Berlin Reload: A Cold War Espionage Thriller

by James Quinn

  Years later, Gorilla Grant would look back on this particular operation and appreciate how much of a lesson it was in the use of tactical questioning.

  They were in a slaughterhouse that one of their paid informants ran security for. It was cold, dark, deserted and it was the perfect place to conduct a hostile interrogation. The far wing of the building, the one they were using now, was dilapidated and was condemned by the local authorities for the butchering of meat. But for the Gutterfighters, its isolation and privacy was exactly what they wanted.

  Tiny had let his temper get the better of him and had punched the living shit out of the Russian. It had taken both Gorilla and Bob Knights to drag him off the man on the floor. They had tied the KGB assassin to a chair in the centre of the barren slaughterhouse and both handcuffed and strapped his hands to a butcher's block, using chains and rope. The man's hands were tethered, palm down, to the centre of the wood. For the next thirty minutes, until he had run out of energy, the Russian had spat and swore at them. Only Tiny had understood what he was saying – Gorilla and Bob had ignored the venom and had been lost in their own thoughts.

  It was the sound of footsteps that broke everyone's train of thought. From the far end of the building a figure emerged. Its outline was vague at first, then slowly, taking its time, it acquired definition.

  Masterman was wearing a knee-length raincoat that covered his immaculate dinner jacket and black tie. His outfit was in stark contrast to the bleak and rudimentary surroundings of the slaughterhouse. He lifted a nearby chair and set it down a few feet away from the handcuffed Russian. He smiled, looked the Russian square in the eyes and said, “I believe you've been looking for me? The only thing I'm not sure of is why, exactly?”

  The Russian looked at the floor, silent.

  “Look,” said Masterman reasonably. “In the grand scheme of things, it makes no difference. You were sent here, we caught you, now we can do what we want with you. It just might help you if you give us at least some context about why the KGB wants me dead? But can you please make it snappy. I've an important dinner engagement at the British Embassy tonight. Don't want to be late.”

  So Yuri Khoklov told his would-be target why he was on a death list; the assassination in Yugoslavia, the dead target, the brother now high ranking in Soviet Intelligence, a revenge mission.

  “Oh, how the world turns. I do rather find it amusing that what goes around, comes around,” said Masterman sadly. He only vaguely remembered the mission. They had hidden in the forest one moonless night, him and his team, waiting for the Russian counter-intelligence unit to leave their base. A clatter of machine gun fire and it had been all over. He'd never even seen the faces of his targets.

  Masterman turned around to Jack Grant. “What have we got then?”

  Gorilla handed him the device that they had taken from the KGB man's case. Masterman moved it around in his hand and inspected it. The device looked like a child's plastic water pistol.

  “Is this it?” asked Masterman, confused.

  The Russian nodded.

  “Poison?” guessed Masterman.

  “Cyanide, actually. It can give the impression of a sudden heart attack,” confirmed Khoklov.

  Stephen Masterman rolled his eyes in exasperation. “In my day it would have been the edge of a blade or our bare hands! And the where?”

  The Russian shrugged. “That bar you have been seen in – the Rififi - either that, or outside on the street when I had followed you.”

  Masterman nodded as if in understanding. He was, as always, meticulous about his own personal security, so opportunities to catch him unawares would have been slim for the assassin. He handed the device back to Grant and turned his attention back to the KGB man.

  “I would like to tell you a story, something that may give a bit of perspective to your mission, Yuri. Is that acceptable?” said Masterman.

  The Russian thought about it for a moment and then nodded.

  “I do like to read. Historical stuff mostly. But one of my guilty pleasures in my youth was reading 'dime store' Westerns. I'm sure my father would have had a fit if he knew! He was very much a classics man. Anyway, I loved the wild adventure and freedom of the books. One of my favourite stories was that of Wyatt Earp, the lawman! Have you heard of him?” asked Masterman.

  “Of course! I even saw the recent movie – Burt Lancaster and Kirk Douglas!” said Khoklov proudly.

  “Excellent! Then you are aware of the battle at the OK Corral. On one side, the outlaws and on the other, the lawmen. The brief shoot-out is regarded in American history as an epitome of the wild and lawless West. I was always on the side of the lawmen, but especially Wyatt Earp. Earp wasn't the shining example of truth, justice and clean living that he is portrayed as these days. He was a bit of a bad lad; gambler, brothel owner, gold miner, boxing referee, buffalo hunter and part-time lawman. In that respect, I'm a bit like that; I'm part soldier, part villain, part spy! I'm not virginal about any of them. I protect what is mine. This is my town. I own it, and I will not tolerate some jumped-up little Russian thugs coming into it and assuming that they can do whatever the hell they want to. There will be no more bloodshed on the streets here. If you even think about trying it, it will be met with force. This is the KGB's only warning. Understood?”

  The Russian gave a short, sharp nod.

  “You have already slaughtered one of my men, one of my best men. He's out there in the boot of our car. He deserves better. Do you understand? Another nod will do.”

  Khoklov nodded vigorously. “So you are going to kill me?”

  “No, old boy, afraid not. I'm going to send you back to the East. You are going to be my messenger to the KGB. The message is that Berlin is out of bounds for the foreseeable future!” said Masterman.

  “Then you have already killed me,” sneered the Russian.

  Masterman shrugged, acknowledging the man's predicament. “Out of my hands, I'm afraid. I could kill you… however, it hasn't been sanctioned by the powers-that-be, so… my apologies. Of course there is another alternative?”

  The KGB man cocked his head to one side.

  “Defection, old boy. Come over, tell us what you know, get resettled, have a new life. Our people would love to know more, willingly of course, about the 13th Directorate.”

  The Russian smiled. “I think I would prefer to go back to the East please, Colonel.”

  Masterman shrugged as if it was of no importance. He'd have done the same thing in that position; better to be killed by your own side than by your enemies. “I quite understand, Yuri. But I had to ask, just to make sure. Now, right or left?”

  “What?”

  “You pick. Right or left?”

  The Russian thought about it, knew what was about to come and then said, “Left.”

  “Wrong answer,” said Masterman, as he took a claw hammer from the deep pocket of his raincoat. “Right is your gunman's hand. You have to be taught a lesson.”

  Then he took the hammer and smashed the KGB man's fingers to a pulp.

  They dumped him a block away from the KGB Rezidentura, located inside a former hospital on Koepernickerallee. A car pulled up and he was thrown quickly out before the car sped off again.

  Yuri Khoklov was found bound and gagged by a patrol of Volkspolizei. He had been dumped, alive, but seriously injured, at the foot of a streetlight. His shoes had been removed and his hand had swelled to twice its normal size. He lay slumped in the gutter, muttering incoherently.

  Of his attackers there was no sign. The only evidence of their existence was a handwritten note that was pinned to his chest. It simply said: Returned to Sender.

  Chapter Three

  Tangier, Morocco – 1989

  The moment the sealed doors of the aircraft were opened, Jack Grant was hit by a wall of intense heat. The short walk from the flight steps to the Airport Terminal was like basking in a furnace, the heat dry and arid as was usual in North Africa. He wore his usual lightweight beige summer suit with
open-necked blue shirt and loafers. His cover, if he needed one, was that he was here to look at investments in the commercial property market in North Africa to boost up his portfolio.

  He had all his emergency procedures in place; false passports sewn into the lining of his jacket, enough cash to buy him out of the country and, hopefully, a covert weapons stash inside his hotel courtesy of Jojo and his people. For now, it was all that he could do.

  Once outside the Terminal, it was a maelstrom of chaos and confusion; travellers, hawkers, taxis, beggars were all swirling at once, so Grant found it amusing that he got a taxi straight away, especially considering that his fellow travellers had to queue patiently in the heat.

  The driver had a face fit for the hangman; small and wiry and definitely in the pay of whomever he was here to meet in North Africa. Deciding to play along, Grant allowed himself to be ushered into the back of an ageing Citroen. Minutes later, they were heading away from the airport and into the centre of Tangier itself. It had been many years since he had last visited – during his freelance years – but in reality the city had not changed at all. It was still the same mix of beauty, exotic characters and history that gave it a mysteriously relaxed atmosphere.

  Fifteen minutes later, they were pulling up outside the Hotel Continental; a huge, sprawling Western hotel built on three levels. It would not have looked out of place along the corniche in Monte Carlo or Nice. The taxi driver made an over-the-top show of getting Grant's suitcase from the boot and after a brief haggle over the price (no tip), he powered off in the taxi. No doubt to report back to whoever employed him.

  The hotel reception was bright, spacious and opulent, and the check-in procedure was done with the calm good manners of the very best North African hoteliers. Tea and juice were brought while Grant sat at a nearby table filling in the paperwork, only to be finally whisked off by a patient bell-boy so that he could collect the key to the room.

  The room itself was stunning; a third floor suite overlooking the nearby bay, modern and spacious. In the distance, he could see the outline of Spain through the hazy mist. North Africa was always one of those anomalies to him – the scent of Africa with the familiarity of Europe.

  He did his standard searching of the room for covert listening devices and cameras, working over all the usual suspects; lights, phones, electrical devices. He found nothing; not that they weren't necessarily there, just that the technology these days was that good that it was nearly impossible to locate a bug without specialist equipment.

  He unpacked quickly, determined to be ready in case the kidnappers contacted him unexpectedly. His next task was to check that his covert weapons cache was in place. Jojo McKay had given him instructions as to where his people had secreted the guns; right of reception, past the concierge's station, the hotel restroom/toilets, third cubicle as you enter, hidden in a small fibreglass case inside the cistern.

  Twenty minutes later, he was retrieving the fibreglass case and prising open the plastic latch. Inside were two .22 Berettas, the ends of which were tooled to fit the accompanying suppressors. Several spare, and fully loaded, magazines were also supplied. Jojo had picked well, knowing of Grant's taste for the quiet kill when he was operational.

  Satisfied, he quickly resealed the guns back into the case and secured them once more inside the cistern. For now, they were his back-up option. Whatever was going to happen tomorrow would result in him at some point being searched, so taking a gun with him would be a waste of time and would tip off the enemy. He could not afford to give them that advantage. So for now they would stay hidden, ready to be used at the right time.

  The next morning, he was up bright and early and waiting in reception to be collected. He was dressed in his standard lightweight linen suit that he preferred to wear in hotter climates, white open-necked shirt and comfortable loafers. He didn't know if he would have to run or fight, so he had decided to err on the side of caution; better to be comfortable if he had to do both. He had with him his emergency escape passports and a wad of cash, just in case. His no-weapon rule was in play and, until he had more information about the situation, they would probably be less than useless.

  So, he sat on a quiet sofa in the reception area, sipping at his café au lait and ignoring a half-eaten croissant. He was watching the comings and goings that are the ebb and flow of any hotel reception area when he was approached by a fit-looking young man in a suit and tie.

  “Herr Grant?” said the suit, his face blank like a canvas, but the accent was undoubtedly German.

  A nod from Jack Grant.

  “I am here to collect you for your appointment. A car is waiting for you outside, if you would like to follow me?”

  The Mercedes and its driver, another suit, were ready as they descended the grand steps from the hotel. Grant and the suit got in the back and the car sped away.

  “Apologies, Herr Grant, a precaution, I'm sure you understand,” said the suit, who then conducted a quick search for weapons. “Danke, Herr Grant. It is best to be thorough, do you not agree?”

  Jack Grant said that he always found it the best policy in these situations.

  “And one more thing, a mere formality,” said the suit, holding up a black hood.

  Grant nodded in acceptance, took one last look at the surroundings of Tangier and placed the hood over his head.

  Darkness.

  They were on the move for a good hour, to Grant's best estimation. Whether the driver was doing the usual counter-surveillance moves or was deliberately trying to disorientate Grant, he had no idea. So his best guess was that their final destination was somewhere between thirty minutes and an hour out from Tangier.

  Eventually, there was the inevitable slowing down and then stopping. He heard noises; a door opening, an engine killed, a door slammed and then footsteps. He felt hands grab him and lift him out of the car. He was the package that they felt free to move and guide wherever they wanted to. He smelt jasmine and other flowers, and then he heard the clip-clop of shoes on a tiled floor. The air was cooler so he guessed he was inside in an air-conditioned room. Then the guiding hands let him go and a moment later he heard the click of a door closing behind him. Silence.

  “Sie Konnen jetzt die Haube abnehmen,” a voice said in strangled German. You can take the hood off now.

  He reached up and pulled the cloth over his head and off, letting it fall to the floor. He let his eyes adjust to the sunlight and took in his surroundings. It was a traditionally furnished French-style room with a delicate touch of North African decoration. He turned in the direction of the voice and took in a figure stood by the open French windows, looking out over the expansive swimming pool.

  Jack Grant knew who it was instantly, he could sense him and, despite the years and the obvious chronic illness of the man physically, he knew he would have recognised him anywhere, even after nearly thirty years.

  He was tall, frail-looking and his suit hung on him like a scarecrow wearing rags. The man was leaning on a cane, but with the reassurance of a wheelchair nearby in case he grew tired. Grant thought that the man had made a point of being standing when he was shown in; a power play to show that he was still strong. Then finally, he noticed the scarring on the man's face and remembered how he had received it all those years ago.

  “Vogel,” said Jack Grant, under his breath. He could feel the growl in his voice; the returning of memories that were raising his anger levels.

  “Grant,” said Vogel, the German accent cutting through the air like a razor blade. “Interesting that we have never actually met or been formally introduced.”

  “I know who you are.”

  “And I know enough about you too, 'Gorilla' – or is that not a name we use anymore? Now, is it just Mr Jack Grant, businessman?”

  “Where is my daughter, you bastard!” said Grant. He was in no mood to be fencing with this man; in fact, the sooner he was away from him, the better. He took an involuntary step forward.

  “Ah… please, Gorilla,
no violence. Not here. You would die. I have a man out there with a sniper rifle, hidden… somewhere… in the bushes, the trees. Look at your chest,” said Vogel. The crackling voice had a hint of pleasure in it.

  Jack Grant looked down at his chest and saw the red laser dot perfectly placed over his heart. He knew that he'd never make it, not at this distance, and even if he did, he would be gunned down moments later. Then what would happen to Katy? So for the moment the Gorilla inside him relaxed. Vogel had the upper hand… for now.

  “I want to see my daughter,” he said calmly. “Where is she?”

  Vogel limped away from the window, edging nearer to Grant. “Katherine, such a beautiful girl, is far away from here. She is safe and unharmed for now.”

  “I want to talk to her,” said Grant. A proof of life was the first step. Get the proof of life and then we deal with everything else, he thought.

  Vogel nodded. “I'm sure that can be arranged, all in good time.”

  “Now! I want to talk to her now!”

  Vogel shook his head. “First, we have business to discuss.”

  But Jack Grant was determined and knew how to play the game. “I talk to Katy first or we discuss nothing, you and I.”

  Vogel stamped the foot of his cane down onto the floor out of frustration, one disfigured eye looking over at his enemy. Finally, he limped over to the telephone in the corner, picked up the handset and pressed a number for an outside line. He hurriedly whispered some commands that Grant could not make out before replacing the receiver.

  “When the phone rings, you will be able to talk to Katherine for a few moments. Please don't try anything foolish or you will never speak to her again,” said Vogel.

  It was one of the longest waiting periods of his life. The seconds dragged on for hours, but it gave him the opportunity to observe his enemy, albeit in a semi-civil environment.