by James Quinn
By the end of September of 1963, they had a workable plan complete with an accurate target list, surveillance logs and a timeline for the operation to start. However, there had been a bigger concern as summer gave way to fall. There had been a blip in the running of the operation, just as everything had about to be launched.
The assassination of President John Fitzgerald Kennedy in Dallas in November of 1963 had shut everything down. Security was tight within the various branches of government, not least within the Agency, where there was a witch hunt going on.
“We need to close this down,” Higgins had said. “Hoover and his boys are seeing reds under the beds everywhere at the minute. They're paranoid!”
“I agree,” said Ferrera. “There's too much heat at the moment. We have everything in place, so the hard part is done. Besides, we don't want to get caught up in the assassination investigation. The worst case is that the FBI blunders into the fringes of our op, and the whole thing is blown sky high.”
So they packed up the operation until the FBI hunters and Secret Service had begun to wind down their respective investigations. It was a long and painfully frustrating time for Ferrera, but as the operation's controller, he knew the wisdom of calling a temporary halt to proceedings.
But as a father out for vengeance, it was akin to going through the whole grieving process again. Had the targets moved? Would Svarog go further underground? Would the whole thing still be workable when it was finally launched? Would it lose momentum and if so, what could he do to get it back on track?
He had no definite answer to any of these imponderables, so he did the only thing he could; he stayed in Vermont and walked and read and hunted and planned. And when he'd finished planning, he planned some more in detail. He existed only in limbo, caught between the fine line of action and failure. Finally, the hiatus was at an end and he threw himself back into the heart of the operation, taking personal control of the next, crucial level.
They would, of course, need suitably qualified contractors to carry out their mission. Higgins had made time to rifle through the agent files of known 'contractors' who were capable of carrying out the job. Not that they would have an exhaustive list of contract killers, in fact the reverse was true, the list was anything but grand, it was downright miniscule. Following Kennedy's murder, the CIA had gone into freefall and ousted many of their contract personnel to avoid any kind of scandal. This meant that a number of agents with some very deniable skills were tossed out onto the garbage heap, which for a likely recruiter, would make it a buyer's market.
As part of the false flag ruse, they both felt it would be wise to choose agents who had been cut loose from the Agency and were no longer classed as 'active agents'. This would remove the risk of direct conflict of interests with current personnel, and reduce the risk of the agent betraying them to the CIA.
Instead, Higgins searched for contractors who had been de-activated, but who were still in the market to take on a freelance job if the conditions were favorable. Eventually, they short-listed three likely candidates.
The first was a retired US Special Forces Colonel who had liaised with the CIA during the 1950's, and had carried out several long-range sniper killings.
His credentials were impeccable. But after much thought, they ruled the man out. He was still an American citizen and therefore probably still had a lot of contacts within the military and intelligence services. They couldn't trust that he wouldn't betray the operation, especially one that was a false flag. The man might have seen it as being part of a traitorous operation against his own government. Besides, their contractor needed to be a bit more flexible in his approach to killing the targets they had acquired. Not everything could be solved with a rifle from half a mile away.
The second was a Ukrainian national who was living in Frankfurt. He'd completed several contract killings for the Ukrainian nationalist groups against informers and double agents, and had, in fact, been a very good operator by all accounts, even though he had only operated in Germany. Was he good enough to hit numerous targets across Europe, some of them high profile? He may be good at eliminating static ethnic groups, but Ferrera doubted he would be comfortable working this type of operation.
The third man was a former drug smuggler and international criminal who had been recruited into the CIA's Executive Action program to carry out, or be part of, several high profile assassinations the Agency had been involved in. Lumumba and Trujillo, to name but two.
“He seems perfect. I vaguely remember hearing about that operation. Not the details, of course, just that the Executive Action department had several very good men at their disposal,” said Ferrera.
Higgins nodded agreement. “He certainly has the right temperament and qualifications. You'll need a cut-out man, someone to act as an initial go-between.”
Ferrera shook his head. “No. There's no need. I can handle simple agent recruitments.”
“No, you're wrong Chuck. Think about it. We have to make it look like a legitimate CIA operation and that means following agent recruitment protocols to the letter. These people will know how the Agency acts. If they see something out of the ordinary, they'll smell a rat.”
Ferrera thought about it. Higgins was right, of course. Besides, a cut-out man would have other uses too, such as arranging security, safe-houses and the like. “Okay, who did you have in mind?”
Higgins pulled out a copied file. “This man. He's Hungarian, an intelligence peddler, but everyone uses him for small jobs. He's based out of Vienna. We use him, then we dispose of him.”
* * *
Did they class themselves as traitors?
Higgins had mulled it over time and time again, and still his conclusions weren't as straightforward as he would have liked. He surmised that they weren't, in the classic sense of the word. They weren't actively betraying their country by selling secrets, or by trying to subvert the United States government. But still it didn't sit comfortably with either man, he was sure.
He understood Ferrera's motive, certainly. The former intelligence officer wanted nothing more than good old-fashioned revenge for what was the brutal gunning down of his only son. That motive was as old as time.
But his own was a little vaguer. Of course he also wanted revenge for the murder of one of his officers, even more so, because Daniel Ferrera had been his nephew, his sister's flesh and blood. He had known him since his first day, seen him grow and had been one of the people responsible for bringing him into the Agency.
But more than that, he wanted the chance, probably the final chance in his career, to inflict a grievous wound on his enemies. Turning, arresting or monitoring a Soviet espionage network was all very well, but at this late stage of the game, he wanted to make a stand and wound them deeply. He'd drawn a line in the sand and he was damned if he was going to cross it for the sake of job security.
And if it should all cave in, the operation blown and the Agency hunters on his tail? Well, it wouldn't take long for the investigation team to work out who had assisted Chuck Ferrera in his rogue operation. Chuck would hold out as long as he could, he knew that, but these days, the Agency had access to some very clever people and technical support, namely interrogation drugs, which could open up the mind of even the most resolute of prisoners.
He guessed – no, he knew, that his days at the Agency were numbered anyway. The old guard were out and the new intake, under the new broom of a DCI, were quickly being fast-tracked to senior positions.
And Ferrera? Even at this late stage of the operation, the ordering of the execution of these men didn't sit easy with his conscience. The thought of ordering the killing of men half a world away, like some kind of Roman Emperor, in normal times, would have been abhorrent to him. It went against every moral code he'd been exposed to; first in his Catholic upbringing, and then as a professional intelligence officer.
He wasn't a psychopath, he wasn't a monster, but he recognized he'd made a vow to the memory of his son, and honor had t
o be restored. So it came as no surprise that during one of their final planning meetings, that Higgins confronted him.
“Chuck, the question, after all these months of reflection and working through your grief, is whether or not you wish to take this further. There's no shame in stopping it dead right here and now. But this is the absolute last chance to abort. If we go on from here, we have to go all the way,” he said.
Ferrera had pondered much the same thing over recent days in the lead up to the final planning stages. He looked back at Higgins. Greyness had invaded his pallor, he looked unwell. By contrast, Ferrera felt more and more invigorated and looked the picture of health. Something had happened in their relationship over the past few months. Their roles had reversed; whereas Higgins was once the leader, now Ferrera, with his single mindedness, had assumed the figure of authority and command.
Ferrera placed a hand on Higgins' shoulder and smiled. “We go all the way, Richard, all the way until they are all dead.”
Chapter Seven
Three months into the start of their unofficial operation, Charles Ferrera started to get 'the episodes', as he called them.
In truth, the headaches had been there for weeks, in the background and distant. But just recently, they had been growing stronger, blinding almost, so much so that at times he would take himself off to his room, close the curtains during the day and suffer through the intense pain.
At first he thought it was just a buildup of stress from the past year, or possibly a consequence of drying out from the booze. But as the weeks passed, he soon began to realize that this was no 'cold turkey' affliction and he would frequently throw up during these attacks. There was nausea, sickness, and the ever-returning headaches.
All the good work he'd done to attain physical fitness in Vermont was slowly being undone. In the end, he could bear it no longer and made an appointment to see a private physician in New York. The doctors had looked at his medical history, ran the standard tests, and submitted him to a thorough examination and biopsy. Then he was told to return in two weeks' time, when the results would be available.
He knew what it was before he boarded the flight back to New York, fourteen days later. What else could it have been? He'd sat in the doctor's office in Manhattan and listened; a brain tumor, inoperable. “I'm sorry Mr. Ferrera,” said the specialist.
Ferrera brushed the platitudes aside. “How long do I have?”
“Less than a year certainly, but the treatment we have can make it comfortable for you, so maybe a little longer.”
Damn. He'd planned on at least a good year to complete the operation, now he would be lucky to see Svarog's head on a spike. The thought of death didn't frighten him at all, but the thought of not completing his unfinished business terrified him to the core. He would have to move the operation along to hit a new deadline.
The doctor spoke of medication, treatment, hospices. Ferrera ignored all the man's advice. He knew what he had to do and how he was going to live out the rest of his life, and it wouldn't be bedridden and pumped full of drugs. He instantly decided on two courses of action. Firstly, he would not tell Higgins about what he'd just learned and secondly, he was even more determined to push ahead with this revenge operation.
Chuck Ferrera was a tough man and he would, through sheer force of will, stay alive long enough to see his son's killer and his agents dead in the gutter. Besides, he thought, a walking dead man has nothing to lose and that made him a very dangerous adversary.
The specialist made an appointment for him for the following week, to begin his treatment.
He never went back.
* * *
A week later, the man who boarded the morning flight from Washington to London had up until that morning, not officially existed. The name on his passport was Maurice Knight. He was in his early 60's, wore an expensive business suit and appeared to be a senior executive from one of the large corporations that were so vibrant in the States right now.
He was flying direct to London and then taking a connecting flight to Paris. A brief stopover in Paris overnight, before he flew to Vienna the next day. He looked relaxed and in control of his own destiny.
As the airliner made its way skyward across the Atlantic, Mr. Knight sat back in his business class seat, removed his leather wallet from his inside jacket pocket and took out a small, black and white photograph. It was the only concession to his old life.
The picture gave him focus and resolve. It was his compass which kept him going true north. The picture was that of a young boy sitting on a beach somewhere, perhaps on a family vacation. The boy looked to be around ten years old and was holding a catcher's mitt that was way too big for him.
Chapter Eight
Mexico City – May 1965
It was the phone ringing again that shook him from his reverie. He was once again back in his hotel suite in Mexico City with the heat, the sweat and the noise from the air conditioning. The memories of the past few months had quickly evaporated.
He knew it wasn't Marquez again so soon. The man knew not to break protocol, unless he had something to report. The only other person who had his number and who had been in touch constantly over the last few days, was Higgins. He picked up the handset, knowing who it was before he'd even heard the voice.
“It's me,” said Higgins, down the notoriously bad Mexican telephone line.
“Has it exploded in our face?” asked Ferrera. He could feel the start of a headache, a dull, throbbing pain behind his eye.
“That's the understatement of the year. I can't talk long. There's a good chance they're monitoring my calls. I'm on a payphone.”
“I understand. What have you heard?”
Higgins took a breath. “The Agency knows something. In fact, they know more than they're letting on. I've been hauled in by the goons from the Office of Security to answer questions about you, Dan, the shooting in Poland. I don't think it's quite at full-scale internal investigation level yet, but it soon will be.”
“Perhaps they're just fishing, perhaps in truth they have nothing concrete yet?” suggested Ferrera.
“Chuck, they know it was you, they must do. My guess is that they're on their way to you as we speak. I figure you haven't got long before the local FBI man bursts in with some Mexican Federales and shackles you in chains.”
“I'm going nowhere. I'm not running and I'm not hiding. I'm making my last stand here,” said Ferrera.
“But—”
“But nothing. We achieved what we set out to do. We got Dan's murderer and fought the Cold War on our own terms. Mission accomplished. It's time for you to look after yourself, Richard.”
“What will you do?”
“It's better that you don't know. Just look after yourself, deny everything and if they do get too close blame everything on me. Say I duped you into it. Hopefully, that will stop you from receiving any jail time,” said Ferrera calmly.
Higgins held the handset close to his ear, thinking, weighing up the truth of the situation. “I understand, Chuck. Just go easy.”
Ferrera gently replaced the handset. There was no time for sentiment or thanks. That had all been said the last time they'd met.
He would never be taken alive, he knew that. Not only for Higgins' sake, but also for the fact that it was time to leave this world. As the puppet-master of the ultimate game, he had played superbly. He had controlled his pawns, pieces and minions across the globe, tactically moving each into the optimum position to benefit his own ends.
Would he go to hell for his misdemeanors and underhanded practices; the manipulation of the weak and the shedding of blood – all in the name of revenge? He didn't truly know, but he did know he wouldn't have to wait long. He could already hear the screaming whine of the police vehicles in the distance. They could be for another incident nearby, but he doubted it.
He stood and looked out from his balcony. The street below was teeming with the flotsam and jetsam of the city. Everything appeared normal. But were th
ey already here; the Agency watchers and the Bureau, with their surveillance vans, observation points and radios? And what was their final endgame; to take him alive, or eliminate him quietly? No, he was sure they would want to question him first, to find out as much as they could about his rogue operation. Only then would he be dropped down a deep hole, never to be seen again.
He knew how he would do it if the roles were reversed. A room service waiter to gain them access, then a four-man snatch team to storm the room and subdue him. He would then be drugged and extracted in a laundry trolley and whisked away to US territory.
Ferrera picked up the .38, thumbed back the hammer. Was this the way?
He had come this far and been ruthless; to kill himself seemed almost admitting defeat. He would never be taken, he knew that, but if he was going to leave the game, then he was certain he was going to take his hunters with him. He threw away the .38 and dressed quickly in his best suit.
Satisfied, he placed a number of items of importance in his inside jacket pocket. These would go with him, wherever he ended up after this adventure. The suitcase, the suitcase was next.
Ferrera lifted it up onto the bed. Inside the case, under a false panel, was what he termed his doomsday equipment. As well as the .38, it had contained several 'cakes' of plastic explosive, wires, detonators and electronic triggers. He had already 'primed' the room with enough plastic explosive to lift the floor off the building. It was sealed around the door and window frames and hidden behind the paintings and mirrors on the walls. It had been his first job, when he'd registered in the hotel suite.
Now it was the electronic trigger switch he removed from the suitcase. He flicked the switch and activated it, hearing a faint hum emanating from it. All that was left to do, was press the button when he was ready. He returned once again to the balcony, enjoying the sights of the city at night. He knew what he was looking for. The dark sedan that suddenly emits several men; men with purpose and uniformity and flanked by a small contingent of the Mexican police, resplendent in their fawn uniforms and their shiny side arm's tucked carelessly into worn leather holsters on the hip.
