A Game for Assassins (The Redaction Chronicles Book 1)

by James Quinn

  “Sophia you are one of us, we know how you assisted our agents during the war. We're on the same side and we always have been. Think of it as stopping the madness, bringing about a better future for both of our peoples. Together we can lift the veil and let the people see that the Communists are lying to the people,” said Porter.

  Oh, she had wanted to do that and more, she had said as a rebuke. But above all else, she wanted some kind of revenge for Tom. She knew the Englishman was manipulating her emotions regarding the circumstances surrounding Tom's death, of course he was. But in truth, she didn't care, she was happy to be used if it meant that some kind of justice was handed out for the murder of her husband. If it would stop another 'revolutionary' picking up a gun and killing another good and innocent man, then she would spy on the devil himself.

  She rationalized it, by convincing herself she was using the intelligence services, just as much as they were using her. Porter convinced her that she was perfect for her future role as a double agent. She had a good pedigree; English mother, aristocratic Italian father. She had fought against the Germans during the war, had been a member of the Socialist party, had assisted the agents dropped behind the lines and post-war, rather than living a feckless life living off her father's money, she'd devoted herself to public life and become a respected member of the Italian Parliament.

  Her initial 'pitch' to the resident KGB man in New York had been a nerve-wracking experience. She'd offered the cover story that she had long been a secret Communist, had recognized the weakness and folly of the capitalist system and was now, at this point in her life, determined to make a difference to the people of the world. She believed, she said, that the most effective way to do that was through a Communist system.

  The KGB man had noted down her comments and promised he would be in touch. When he'd gone, she'd stood shaking in the middle of her hotel room, sweat running down the small of her back. She was a fraud, a liar; she would fail and be exposed as a sham. She knew it, the KGB man knew it, and then the whole world would know it.

  A week later, she had her first agent-to-agent contact with her KGB recruiter and controller, the fearsome Krivitsky. She thrived and had taken to her new role with a relish, and so at the age of forty-seven, Sophia Argento had dipped her toes into the festering pond of double agent intelligence work.

  The star of LYRA had risen and shone.

  Chapter Two

  Sophia Argento's apartment was on the fourth floor, a three-bedroom exclusive domicile on the fashionable Via Margutta, an area that was the preserve of the wealthy and the famous.

  In recent years, she had seen Sophia Loren and the film director Fellini in the neighborhood. It was her private sanctuary when she was in Rome and the one place where she could relax. Her regular annual vacation back to Rome also gave her the chance to indulge in the secret part of her life that her family and friends had no idea about. She had met with her KGB contact at Piazza San Pietro, pretending she was just another tourist visiting the Vatican.

  However, this time her contact was not the usual Russian, the vile little man who leered at her through his butcher's eyes. For some reason, he hadn't been able to attend and had been replaced by a nervous young officer. The man had stuttered in appalling Italian that there was a crisis and that her usual contact would not be able to make it.

  “Should I be concerned?” she'd asked.

  The man had shaken his head. “We will be in touch; but you should be aware of your personal security. This is a dangerous business.”

  No details, no idea what form this 'danger' would manifest itself in, no advice and no help. So she had returned to her apartment, eaten a light lunch and then set about writing a letter to her brother-in-law in Washington.

  It was only when she'd finished the letter and signed her name that she heard the gentle knock on her apartment door. Sophia turned in her chair and looked for a long, cool moment at the door at the far end of the hallway. It couldn't be any of her neighbors in the other apartments; she knew that instantly, that wasn't the way it worked on the Via Margutta.

  At that moment, the words of the KGB contact came back to her – something about it being a dangerous business.

  * * *

  She opened the door and was greeted not by a hard-faced assassin, but by a young lady, a beautiful young lady. A touch of a young Katherine Hepburn, thought Sophia. Except for the eyes, the eyes held a recently acquired hardness. “Si?” said Sophia, a questioning look on her face.

  The young woman took a step forward into the apartment and spoke. “Might I have a word with you in private? No, don't speak, please, and forgive my awful trampling of your language. My name is Nicole. We have a mutual acquaintance, it seems, a Mr. Porter, an English gentleman. You know whom I mean?”

  Sophia shook her head, living her cover. “I'm sorry, I have no idea…”

  But the young woman was not dissuaded and carried on, taking another step forward so that her whole body was now in the doorway. “He regrets he couldn't come himself, but he thought I would be an acceptable replacement. He asked me to ask you how his 'Lyra' is. And does she still miss the British winters?”

  Sophia Argento gasped as she recognized the truth of what this young woman was saying and she wondered if the truth was something she wanted to hear.

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes later, they were sitting in the drawing room, face-to-face. The young woman, Nicole, had switched off the light, drawn all the curtains and then turned the light switch in the room back on. Then she'd given the older woman a brief appraisal of the situation that was developing that night in Rome.

  “What should I do? Should I go to the British Embassy?” Sophia had asked.

  “No! Absolutely not! Your cover is still intact, and besides, they know nothing about this mission. Best bet is to disappear. Don't contact anyone. You have to leave now. My senior officer is waiting for you downstairs. He'll take you somewhere secure. You'll go out through the rear of the property, there's less chance of the killer having surveillance there. Take nothing with you,” said Nicole.

  Sophia nodded. It was all happening so fast that her mind was whirling with the gravity and scale of it all.

  “My boss's name is Gorilla. Don't worry, he's house trained.” Nicole smiled, trying to lighten the mood and put the older woman at ease. “Give me the keys to your car. I'll go out the front. If we're lucky, I'll be able to draw him away from your home. At night, and at a distance, we could easily pass for each other.”

  Sophia smiled, “Oh, I wish I had your youthful looks, my dear.” But this English intelligence agent was right. The height, build, hair color and sense of dress were passable. Perhaps with a headscarf and darkened glasses it could work.

  “I'll keep up your routine for the next few hours, until you've disappeared,” said Nicole.

  “And then?”

  “Then I'll dump your car and meet up with you at our apartment later tonight. Don't worry, we'll keep you safe. Now go,” said Nicole, pushing Agent LYRA out of the door.

  Sophia scurried down the staircase, her heels clicking on the elegant stone steps that spiraled towards the main hallway. She passed the third floor, praying that she didn't meet Signora Fausti who lived below her, well-meaning though she was, the Signora could talk until the end of days or even more awkward would be bumping into Dottore Abbate, who would want to know every little detail of what she had been up to during her visit to Rome this time.

  But good fortune was with her. The stairway and landings were empty and the residents of the rest of the apartments were safely ensconced inside. She increased her pace, one hand lightly brushing the banister rail while all the time her feet were working in perfect synchronicity to reach the bottom of the stairs.

  The hallway was in semi-darkness; someone had turned off several of the hall lights. Probably the English spy or her partner. She looked out towards the front doors, expecting to see the young woman's partner. But instead all she was treated to wa
s a foreboding heavy oak door which was locked against the chill night. Then she remembered. The young woman had said that she would be leaving by the rear entrance, which would take her past the shed where the gardener kept his work tools, along the secret garden at the rear of the property and out into the side street on the Via del Babuino.

  Sophia began to turn when a voice spoke. “Lyra,” said the voice from the dark recess of the hallway. A man stepped forward, giving a physical form to the voice.

  “Yes… you are Gorilla?” she said. It was a question, not a statement. She looked doubtfully at the man in front of her. He was well presented, a good suit, quality overcoat, expensive shoes.

  But it was the face; short cropped blond hair, a scowl and hard eyes. The face of a thug. He looked more like a London gangster, such as she had seen in the newspapers, than an intelligence operative.

  The man nodded and held out a hand. “Please come with me. We haven't far to travel and my car is just down the street.” She took his hand and let him lead her into the darkness. “Be brave,” he said. “We have to be alert. There is danger on every street corner.”

  Chapter Three

  Gorilla and Nicole had been alerted by the Burrowers that one of the 'flagged' passports that Marquez was using – Delacroix – had shown up and that they needed to get to Rome fast. They had arrived less than a day and a half ago and were secreted in another one of SIS's tame safe-houses, this time in a small apartment block off the Piazza Navona, which like its predecessors in Paris and Marseilles, was functional but nothing more. They had run to the same routine they'd used in the past, and why not, it worked!

  Their ID covers were clean and despite the shootings in France, there was no evidence to confirm that anyone was looking for them. So once again, they were the Ronsom's, the travelling honeymoon couple who stayed in safe-houses provided by the local SIS Stations and travelled around in cheap, disposable cars that were destined for the scrap yard once their operation was finished.

  Nicole gave the Contessa a good twenty minutes to get clear of the apartment building before she decided to leave. The dark glasses, the scarf wrapped tightly around her head and the elegant suede coat would do enough to hide the subterfuge to the casual passersby. And hopefully, a trained killer also, she thought.

  She glanced out into the dark street to see if she could spot any possible surveillance. A few cars, a few people walking quickly in an attempt to dodge the rain, but nothing untoward, nothing that set off any alarm bells. But then there wouldn't be would there, she thought. If he's as professional as we think he is, he wouldn't leave any signs of surveillance. Nicole gave herself a final inspection in the mirror. Satisfied, she grabbed the keys to the Alfa Romeo from the little ashtray and left, carefully closing the door behind her.

  When she made it to ground level, she noted that the hallway was poorly lit. That's Gorilla, taking care of business, she thought. With limited illumination, the darkness of the hallway would also help with her disguise. She pulled open the heavy front door and stood stock still, seemingly adjusting her coat and gloves, but in reality to give any surveillance watchers the opportunity to see her and take the bait.

  Nicole looked out at the rain, the drizzle had turned to a downpour, but nevertheless she was determined to keep herself on show as long as possible. She turned, pulled the main door shut, then began the fifty yard walk to the car.

  Behind the dark glasses her eyes were on the alert, looking left and right, but noting no sign of a threat or danger. Maybe he's not in place, she thought. Or maybe he's called the hit off, perhaps having spotted us!

  She made it safely all the way into the Alfa Romeo, a 1964 Giulia Sprint GTC in gleaming red. She inserted the key into the lock and turned. She quickly climbed into the leather seat, eager to be out of the pouring rain. The engine purred into life and she gently revved the accelerator to get a feel for the car's power. She checked the rear view mirror, ready to move away and was confronted with a dark spectre looming over her from the rear passenger seat.

  A hand clamped down firmly on her right shoulder and she felt the unmistakable coldness of a pistol barrel pushed into the small gap between her ear and the headscarf. Nicole let out an involuntary yelp. The pistol ground in deeper, as if in warning. There would be no missed shots at this range she knew; the bullet would simply blow a hole in her skull.

  She risked a glance once more into the rear view mirror. The man's face was dark, hidden in shadows. She could make out the long profile of the face, the slicked back dark hair and blazing eyes. The last time she'd seen this face was in a bar years ago in the Caribbean, and yes, she wasn't that far off with her memory, a little older and a little greyer certainly, but still the same.

  “Good evening, Contessa,” said the voice, thick and cultured. “My Italian is poor, so just in case there is any misunderstanding, I will converse in English. Is that acceptable?”

  Nicole gently nodded her head forward, being careful not to make any sudden movements and reinforced it with a “Si.”

  “Excellent, then please drive and don't try anything foolish. It would be a shame to ruin the inside of your car with blood.”

  * * *

  Marquez had been lucky when he'd snatched his target. The Via Margutta had been quiet at that time of night, that and the fact that the rain had kept most people off the streets had also worked in his favor. He had plenty of time to 'pop' the lock of the small Alfa Romeo and hide in the rear.

  He guessed she would venture out at some point during the evening, perhaps for dinner or to visit friends, and so when the rain began, he reasoned she would more than likely take her car rather than walk the streets of Rome in the dark. If she didn't, and either stayed ensconced or took a taxi, his plan would be ruined and he would have to abort the surveillance until the next day.

  He'd sat cramped in the rear foot-well of the Alfa for almost two hours, covered with his jacket, fighting the boredom and the risk of being spotted by a chance passerby. So when he was just about to give up hope and abort the operation for the evening, he was handed a large dose of luck. From his vantage point beneath his cover, he made out a slim figure standing beside the rain splattered driver's door, fumbling with the keys.

  He flicked the safety of the Tokarev pistol and smiled to himself. The rest of the kidnapping had been relatively by rote; the surprise to the victim, the isolation, the threat of violence and the drive to the secure warehouse on the edge of the city where he would set in place the necessary measures to conclude this now troublesome contract.

  The garage had originally been used by a mechanic who had recently retired and it had been sitting empty for the past month. So when the vendor was offered double the monthly rental price for a quick and unregulated lease, he'd snapped it up and no questions asked.

  The Alfa pulled up in front of the double garage doors, Marquez held the gun on her and they both exited the vehicle in tandem. A quick unlocking of the heavy padlock, a flick of the light and they were inside. He led her by the arm towards the chair in the small office; her prison cell for the rest of the evening. It was only when she turned that he'd sensed something wasn't right. His mind whirled with confusion. Same look, same build, similar clothes, but no, no, not quite the same. She was too young, he thought.

  “Take off the glasses and the scarf,” he said, rummaging in his pocket for the surveillance photo he carried of Sophia Argento. The girl, for she was younger than the Contessa by a good twenty years, slowly removed them and tossed them onto the floor. A quick glance at the photograph and then the young woman in front of him confirmed they were not the same person. But from a distance and in the dark, yes, it had been enough to fool him. He raised the gun and pointed it directly at her head.

  “Who the hell are you?” he said, the words coming out in a bitter fury. Damn his foolishness for being deceived by a slip of a girl.

  Nicole took a breath, trying her best to remain calm. “Who I am is of no matter. Suffice to say that the Contes
sa is now under our protection.”

  Marquez thought about it for a moment, finding it an effort to clear his mind. The Russians, it had to be the Russians. It was obvious really, the politician was a KGB deep cover asset and they would protect her at all costs. But how did they know he was planning to take her? Probably the same way that they'd had the edge on them in Marseilles and Paris? “Russian. You don't look Russian,” he said.

  “What is a Russian meant to look like?” She'd decided to play along with the ruse. Gorilla had told her of Gioradze's belief that they were Russian operatives there to protect the KGB agents. She saw no reason to dissuade this killer of that notion.

  “Where is the Contessa?” Marquez stepped forward and ground the barrel of the gun deeper into the back of her neck; she felt the small metal front sight pushing against her skin. “Where?”

  Nicole flinched from the pain. “I don't know. Far enough away from you though!”

  Damn! His plan to kill the Contessa outside the Russian Embassy was in ruins. “Are you with the small man, the blond man? I bet that you are. Have you been to Marseilles recently my dear… were you in Paris? Have you been tracking me?” Her silence infuriated him even more. “No matter, we'll have plenty of time to talk soon enough. Now where is he?”

  Still, she met his gaze with a cool silence. He lashed out with his shoe, kicking her hard in the shin, causing her to scream. She stifled the scream, but there were tears forming in her eyes. “He's… he's… at the apartment he uses. I don't know where it is,” she lied. “It's more secure that way. I swear!”

  “More secure,” repeated Marquez, considering her answer. It made sense they would have cut-out procedures in place. It was standard practice for all intelligence operatives. But still, something wasn't adding up. “How do you get in touch with him?”