Berlin Reload: A Cold War Espionage Thriller

by James Quinn

  Franz nodded. “I will see to it at once.”

  Colonel Ulrich Vogel was happy with how his private operation was playing out. He had been given the responsibility of arranging the assassination of the Russian by far more powerful men than he. Over the years, he had carved out a reputation within the SSD for having the correct temperament to orchestrate 'active measures' against the West and its agents. So to combine business with pleasure, well, that was too good an opportunity to pass up.

  But it was that last question by the 'Gorilla' that unsettled him; the question about the baby. The baby was ancient history, a lost memory for Gorilla Grant. Colonel Ulrich Vogel just hoped that Gorilla Grant had believed the lie he had just been sold.

  Chapter Five

  The fresh air invigorated her. This was the third consecutive day that she had been allowed a thirty minute walk around the ample grounds of the secluded hunting lodge.

  The first day, things had felt strained, her 'protector', Peter, only speaking to tell her that her time was up and that they had to go back inside. He had been more talkative on the second day and by this, the third day, he was communicating quite openly. Progress, she thought.

  Her plan, if it could be called a plan, was to try to get the people holding her to see her as a human being, rather than just a lump of meat to be moved around. All she had was her instinct and guile to help her, but if she could learn something, anything that could be used as an advantage to help her dad or help her escape, then so much the better.

  They had an agreed-upon route; walking the perimeter of the grounds which she estimated covered a good five acres. The only signs of life were the occasional shadows of armed guards patrolling the woods. And he was right, he set a punishing walking pace; a testament to his fitness.

  “Do you know why my dad is called Gorilla?” she said, deciding to start with the main mystery that was fresh in her mind.

  He nodded, but gave out no more information.

  “Can you tell me?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “It is not my place. It is ancient history. Perhaps at some point you will be told, but for now, no.”

  “But you do know?”

  “Yes. I know. I know a great deal about Gorilla Grant,” he said quietly, his eyes locked forward.

  “So why is this happening? Whatever this is?”

  “Your story is only a part of a bigger picture, Katherine. Our fathers… well, they are old men still fighting other men's wars,” said Peter.

  “Do you really believe that?” she asked.

  “I know my father. I know his mind and his temperament. He is a man fuelled by ambition and revenge – East versus West, enemy versus enemy.”

  Katy frowned and said, “And you help him achieve these things?”

  Peter Vogel shrugged. “I am not only his son but also his best operative. It is what I have been trained for since I was a child.”

  In truth, his childhood had been as cold as ice. His father was a random figure in his mind, rarely there and when he was, he was both cold and cruel. His father taught life lessons by dominating the small blond boy and pushing him harder and further, rarely giving praise, but always ready with criticism to try harder next time. It had been a never-ending rotation of schools, private tutors, military camps, training courses, until his father had finally judged him ready to go out into the field to be operational. He felt that his father had weaponised his childhood and turned him into the killing machine that he was today.

  “And your mother?” said Katy. She noticed a cloud passing over him, some internal conflict.

  “My mother was killed when I was a child,” he said simply and with no emotion.

  “I'm sorry. That must have been hard.”

  “I was taught by my father that you never miss what you didn't know,” he said.

  She turned and glanced at him. The phrase jarred her – that had always been her thought process, too. “I never knew my mum, either. She passed away when I was a baby.”

  He nodded, but kept her emotionally at arm's length. “This will be the last time that you will be allowed out. My father returns from his business trip later today. He would not approve of this. I'm sorry, it is orders.”

  “And revenge?” she asked, looking up at him, returning to the conversation and not being distracted by his evasiveness. “It fuels you too?”

  He nodded. “At times it does, yes. People must pay for the sins of the past.”

  “The sins of the father should be borne by their children. You really believe that?”

  His face was set in stone, as if remembering a past lesson. “I do.”

  “Then I feel sorry for you that you have to live that way. I will miss our walks, Peter,” she said, turning and heading back to the hunting lodge.

  The Spaniard looked up at the bright moon, pondering his life up to that point and exactly how he could have ended up in such a predicament. His partner, the Algerian, was dead at his feet beside him and now he, the Spaniard, had the muzzle of a gun pressed to the back of his head.

  And the day had started so well. A last-minute contract from some of the Algerian's German contacts; a bit of surveillance, a bit of rough stuff if the opportunity arose. Nothing that they hadn't done before.

  And the target; an older gentleman, short and stocky. He looked like nothing, easy money for them both.

  By the time the German's car pulled up outside the Hotel Continental, the Spaniard and the Algerian were already in position; the Spaniard inside, reading a magazine and drinking coffee in reception, while the Algerian waited in their car on the main road in case the target decided to travel out.

  They were both renegades from their causes and now worked a life along the North African coast for more powerful organisations; smuggling, strong arm work, the occasional hit. The Spaniard had been on the run for nearly a year after the ETA cell that he had been a part of had been compromised, while the Algerian had belonged to numerous Islamic groups before being hunted by the security forces in his country. Now they worked for money, ready for the day that they could both return to their respective countries as free men.

  The Spaniard noted the arrival of the German's car and watched as the Englishman was left in front of the hotel. He dusted off his suit jacket and walked up the steps and into the hotel reception; a brief pause to take in the clientele who were relaxing, looking out of the windows at the ocean or just meeting for drinks. Then he moved directly to the restrooms, just past the reception desk.

  Five minutes passed and the Spaniard was on the point of following him in, when the Englishman emerged, looking refreshed. He immediately went to the reception desk and spoke briefly to the Concierge, before heading back outside and waiting at the bottom of the steps.

  A taxi! He's called a taxi, thought the Spaniard. He quickly smoothed out his hastily ironed suit, finished off the last of his coffee and threw a few coins down on the table to cover the cost. He gave it a few minutes and then walked out into the sunlight, down the steps, past his target and round the corner, where the Algerian had the Fiat waiting in the shade.

  “We are on the move. He's taking a taxi. Move the car onto the main road so we can pick him up,” said the Spaniard.

  The Algerian nodded, wiped the sweat from his forehead, adjusted his mirrored sunglasses and started the car. They were in luck; just as they turned the corner to the front of the hotel, they spotted the stocky Englishman climbing into a white taxi.

  The Algerian held back in traffic, trying to stay out of the direct line of sight of the target's taxi, but the drive was short, less than two minutes as they headed towards the Kasbah of Tangier.

  “He's going into the Kasbah,” said the Algerian. “This could be our opportunity?”

  “Yes. Let me out, I'll follow. You dump the car and then come and find me. If we get lost, I'll meet you back at Fuad's silver stall,” said the Spaniard.

  The Kasbah was a maze-like warren of narrowed streets that snaked out in a hundred diffe
rent directions. The Spaniard and the Algerian felt comfortable in this environment; the organised chaos, the persistent vendors and stall hawkers, the smells of spices and fresh dates. It was their home turf and once the little Englishman was locked inside the walled city, they would make sure that he would never leave.

  They followed him in through the main gate, keeping a reasonable distance so as not to attract attention. They wanted their target isolated and in a quiet back street so that they could attack him unhindered.

  The Englishman for his part seemed content to wander through the streets, stopping occasionally at a stall to inspect the wood, silver, bronze gifts and artefacts. Perhaps he was shopping for a gift to take home with him? The Spaniard thought he showed no sign of being aware of their presence, which only increased their opinion that the Englishman wasn't surveillance-conscious.

  For the next hour, they trailed the Englishman through smaller and smaller, narrower and quieter streets. At one point, the Englishman stopped at a small café and ordered coffee; he stayed sipping and watching the world go by. The Spaniard and the Algerian carefully secreted themselves into doorways and alcoves, trying to remain unnoticed in the bustling thoroughfare. But there was no sign of suspicion on the face of the Englishman. He simply finished his drink, paid and set off on his walk again.

  It was now starting to get dark; soon the night would close in and that would be a friend to the Spaniard and the Algerian. For them, that was the optimum time to engage their target. They caught sight of the light-coloured jacket of the Englishman heading down an alleyway in a less salubrious part of the Kasbah. Why would he go down there? A woman? A whore to rent?

  This was too good an opportunity for them to ignore. This surveillance had been going on for too long and they needed the Englishman away from the eyes of the rest of the Kasbah. Well, his loins itching would cost him his life, thought the Spaniard.

  They made their way down the narrow alleyway, fists ready to pummel the older man when he was cornered, turned left and… nothing. He wasn't there. He was gone.

  “Where the fuck is –” said the Algerian, confused, which was followed by something that sounded like two blasts of air through a tube in rapid succession.

  The Algerian dropped. He didn't slither or collapse, he simply dropped like a puppet that has had its strings cut. Gravity pushed him to the floor with force. The back of the Algerian's head was blown open and the blood poured down onto the back of his grey shirt. He came to rest in a crumpled heap.

  “Don't move, don't turn around,” said a deep voice. The Englishman.

  The Spaniard felt the weight of cold steel against the back of his head. He knew what it was; the silencer of the weapon that had murdered his partner. Shit!

  “Let me guess,” said the Englishman. “It was a German contract?”

  The Spaniard nodded. Who the hell was this old man? He was supposed to be an easy target, but now the Spaniard felt like he had been set up… been bait!

  “Look, I'll tell them that we lost you. You don't have to do this. We are no one!” said the Spaniard.

  “Oh, that's not true,” said the reborn Gorilla Grant. “You were practice.”

  Then he shot the Spaniard in the back of the head.

  Chapter Six

  Victoria, London – 1989

  The Red Fox was on the prowl.

  Frederick Oberon Oxley, Senior SIS Officer on the Russia Desk, paced along Lambeth Bridge on his way to meet an 'old boy' of his Service. The 'Fox' was six months shy of his retirement package from SIS and in truth, he had no bloody idea what he was going to do once he finally left Century House.

  A cottage in the Cotswolds for himself and Joyce, he supposed. Visit the grandkids, train journeys, paint? He genuinely had no idea. He had been with SIS since his wartime service and he considered himself damn lucky to still be there; a brief spell at the Middle East Desk, a bit in Berlin (well everyone wanted Berlin) in the '60s, before finally settling at the Russia Desk. He considered himself a Russia specialist; knew the language, the mindset and capabilities of the KGB.

  His time at Russia had earned him the Service nickname – the Fox; the Red Fox, to be more precise. Oh yes, Frederick Oberon Oxley was the street scavenger that could sniff out a KGB plot a mile away and get agents deep into the heart of the Soviet political network.

  Oxley was tall, thin, with a lick of white hair pushed into a razor sharp parting; round, wire-framed spectacles gave him a donnish look. But now, as he trudged the streets around Victoria, he was cold and tired and his feet hurt. The meeting had been arranged through the flamboyant head of Rome Station, Jason Greensides. Greensides had apprised him of the outline of the situation. A former SIS officer from way back, being coerced; a kidnapped relative, East German involvement, maybe even Russian involvement; who knew how deep this thing went?

  “It's your bailiwick, Foxy old boy,” said Greensides from his office in Rome. “This thing is tailor-made for Russia Desk.”

  “I'm glad you think so, Jason,” said Oxley, rolling his eyes. “Although I'm not sure what an uncorroborated kidnapping in Italy has to do with Russia Desk operations.”

  “Oh, don't be so bloody pompous, Freddy!” cooed Greensides. “You know who Grant is. You know his background. If he can act as an agent inside a possible Stasi operation for us… well, that would be quite an achievement for what could probably be your final op before the big heave-ho!”

  “Very delicately put, thank you, Jason,” said Oxley. “Okay, I'll check it out. Give me his contact details and I'll bring him in for a chat.”

  And that was why the Red Fox was tramping across London from his warm office in Century House to an SIS safe house in Victoria on what was possibly the wettest day of the year so far.

  The safe house was actually a second floor apartment a mere stone's throw from Victoria Station. A series of anonymous apartments that were serviced by a utilitarian lift, floors 1 to 4, with the added bonus of a urine-smelling hallway. It was the more low rent end of safe houses; the place where you took your distant uncle who had once screwed a KGB Border Guard and was willing to 'tell all' for a few hundred marks.

  Oxley found the street, did a quick check for signs of the 'hairy eyeball', checked for the correct street number and pressed the buzzer that bore the name Westerby on the intercom. A moment later, there was an electronic hiss before a robotic voice said, “This is Consterdine.”

  “This is Mr Thompson,” Oxley replied, completing the recognition code. The door buzzed open and the Red Fox pushed his way in and up the main staircase. A knock on the apartment door and it was opened to reveal a hulk; a shadowy giant called Colin, who was the safe house's minder and housekeeper.

  “I've just boiled the kettle,” said Colin the Hulk. “He's been no bother at all. I'm just stepping out for an hour or so to give you two gents a bit of privacy.”

  Oxley nodded and let the minder go on his way, ready to make his way to the second floor lounge area that was complete with comfortable sofas, hot coffee and a first class audio recording system that was secreted inside the false walls. He opened the door to the lounge. He was tired, wet and cold and was ready for a fight with some lame duck former officer who was probably delusional and ready for a cash handout to keep him quiet! Instead, he found a statue.

  And there sat, not a killer, not a dinosaur assassin of the Cold War, but a man who looked in need of someone to talk to. His suit was rumpled; his shirt collar open at the neck, his fingers interlocked as he leaned forward in contemplation. And then the face looked up from its repose and took in the figure that had interrupted it by coming in through the door. And the face; severe, strong, a face that had lived a life and had its story etched in the lines around the eyes and across the forehead.

  It was the face of a father aching for his child.

  Jack Grant sighed, as if he had recognised someone that could help him; a kindred spirit, and then he said, “I want you to help me get my daughter back.”

  “First
things first. You clean?” asked Oxley. He was getting the tradecraft right, as was his usual routine.

  Grant nodded. “Absolutely. I got off the plane, dumped my gear at home, got a call from your offices and did an anti-surveillance run for nearly two hours to get here. If someone is on me, they are better than me. But I doubt it.”

  Oxley smiled. “Fair enough. Drink?”

  “Scotch. Bloody great big one,” said Grant, as Oxley poured one for both of them.

  “Did Colin look after you?”

  Grant nodded. The safe house minder had gone through all the usual procedures; clothing search, electronic counter surveillance measures search, taken his passport.

  “Well, let's get the hard part out of the way. I know all about you, read over your very extensive file this morning, but we won't dwell too much on what has happened in past lives, shall we? In case you were wondering, my name's Freddy. I do Russia. Which is why, I assume, you've been dropped in my lap?”

  “That seems to be the case,” said Grant, sipping at the supermarket whisky.

  “I'm going to call you Jack if that's okay. Mr Grant sounds too formal for an old boy of SIS, and Gorilla… well, I was never one for show-offy codenames, I'm afraid – except for my own,” said Oxley, settling himself down on the couch opposite.

  Grant said that 'Jack' was just fine.

  “So tell me, where we are now in the timeline? What's happened and what do we know about the foreseeable future?” asked Oxley.

  So Jack Grant started at the beginning in Rome; his daughter, the aborted kidnap attempt by the blond operative, the priest's safe house, the trip to Tangier, the meeting with Vogel in the villa, the offering of a hit contract. He judiciously left out the execution of the two men in Tangier; it served no purpose and was a distraction from the main narrative.