Berlin Reload: A Cold War Espionage Thriller

by James Quinn

  Jason Greensides stood at the main doors of the hotel waiting for him, hand outstretched. He was a small man, dressed in a pink open-necked shirt and designer blazer. He looked like a genuine gentleman of Rome. Blending into his environment was, after all, a part of his job and being Her Majesty's Head of SIS in Rome, one had to try to act like a Roman.

  “Jack Grant! Bloody great to see you! I'm sorry it's under rather scummy circumstances,” he murmured as they shook hands.

  Grant shook the offered hand and grimaced. “Thank you for this. I wouldn't have gotten you involved but this was serious.”

  Greensides smiled and waved away the inconvenience. “Nonsense, I'm here to help in any way that I can. Can I get you a drink? The hotel has a rather nice cocktail bar, the Stravinsky. It's private, exclusive, somewhere that we can talk without being interrupted.”

  They walked through the marble reception area, past the outdoor restaurant and left into the Stravinsky. The bar was almost empty; a young couple sat in the corner nursing a pair of G&T's. Grant assumed they were Greensides' people, there in case things got out of hand or in case someone needed following. He ignored them. They sat and ordered drinks from the waiter; vodka and tonic for Greensides, Bourbon on the rocks for Grant.

  “I must say it's not often I get to meet with a legend. You do rather have a bit of a reputation. Not just inside SIS, but in the wider intelligence community,” said Greensides, genuinely enthused about meeting an 'old boy' of SIS.

  “I hope I live up to the hype,” said Grant glumly.

  “I hear only good things, I can assure you. Besides, not many of your kind survive, so you are something of a rarity. But anyway, to business. Now, the question about all this is, were you just in the wrong place at the wrong time, or were you targeted?” said Greensides, pondering the problem.

  Grant told the SIS man what he knew. They both came to the same conclusion after a thirty minute debriefing that it was unequivocally a targeted attack.

  “Well, the Italian security services are up in arms about this. They aren't sure if it's a Red Brigade resurgence or maybe some Arab groups. They are scrambling around trying to find any links. They did, however, manage to snap a picture of some of the hit-team, pulled it off a CCTV camera – where would be without those, eh? They passed us the images as a matter of course; SIS here works well with Italian Security. I ran it through our files and we got a result… maybe. I mean it's as blurry as hell, and could be anyone, but we have a match, at least according to our files. Okay, you ready for this?”

  Grant nodded and so Greensides continued. “I know that you've been out of the game for a while, so I'll slow it down for you. Okay?”

  Grant smiled and said he appreciated the courtesy.

  “He's known as the Harlequin,” said Greensides. “That's the only codename we have for him, in fact it's the only name we have for him at all. From what we know, he's been active for the past two years and he's certainly risen to prominence fast. He's rumoured to be a specialist, but suspected to have his original training in the GDR, some say a bit of specialist stuff in Russia, probably with Spetznaz.”

  “He's worked in all the scummy places where the East German Intelligence Service has an influence; Cuba, Ethiopia, parts of Africa and of course Europe. He's been operational lead on everything from training torturers, to throat-slitting, to organising assassinations. We can link him personally to several defector assassinations and the removal of East German political rivals. Sniper shots, car bombs, even a snapped neck on one of the victims. Then six months ago he went off the radar and we assumed his own side had removed him. Sometimes the SSD do that when one of their big hitters gets too big for his boots. Don't ask me how I know because I can't tell you – we just know. But after the shoot-out the other day, it appears he's back in the game.”

  “And after me,” said Grant.

  “Indeed.”

  “Do we have an age range for this Harlequin?”

  Greensides shrugged. “The files estimate twenties to thirties. That's as near as we can narrow it down. Does that fit with the man that you saw?”

  Grant thought about that. The age range fitted in with his theory. “Definitely, but isn't that rather young for an SSD agent to have that much operational power?”

  Greensides nodded. “It's not unheard of, but it certainly isn't the norm. SSD operations have been in a bit of a flux over the past few years, certainly on the international stage. They have enough problems at home, so their overseas operations have been scaled back considerably.”

  “The Stasi has problems at home?”

  “Not problems, exactly, but there is a sea-change happening in the wider Iron Curtain countries, brought about by the new chap in Moscow – Gorbachev. Reform is the new buzz word and a lot of activities have been cancelled, trying to look respectable for the international community, I suppose. Ha – bloody good luck with that! The one exception seems to be this Harlequin; he's still active and whoever he is, he certainly has powerful friends in the GDR and Stasi that are protecting him. Another?”

  “What?”

  “Drink?” said Greensides, pointing at the empty glasses.

  “Oh. Yes, please,” said Grant. His mind was whirring – everything was leading back to Germany; specifically, the SSD – East German Intelligence. He could feel that unnerving fear rising in him. That thing that he thought would never happen… well, guess what, Jack lad? It seems to be starting to come true!

  Greensides returned with the drinks.

  “Thank you for all of this. It's made it clearer. I appreciate it,” said Grant, as he downed his drink in one.

  Greensides smiled. “Please don't think that SIS is being completely altruistic for this assistance. As a former officer of our service, we would rather like to think that any information that you come across would be shared with us – a sort of free flow of information? Friends and all that…”

  Grant smiled back. “Despite the fact that SIS tried to have me taken out about ten years ago during that Caravaggio business? That kind of friendship? Is that what you mean?”

  Greensides raised his hands in mock surrender. “Oh, my dear boy, a little lovers' spat. It was nothing personal and anyway, that's all in the past, water under the bridge!”

  Grant shrugged and accepted the reality of it. “I suppose, in the circumstances, it's the least that I could do.”

  “Excellent. All we ask is that you don't wreak too much havoc in your little investigation and embarrass Her Majesty's Government. Aside from that, you have our totally deniable blessing,” said Greensides smoothly.

  “I'll try not to,” said Grant. Both men sat for a moment, musing over their exchange of information.

  “What will you do next?” asked Greensides.

  “Get my daughter out of the country. I can't protect her here. I need her somewhere more secure that I can control.”

  “And then?”

  Grant remained non-committal. “I have a few leads to chase up. Now that I know I'm dealing with a Stasi trained 'mechanic', that has sort of narrowed the field.”

  “Well, good luck. Don't forget to keep us in the loop regarding information.”

  Grant nodded. “I will.”

  “What about protection? You need anything? I can give you the names of a couple of Europe-based weapons suppliers on our books,” said Greensides.

  Jack Grant shook his head. “Thanks, but I'll be fine.”

  “What about getting back to your safe house and then on a flight? I can rustle up a couple of lads from the Station. Got a former SAS chap as our security liaison officer.”

  “Thanks again. But I have a bit of insurance. I'm covered.” Grant raised his right trouser leg an inch. Greensides looked down and spotted a bespoke leather ankle holster. He could just make out a glint of steel before the material was dropped down again.

  “A .38 revolver. Not perfect, but it will do for now. In the old days we would call it our Berlin reload,” said Grant.

&
nbsp; “Berlin reload? Don't know the term, I'm afraid,” said Greensides.

  “A back-up gun, to get us out of a doomsday scenario when the shit hit the fan.”

  “Did you have to use it much, in the bad old days?”

  “Mr Greensides, more than you can imagine.”

  The drive back was uneventful and gave him time to go over the information that the SIS man had given him. The pieces were starting to fall into place and he didn't like it. What he suspected was now here and happening, and at some point over the next few hours he would have to share it with the one person he had tried to protect from it all for decades; his daughter.

  How do you do that? How do you explain to your child that everything that she knew was a lie? Everything that she believed about herself and her family was a falsehood? The truth was going to go off like a hand grenade. He had resigned himself and knew that all he could do was share his story, be there for her to pick up the pieces and be the best father that he could to love and protect her.

  By the time he drove into the private road that led to the safe house, it was almost dark. The heat of the day was gone and the coolness of the evening would soon be with them. For the first time in days, and even with the knowledge that he would have to share devastating news with Katy, he felt a sense of relief. He had some control back and he had some say in the direction that this thing was going.

  As soon as the headlights from the Maserati illuminated the iron gates to the villa, he knew something was wrong. The gates were open. The boys weren't in attendance and the villa was in darkness. His heart was racing. He stopped the car, killed the engine and doused the lights. And then he sat and waited and watched.

  It took all of his mental strength not to rush in there. But he had to think tactically; he was alone, going into a potential kill zone. So he waited one more moment, had a plan of action in his head, then he drew the .38 revolver from his ankle holster and got out of the car.

  He took his time moving in the shadows, up the steps, until he reached the front door. It opened with a gentle push and he stepped into the darkness of the reception area. Silence. Everything looked normal – furniture, curtains, everything the same. But then, as his eyes adjusted to the darkness he became aware of a shape over by the kitchen door. Cautiously, he went over, the .38 leading the way, ready for action. He reached down and turned the shape over; Mario, a bullet hole in the centre of his forehead. Dead.

  Grant moved away and did a quick sweep of the kitchen. It was clear. Nothing.

  He did a full 180 degrees and made his way to the staircase. He saw the clawed hand first and then, as he ascended the last few steps, he found the dead body of the other bodyguard, Luca. He, too, had been shot. 9mm by the looks of it.

  After that, he didn't care. He ran to the room Katy had been using, kicking open the door and going in strong, the revolver up and ready. He knew who the dead body on the bed was. A knife was sticking out of the chest. It was the priest, Father Mario Frazzano. His throat had been slit and the knife impaled in his heart. The once white sheets of the bed were now black with blood.

  Jack Grant spotted something clutched in the dead priest's hands and moved closer. An envelope. He carefully removed it and opened it, pulling out a single sheet of white paper. There was writing on it, written in pen.

  GORILLA GRANT

  WE HAVE YOUR DAUGHTER. FOR NOW, SHE IS SAFE.

  GO BACK HOME TO LONDON AND READY YOURSELF. WE WILL CONTACT YOU.

  And at the bottom of the paper was a small drawing, a sketch really, of something that looked like a basic acoustic guitar. But Grant knew that it wasn't a guitar, it was a lute.

  And the lute, in European history, was the instrument of choice of the Harlequin.

  Chapter Six

  British Military Prison, Singapore – 1958

  “On yer feet, Grant. You got a visitor!”

  Sergeant, soon to be demoted back down to Corporal, Jack Grant lifted the arm that was covering his face and squinted up at the Military Prison Officer who stood framed in the doorway. Grant was compact in size and build, stocky, with blond, almost white hair that had been cut short. He was several months shy of his twenty-seventh birthday. He had been in detention for the past week. No one seemed to know quite what to do with him.

  In his hand the MP held the wooden truncheon that was his trademark and he slapped it absentmindedly into his palm. Almost as if he was looking for an excuse to use it.

  “Who is it?” grunted Grant, rising up from the bed in his cell.

  “Never you fucking mind. On your bloody feet, you little shit!” barked Sergeant Caddick.

  Caddick and Grant had a mutually agreeable relationship; they both agreed they hated each other's guts. Grant slowly lifted himself off the bunk in his cell and stood to attention, but in his own time. At the moment, he wasn't taking orders from anyone, least of all Caddick.

  The man who entered the cell next was tall and well built, with a slash of blond hair over a stern face. He was dressed in casual slacks and an open-necked shirt that was topped with a corduroy jacket. Grant judged him to be at least twenty years older than him; early fifties, maybe? He's got officer written all over him, thought Jack Grant.

  “So you're Grant,” said the officer. “That right?”

  The voice had shocked Grant. An officer definitely, but not like the usual effete mob. This man had a commanding voice, but commanding with gentleness and a tone that assured you he was used to giving out orders and getting his own way.

  “That's right, sir. Sergeant Jack Duncan Grant, 27531. Sir!”

  The officer smiled. “Relax, Grant, I'm not a part of the Army… well, not anymore. I did my bit during the last bit of unpleasantness in some very dodgy places. Asia, mainly. I work for a different mob now. Here, take a seat. I've got a few things I'd like to chat with you about if you don't mind, old boy. Cigarette?”

  And that was the way that it went. The officer stood leaning against the wall of the cell and Grant sat on the bunk, his fingers interlocked, only occasionally releasing them to take a draw on his smoke.

  “So what you doing in here then, Grant? Bit of fisticuffs, I heard. That right?” asked the officer.

  Grant nodded. “Me and a major had a bit of a disagreement. Something about some knock-off whisky that he was meant to deliver to me and which I'd paid for. At least that's what they tell me, sir.”

  The officer smiled. “Heard you roughed him up pretty good. You're pretty handy with your fists, by all accounts? Fair enough, if it was a decent bottle of Scotch. I understand you speak a bit of German. How'd you come by that?”

  Grant shrugged and took another drag on the cigarette. “My mother was from Germany, Dad was an engineer from Edinburgh. I got the best of both worlds growing up.”

  “Hence why you ended up doing your National Service with the Seaforth Highlanders, I suppose? Good Scottish Regiment. Your file says that you have good language skills. That right? Well, skills like that are invaluable to the intelligence bunch. Is that why you joined the Intelligence Corps and decided to stay on for another four years? What have they had you doing?” asked the officer, looking closely at the smaller man, weighing him up.

  “Mainly field security work, sir. Bit of driving, couple of hard arrests. I'm nothing more than a bagman and security guard really,” said Grant. Jack Grant was never one for 'sirs' for officers, but with this man it felt natural, in proportion, correct, even though he wasn't officially in the Army anymore. How the hell had that happened?

  “You ever operate over in Germany with the BAOR, Grant?”

  “No, sir, I was never with the British Army of the Rhine. We've been based mainly in the Far East for the past few years in one capacity or another.”

  The officer nodded, paused, and then went into his pitch. He seemed to have made his mind up. “I see. My name is Masterman, by the way. Officially, I'm a colonel, but I left that nonsense behind a while back. I'm in the intelligence side of things too, albeit for the civilian
bunch. I'm putting together a team, a unit really. Cross-border stuff in Germany, bit of spying, bit of snatch and grab, and I'm looking for some good men, men that don't mind handling the rough stuff, but who are also comfortable using the old grey matter. You were in my pile of personnel files. I think you, Grant, are just the type of chap I'm looking to recruit. So… what do you think? Do you fancy it?”

  “Will it get me out of here?” asked Jack Grant reasonably, ever the survivor.

  “Absolutely! It will get you three square meals a day and have you terrified on a daily basis; that's if you survive the training, the deception and the lies. The alternative is being banged up in here for the foreseeable future, a heavy fine and probable criminal conviction in civvy street. I mean, you can't go round thumping officers. The establishment tends not to look too favourably on that kind of behaviour,” said Masterman, mischievously.

  Grant smiled at that. He liked this colonel. He was an officer but he spoke to you like you were on an even par. “What do I have to do to sign up?”

  Masterman threw the cigarette on the cell floor and crushed it with his foot. “That's easy, old boy. Just tell me everything there is to know about Sergeant Jack Grant!”

  So Jack Grant did. He told him his story, without embellishments, just the facts. He told his erstwhile recruiter his story the way he had been taught during his Intelligence Corps training –succinctly, clearly and concisely.

  He told Masterman of being brought up in the East End of London; of happy times with his family; of an older sister who he loved and a father with the growl of a Scottish accent, but who was as fun and gentle a giant of a man as you could ever wish to meet. He told of a beautiful mother, German by birth, who had taught him the language of her homeland on her knee and who insisted that he speak it around the house.