by James Quinn
The whole hit had taken literally a few moments out of their lives. It was done. It was over. It was a relief.
The last thing the team saw as they split up and went their separate ways to avoid any cross-contamination with each other, was the little dog, scared and alone, barking for his master who would never be coming back.
Chapter Two
The months passed slowly as the ever-increasing war of tit for tat was being played out on the streets of Berlin. The Gutterfighters' remit was broad and, while they were officially an intelligence gathering unit, they were frequently called upon to handle the jobs that the more formal intelligence officials would get worried about.
There was the recruitment of Berlin youths with the aim of creating a stay-behind network from the ground up, just in case the Russians decided to encroach over their borderlines. There was the vast array of small-time informants that the team were buying up, if only because they might come in handy at some point in the future. Then there were the practice runs and surveillance reconnaissance, where the team were operating covertly, seeing what the Russians were up to and how they could penetrate further and further into the East.
And of the hit on the former Nazi, Winter? Well, there was nothing to report. The body had been found the next day further down the river, entangled on the embankment shoreline. An autopsy confirmed that he had received a serious head injury, most likely the result of a fall and then he had tumbled into the river and drowned. It was an unfortunate accident. There was no further action taken by the authorities.
Of the Gutterfighters, Jack Grant wrote up in his report that John Blease had taken decisive action and no mention was made of Grant performing the strike on the Nazi. 'Tiny' Blease got a recommendation and a pat on the back from Masterman with nobody any the wiser. What happened in the team stayed in the team; that was the ethos of the Gutterfighters.
“SIS Berlin is very happy with the result,” said Masterman. “We've broken the ice and they now owe us a favour for the future.”
The first operation had brought all the Gutterfighters together; they had learned to work as a unit, discovered each other's foibles and personalities, and Masterman's chest had swelled with pride at the esprit de corps of his team.
Then, unexpectedly, they had a new member join their elite club. Mike Stern, former Captain in US Army Special Forces who had worked his way through G2 US Military Intelligence before finally resting at the CIA. Stern had a relaxed, friendly and laid-back attitude that came from being raised in the mountains of Virginia. He was tall, dark-haired, super-fit and far too good-looking for his own good. He was an archetypal all-American poster boy. Stern had done his time jumping out of aeroplanes that were being fired upon and now wanted to run agents at the knife edge of the Cold War behind enemy lines.
Masterman, as ever, made the introductions to the rest of the team. “So look here,” he said, as he gathered the Gutterfighters around in the Ops room. “We have this Yank here who wants to spend some time with us. But don't let that fact put you off him. He's a good chap. He and I spent some time together causing a certain amount of mayhem in the last bit of unpleasantness.”
And that was all that the Gutterfighters needed by means of a recommendation. If he had shed blood with the boss, he was alright by them.
“Mike was a part of that unfortunate Berlin Tunnel incident that we had up here a while back, but we won't hold that against him,” teased Masterman. The infamous 'Berlin Tunnel' had been a joint CIA/SIS intelligence operation that had been publicly blown when the KGB had 'discovered' its existence. 'Operation Stopwatch' had been set up to intercept Soviet military communication landlines in Berlin by using a tunnel that stretched into the Soviet-occupied zone.
The CIA/SIS team had managed to gain access to thousands of communiqués of secret Red Army intelligence before the tunnel had been discovered by the Russians in 1956, thus bringing the operation to an end and causing not a little amount of embarrassment to the British and American government departments involved.
“I think the Russkies were just playing possum with us,” said Stern, ruefully. “We couldn't prove it, but the fact that they just happened to roll up one day and discover the tunnel… well, that didn't sit right with me. It was as crooked as a dog's hind leg.”
The consensus within the CIA team was that the KGB had been tipped off months, if not years before, and the discovery wasn't a random intelligence coup for them. There was the very real possibility that there was a leak further up the intelligence chain; maybe in SIS, maybe in CIA Berlin. No one could prove it, at least not yet, so the theory was dropped and the Berlin Tunnel officers were left to lick their wounds and move on to new operations.
“I was over in Guatemala, getting up to no good and not achieving a damned thing,” said Stern, as he took a sip of his bourbon. “Then I heard the Colonel here had set up shop in Berlin. Well, I couldn't miss out on a chance to visit my ol' buddy in my favourite stomping ground.”
So Mike Stern was in. He was liked, he was one of the 'boys' and he had a good reputation as a professional operator. He was a Gutterfighter!
One day, Jack Grant walked up to the American and enquired about the semi-automatic that Stern carried in a hip holster. “Is it a .45?” enquired the gunman in Grant. “If so, that's a big calibre weapon for an undercover agent to be carrying around.”
Stern smiled and shook his head. “No sir, not quite,” he said, in his amicable southern drawl. “It's a Smith & Wesson Model 39. It's similar in design to the 1911 Colt, but with a smaller and more compact frame, making it lighter. It's in 9mm. You want to try it out for size?”
Jack Grant had nodded. The American had stripped the magazine from it and handed the '39 over. Grant inspected it, worked the slide to get a feel for it and then practised some well-rehearsed draw and aim drills.
“That's nice, Mike. Real nice,” said Grant appreciatively, feeling how comfortable the weapon was in his hand.
“You want we should go off and try it out on the range? Some buddies of mine – 39th Special Forces Detachment – have access to the range over at McNair Barracks. We could be there and back in a few hours,” said Stern.
An hour later, Stern and Grant were on the range at McNair Barracks in Lichtenfelde, trying out the S&W '39. The Gutterfighters had been issued with standard German Mauser semi automatics, partly because they were easy to come by and partly because it gave the Gutterfighters a degree of plausible deniability if they were caught, or the weapon was lost. So to have access to the American's weapon was a rare treat for someone like Grant. The weapon fitted him perfectly; small enough to be able to conceal, but with a decent enough punch to put an enemy down. Jack Grant wasn't struggling with it at all. He was getting consistent hits at various distances. At the end of their range time, Grant was hooked.
“Hey Mike, if you ever want to sell it, I'll take it off your hands,” joked Grant, but really he was only half joking. He would love to own that weapon!
Stern smiled. “Well now, Jack, I appreciate your enthusiasm for my little pop-gun, but that is never going to happen. This gun means just as much to me as my wife back in Danville… maybe even more! I could never let her go.”
Jack Grant nodded and laughed. “I understand. There's just one thing though…”
“What's that?” asked Stern.
“Call me Gorilla, all my friends do.”
“We've got a bad guy coming to pay us a visit,” said Masterman.
The Colonel had been to his weekly liaison meeting with the SIS Station over at the Olympic Stadium. For Masterman, it was the usual regular chore; something that he knew he had to do, but in reality he would have preferred to have been left alone to get on with his own operations.
Masterman had finished making notes during the meeting when Markham pulled him to one side, away from prying eyes and listening ears. “Quiet word please, Stephen?”
So they had reconvened to the SIS Head of Station's office; a cup of tea, a couple o
f shortbread biscuits and a comfortable leather chair each. “Got a bit of a problem, actually. Rather a delicate matter, Stephen old boy.”
“Absolutely, Roger. What do you have?”
A sip of the tea, and Markham looked over his glasses and divulged all. An hour later, Masterman was back at the COG base and was preparing to brief the team.
“What sort of bad guy, boss?” said Simon. As their intelligence specialist, Simon Brown was always looking to see where each job, and its repercussions, fitted into the bigger intelligence picture that was Berlin.
“An assassin, no less. KGB, so I'm told,” said Masterman. “The assassin will be travelling on a Danish passport in the name of Walter Amundson. He will be flying into Templehof in two days' time. Here's his passport photo. This is the only image we have of him, so memorise it well. We have confirmation that his real name is Yuri Khoklov, part of the 13th Directorate – which, as we all know, is responsible for wet work and all kinds of nefarious activities.”
“Sounds a bit like us,” laughed Tiny; he had his Mauser in pieces on the table in front of him and he was cleaning and oiling it as he listened to the briefing.
“Indeed,” smiled Masterman.
“Who's the mark?” asked Bob.
“Well, I am, actually,” said Masterman, without the slightest sense of irony or panic. Masterman laughed at their faces frozen in horror. “This is Berlin. It wouldn't be a normal day if I wasn't on some kind of death list. It's an occupational hazard.”
“Are you serious, Stephen?” said Mike Stern, sitting upright, trying to read the face of his old comrade in arms.
“Deadly serious, Mike, I'm afraid. SIS Berlin has told me that they are taking this threat against me very seriously. I mean, what's the bloody world coming to, trying to bump off each other's intelligence officers? The world would descend into madness!” replied Masterman.
“Well, at least you know you're doing something right, boss. I mean, not everyone gets a KGB hit contract put out on them,” said Tiny, trying to lighten the mood.
“SIS has already offered me the chance to bug-out of Berlin, which I flat-out refused. I've told them that I want to handle this 'in-house'. I mean, what would they have me do? I'm not hiding away while some Russian thug comes to my town,” said Masterman.
The Gutterfighters all thought the same thing. They were SIS's covert operations force in Berlin. Masterman was right, this was their town, and it was only right that they should be able to handle a threat to their Commanding Officer.
“Who is the source on this, Colonel?” asked Simon, furiously scribbling notes on his pad.
By way of an answer, Masterman merely pointed up at the ceiling. His answer was clear; someone higher up at SIS Broadway, identity unknown.
“So what do you want us to do, Colonel? What does SIS want us to do? Take him out?” said Gorilla.
Masterman shook his head. “No, not quite. I want to capture this assassin, let him and his masters know that we aren't too keen on Moscow throwing their weight around on our turf. Which is where we come in. It's easy, really. We ID the assassin, sandbag him, give him a rather strenuous talking-to and then send him on his way. But we don't kill him. Think of it as a warning.”
“So we are blowing this assassin's cover and sending a message back to the KGB?” said Stern.
“Exactly – don't bugger around with us or you'll get a slap,” said Masterman. “Mike, I want you to run point on this one – good way to get your feet wet. Tiny, I want you and your Russian language skills in there, too. Okay, any questions? No? Excellent! Off you lot go, and come back with a plan by the end of the day.”
Since the end of the war, the KGB's 13th Directorate had quickly gained a reputation as being both ruthless and utterly brutal in its operations. Responsible for 'liquid affairs' – in short, the spilling of blood of enemies of the state – it could trace its parentage back to the NKVD's Directorate of Special Tasks in 1935. And while the names of the unit may have changed from time to time, what they did and how they did it, didn't.
The man who stepped off the flight from Paris could produce identification that confirmed that he was indeed Walter Amundson; book collector and businessman. He was here to acquire some rare first editions from a fellow collector based in Berlin. Amundson was of medium height, well dressed and polite, with short grey hair. He carried one small case that would see him through for his few days of business in Berlin. He was unremarkable.
After clearing the usual airport formalities, he collected his case and made his way to the exterior of the arrivals lounge, his hope being that he would be able to flag down a taxi quickly. The KGB man had a room booked at the Kempinski on Unter den Linden, which would be his base for the next few days while he tracked his target. That was the beauty of being a senior operational officer of the 13th Directorate; you were allowed a certain level of autonomy in how you planned and carried out your missions.
His target, so he had been briefed by the intelligence officer running this operation, was a known operative of the British Secret Service. According to the intelligence, the British SIS man had been responsible for the assassination of an NKVD officer in Yugoslavia in 1944. The murdered NKVD man's brother had now risen high in the KGB and wanted family honour satisfied.
So when the Englishman, Masterman, had been spotted in Berlin by Red Army intelligence, it had only been a matter of time before the 13th Directorate was tasked to carry out the assassination. Not that it personally mattered to him. What happened in war was just one of those things. But he was a trusted KGB officer, so he was happy to accept the mission. In truth, his own war-time service had not been that different to the SIS man's; behind enemy lines, small units, conducting operational sabotage and killing. It was only after the war that he had been recruited into the newly formed KGB's specialist departments that dealt with 'executive action'.
He had almost made it to the nearby taxi line when he was intercepted by two men. The first man was young, with round spectacles and a mop of mousy hair. The other man was a giant, well over six and a half feet tall, and it was he who dominated.
“Herr Amundson?” inquired the giant, his huge hands out by his side. The giant spoke German, but clumsily, as if it wasn't his first language.
“Ja?”
The giant leaned down and whispered in his ear in flawless Russian, “Please come with us, Comrade Khoklov. There have been some developments about your mission.”
The giant turned to his partner. “Pytor, take Herr Amundson's bag. And get the car, you fool!”
“What is this about? I have my own directives for this mission,” he hissed under his breath.
“Of course, of course. All will be explained and we will have you to your hotel within the hour. Our senior officer wishes to brief you on a new development!”
“What development?” asked Khoklov, suspiciously. Something wasn't quite right, he could feel it.
The giant shrugged. “Alas, comrade, that is information I am not privy to. We were simply ordered to deliver you.”
Seconds later, the car pulled up. The young, mousy-haired man opened the rear door for Khoklov to get in and, with the giant on one side of him on the rear seats, and the young man on the other, the Russian agent was well and truly trapped. In the front seat were two men; one dark-haired, wearing a cap and the other blond. Well, at least the blond looked Russian, though it still didn't make Khoklov feel any better.
The car moved out through the traffic, away from the airport and into the centre of the city. Very soon, it became obvious that they were heading nowhere near the Kempinkski or the Eastern side of Berlin.
“Where did you say we were going again?” asked Khoklov in Russian.
The giant simply smiled and said, “Relax we will be there very soon.”
The Russian assessed the situation; four opponents in the car, trapped, not knowing where he was going or who he was really with. Not good odds, but he had survived greater than this. He had to move and do it
now! The Russian suddenly contracted his body, bending over in the rear seat of the car, as if he had stomach cramps. His hands joined together, the right sneaking up the sleeve of the left and then retracting. There was a brief flash of steel and then the Russian threw his arm around to the left and attacked the side of Simon Brown's neck. The effect was instantaneous – the blood springing free of the wounds and covering the interior of the car.
The scream caused Bob to swerve the car in the road, almost losing control. Tiny was torn between reaching over to attend to Simon's wounds and restraining the assassin with the blade. Instinct made him choose the latter. He grabbed the Russian's wrist with his right hand and held tight, while with his left elbow he smashed the KGB man in the temple, stunning him. Tiny grabbed the blade, which was in fact a long, thin spike that had been sharpened at the tip. He knew from looking at it that Simon didn't stand a chance of surviving; it had hit an artery.
“Gorilla! Fucking deal with this clown!” yelled Tiny, shifting positions in the back seat to deal with Simon's wounds. He quickly took out a handkerchief from his pocket and tried to hold back the flow of blood, but Simon was turning grey; the bleeding was becoming more profuse and he was quickly losing consciousness. The handkerchief was quickly saturated and had become a bloody mess. Simon Brown let out one last gurgle from the wound in his throat.
“He's gone, lads,” said Tiny, stroking his hair, not sure if the motion was there to speed Simon on his way or to help him deal with it. Perhaps it was a bit of both?
Eventually, the KGB man regained consciousness. He was groggy at first and then, as his eyesight became clearer, he was aware of his hands tied behind his back, a dead man to his right and the giant to his left who looked like he wanted to commit murder.
He turned his focus to the front of the sweat-filled car. The blond man in the front seat turned around, and was pointing a pistol with a huge, bulbous silencer attached to it directly at his head. The man smiled and said, “Nice to finally meet you, Yuri. Now, sit back or I'll blow your fucking head off.”
