any consolation, he won't be playing the violin anytime soon. Not with only a thumb and two fingers on one hand,” he said.
She let the silence embrace them both while she pondered Gorilla's informal assessment of the day's action. Eventually, she turned her head and looked at him, the profile of his face stark against the exterior light of the window. “What will he do now?” she asked.
“He'll run and he'll run quickly. He'd be crazy to stay around. He's had his shot at Cirius and missed. He got the Russian, so he'll count that as a positive. His next stop will be Italy. It makes the most sense tactically, geographically and practically. He's got one final target to go for and he'll want to make his move soon.”
“And what about us?”
He grunted. “We have to move too. We take the car and drive. It's probably safer that way. I'll contact Pimlico tomorrow and tell them what we need. Our dead-eye is wounded and under pressure to finish his contract. That could go in our favour; wounded and stressed equals mistakes. And we're going to be there to catch him when he drops the ball. But now, right now, we need to sleep.”
