by James Quinn
“Bloody hell, Jack, you don't do things by halves, I'll give you that,” said Oxley, carrying out his standard eye-rolling. “So, just to give you a bit of recent background on Vogel, he's gone up in the world since you two last locked horns. What was he in your day? A Captain – something like that? Well, he's plotted and murdered his way up the Stasi power ladder over the last thirty years and he's now a Colonel, no less.”
“He seems to have risen to lofty heights by a combination of being an effective operations officer and by a bit of dirty internal politics against his rivals. He's sixty now and still active. He heads Abteilung AX, which is responsible for 'Active Measures' in the West and by that, it could mean anything from disinformation, to double agents, to assassination. You know the SSD; they do rather like the seedy side of our business. The only thing that we know of him personally is that he is a widower and that over the past two years he was diagnosed with cancer. He's wheelchair-bound, apparently, but his cancer is currently in remission. Does that fit?”
Grant nodded. “It fits. He's wheelchair-bound and he looks like a corpse that won't die.”
“Perhaps that's his motivation for whatever the hell it is he's involved in.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, a man knowing that he hasn't got long left? Perhaps he wants to even the score against old enemies, disrupt the direction that he sees his country and his cause is heading towards. I mean, he's got nothing to lose, has he? And a man who is dying, anyway and has nothing to lose is a dangerous opponent. He would be willing to take extreme action to fulfil his legacy,” explained Oxley.
“He always was an extremist and he's certainly vitriolic enough,” said Grant, pushing the venom of Ulrich Vogel from his mind.
“You two had a bit of a run-in in Berlin years ago, didn't you? What was all that about? The files don't say,” asked Oxley.
Grant sighed. He knew this was coming. “The details are vague. It was a long time ago. We were running agents on both sides of the divide. Things tend to get messy.”
Both men locked eyes for a few moments, waiting for the other to offer something more. Finally, it was Oxley that broke the silence. “Well, that's the best and most vague non-answer I've come across in recent years. Congratulations, Jack.”
“What about the Russian, Sobolev, my target. Who is he?” asked Grant, diverting the conversation.
“That I can help you out with,” said Oxley, warming to his subject matter. “Dimitri Sobolev is known as the Architect. He's one of Gorbachev's rising stars and, as his title suggests, he is the architect of the new transition that is starting to happen in the Soviet Union; openness, change, a reaching across to the West. He's young, early forties, ambitious and forward-thinking and he's a prime mover in making all this happen for the man in Moscow. He is especially vocal about his plans to dismantle the old, oppressive state security apparatus behind the Iron Curtain – or, where they can't be dismantled, at least work towards better liaison with Western intelligence services.”
“I've met him, briefly, during the talks when Gorbachev visited the West. I liked him. He runs a Russian think-tank known as the Prism. The Prism, as far as we know, is there to help the KGB, SSD and all the other satellite intelligence services get on board with the changes that Gorbachev wants to put in place with us in the West. The word is that Sobolev holds the keys to Gorbachev's Perestroika plan.”
“Christ, no wonder Communist hard-liners want him dead,” said Grant.
Oxley nodded. “Umm, we've heard rumours of several attempts to thwart his work. Well, you know about the suspected assassination plots against Gorbachev? But we've never had one against such an important power player as Sobolev. Things are very fragile at the moment between the Kremlin and the hard-line Communist Party war horses. Not everyone wants the change that Gorbachev insists on pushing forward with. It wouldn't take much to bring the whole house of cards down.”
“Like an assassination of the architect of Gorbachev's plan?” said Grant.
“Exactly. In truth, the assassination wouldn't even have to work, just the fact that it had been attempted – attempted by a former SIS officer, albeit one that had gone rogue and had worked freelance for years – would be enough to shatter the peace process and send the Cold War back twenty years!” said Oxley, thinking out loud.
“What did you say?”
“I said it would send the peace process back twenty–”
“No, no, no!” interrupted Grant urgently. “About it wouldn't even have to work?”
“Well, as I say, it's fragile at the moment, a delicate time, I…”
“Listen to me, I have an idea.” Jack Grant butted in again, spelling out the core of a plan to the SIS man in front of him. It was far from perfect and had many gaping holes, but where there was a chasm of lack of information, it was Freddy Oxley who filled that gap.
“It could work,” said Oxley. “The problem, Jack, is that we are Her Majesty's Secret Service, not a bunch of flat-foots running around on a private enterprise. We want to get your daughter back to the West safely, of course we do, but I can tell you that SIS's priority would be the gathering of political information about the enemy, not a kidnap case. I'm sorry, but that's how the hierarchy would view it.”
Grant thought through what Oxley was saying. He was right, of course, no matter how hard it was to hear. “Look, I know it's risky,” he said, “but if we play this right, we can avert an assassination attempt, avoid an international incident and get Katy back safely.”
“I agree with you, Jack!” said Oxley. “But I still have to sell this to SIS.”
Grant nodded. “Okay, I want to cut a deal.”
“Bloody hell, Jack, there are no deals to be cut! You've got nothing!” explained Oxley. He wondered if Grant had lost the plot; a desperate father, worried out of his mind. It wasn't unreasonable to assume that he would grasp at any straw.
“I do. I've got a bloody sight more than you know. What I don't have is contacts. I've been out of the game too long. There are new players and I don't know them.”
“I can't authorise that, you bloody fool,” said Oxley.
Jack Grant smiled. “You can and you will, because it's good for both of us. Go back to Century House and tell them that Gorilla Grant has a deal for them.”
Oxley threw his hands in the air in exasperation. The man was making no sense. “Okay, okay. I'll indulge you, Jack. What's the deal?”
“You put the plan we discussed into action so that I can get my daughter back and I'll deliver the Harlequin to you. That's the deal.”
Oxley looked sceptical. “What? The Harlequin? Are you crazy? You think they are just going to let you walk away with a known SSD operative?”
Jack Grant stood firm. “The intelligence that I can persuade him to deliver about SSD operations will be invaluable. After that, he belongs to me. You'll just have to give me a bit of trust on this. But the deal is this; you avert an assassination plot, you keep the peace process on track and you get the intelligence product from one of the top SSD assassins when it's all over.”
“Jack, old boy, this sounds like bullshit,” said Oxley.
“I think there is something I should tell you.”
“Okay, I'm all ears.”
So Jack Grant did. He told him exactly what he wanted, what he planned to do and how he planned to do it. He told this stranger that he had only just met things that he had never spoken out loud to another human being in many, many years.
And it left Freddy Oxley, speechless.
An hour later, from the apartment window, Freddy Oxley watched Jack Grant walk out onto the street and disappear into the London crowds.
The man was a born operator; truly remarkable. No wonder he had survived so long in this business.
A gentleman's agreement had been reached, subject to it being approved further up the chain of command, so the two old intelligence operators had discussed tradecraft and how to handle covert communications between them.
One to one in the short term and with a broader strategy in the longer term.
He thought he saw relief in the eyes of the old assassin. Someone had helped him take up the mantle; someone else was in his corner. He thought it emboldened Jack Grant, gave him strength and gave him belief that he would be getting his daughter back safely.
Now Oxley's biggest challenge was to go back to SIS and try to convince the Operations, Deputy Directors and even 'C' himself, that this was a viable plan. He would have to put on his briefing head and call in a few favours. For what it was worth, Oxley thought that Gorilla Grant's plan had a better than average chance of succeeding, as long as it was handled right. Getting the girl back was important; absolutely. Halting an assassination and keeping the peace process on track; definitely.
But for the Red Fox, head of SIS/Russia Desk, the real bonus was getting a man inside East German and Soviet espionage operations, even if only temporarily. And if they persuaded the Harlequin, the mysterious assassin and SSD operative, to defect also, well, that would be quite a coup.
A nice way to round off a career, thought Oxley. Oh yes, this was going to work out well. The old field man in him could feel it; it invigorated him.
The Red Fox was hunting once again.
Chapter Seven
SSD Training Camp, Kallinchen, East Germany – 1989
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!
The rounds from the assault rifle hit the target perfectly. So far on his current weapon, an Austrian made Steyr AUG assault rifle, he had a tightly packed, dinner-plate-sized grouping.
The Harlequin was an hour into a firearms training regime and so far he had decimated multiple targets with a variety of weapons – Mauser, Glock, AK-47 – but so far the Steyr AUG was his favourite.
The SSD camp at Kallinchen was mainly used for tactical and evasive driver training. The close protection teams of senior GDR politicians used it to refresh their bodyguard skills, as well as it being used by Stasi 'Executive Action' teams to analyse the art of assassination in real time to see if they could do anything better. But the Harlequin liked the isolation of the training camp and would often spend afternoons here on the firing ranges, enjoying the solitude.
He loaded a fresh magazine, threw the bolt forward and moved the weapon into his shoulder. His right eye looked through the 1.5 Magnification and rested the black circle on the man-sized target over 200 metres away.
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!
He had dedicated his adult life to the art of assassination and, in his relatively short career, he had disposed of nearly a dozen men on operations all around the globe. Within the SSD, he was classed as 'special', an untouchable, not on the Active Service Personnel lists; instead, he was under the direct control of Abteilung AX (Active Measures) headed by the ruthless Ulrich Vogel; his father.
His mind wandered to the girl. He had been thinking of her more and more over the past few days. How similar she was to him in so many ways. She felt familiar, as if they had met before in a different reality. He was conflicted by his thoughts of her; she was so gentle, brave, but also defiant and tough. He felt an overwhelming need to protect her, despite his orders to kidnap her, hold her hostage and use her as bait. There was also the conflict about who her father was; Gorilla Grant – the assassin, the whore of MI6, and any number of Western intelligence agencies.
CRACK! CRACK!… CRACK!
He peered through the binoculars to check the shots on target and became aware of figures over his left shoulder. He turned and saw his father in the wheelchair, with his personal bodyguard, Franz, behind him. The Harlequin lifted off the ear defenders and said, “Herr Oberst.”
“Tut, tut. Your aim on that last round was slightly off! You need to focus your mind… you appear distracted,” chided Vogel, a frown of disappointment etched on his face, one milky-scarred eye dead and the other penetrating with burning intensity.
The Harlequin ignored the barb and redirected the conversation. “Not distracted, no. I am merely focussing on the details for my next mission.”
Vogel nodded. “That is why I have come all this way to find you. I need you back in the field as quickly as possible. You leave for Paris tomorrow. I want you to set up the safe house in preparation for the operation in Austria.”
“And the Gorilla?” asked the Harlequin.
“Yes, the Gorilla will have the address and will meet you there. You are to be his back-up man, help with logistics, surveillance and whatever else he needs,” ordered Vogel.
“But also to keep watch on him?”
“Precisely! The Gorilla is a disposable tool, certainly, but we also want him to complete his mission for us.”
“And when the assassination is done? What shall I do then?” enquired the Harlequin, hoping for the answer that he had long wanted.
Vogel smiled. “Oh Peter, that is when you will receive the gift that you have waited so many years for. Once the killing of the Russian is complete, then and only then are you permitted to terminate Gorilla Grant. I want him on his knees when he dies. There should be no loose ends.”
“I have waited so long for this day,” said Peter, removing the old magazine from the rifle and replacing it with yet another one.
“I know you have. It is my duty as a father to deliver to you the murderer of your poor, dear mother,” said Vogel, the one good eye burning brightly with a zealot-like intensity.
The Harlequin thought for a moment, imagining the pleasure of killing the man who was his sworn enemy. Then his mind snapped out of it and turned to something that he had not even considered before. “And what of the girl? Katherine. What will become of her?” he asked, looking down at his father.
Ulrich Vogel smiled, savouring the moment. “Oh, my son! You shall have your fun with her, but ultimately, and by your hand, she will meet the same fate as Gorilla Grant.”
SIS Operations Briefing Room, Century House, London
“And that is why I believe that we, as a secret intelligence service, should support Operation TURNPIKE. Not only because it is our duty to protect a UK citizen, but also because it sends a message to our allies that we are indeed committed to fostering the newly formed relationship with the Soviet Union and its intelligence services. Thank you.”
Freddy Oxley sat back down, looked at his briefing notes… and waited for the eruption of bullshit to start.
“Righty-o, Freddy, excellent briefing if I may say so,” said the Director of Ops, all smiles and encouragement.
“Absolutely first class,” said C. The Chief of the Secret Intelligence Service was still looking down at the briefing folder and making a few private notations with his fountain pen.
“As always, up to your usual standards, Fred,” murmured the Deputy Chief.
Freddy Oxley felt like he was in the middle of a pack of wolves, waiting for them to start striking and ripping at his throat. Instead, all he said was, “Thank you. I believe that we have an opportunity here to make a difference.”
“Of course, of course, but before we get too ahead of ourselves, perhaps just a few questions to run by you, if that's okay?” said the Director/Ops, smoothing out his Regimental tie.
“Of course, Gerald, I would expect nothing less,” said Oxley, reasonably.
“Quite. Perhaps you could tell me, Freddy, are we sure this is all legitimate? I mean, I'm sure it is, but it wouldn't be the first time that an old agent has wanted a bit of attention and made up a rather fanciful story to make a bit of extra cash, or to get his ego stroked.”
Oxley cleared his throat and prepared himself to play the game. “Well, that was exactly my initial thought, also. So I carried out the usual due diligence on the movements of the girl. She hasn't been seen in weeks at work, or at her home address; she has effectively disappeared off the planet. Her friends, work colleagues and employers state that it is most out of character. As far as we can tell, Jack Grant's story of events checks out.”
“I see, and what of Grant himself? Does he have an angle?” asked the Deputy C
hief.
Oxley shook his head. “Grant is comfortably well off in his own right, so it's not about getting a hand-out from SIS. He willingly chose to retire from his former 'career' and has lived a quiet, respectful life for a good number of years, so it's not, to use your phrase, that he needs an ego boost. I've met with the man. He was haunted and desperate and quite frankly, I completely believe his story.”
The three Executive Officers of SIS all shared a look that said: touché.
“So you believe that there is a bit of a cabal behind the Iron Curtain? Set on wrecking the approaches to building a better relationship with the West?” asked C.
Oxley nodded. “I believe that is the case, Chief, yes. We have heard rumblings over the past few years about discontent within Soviet and its satellite intelligence services. A lot of powerful people have a lot to lose if the status quo changes. The fact that we have evidence of renegade members of the SSD as part of this conspiracy only confirms it.”
“Well yes, they do rather seem to have gotten their knickers in a twist about having a taste of democracy,” said Director/Ops. “What do we know about the opposition?”
Oxley shrugged. “We know about Vogel and the Harlequin. But I have a feeling that they are what we would class as middle management; co-ordinators and trigger men. Who is behind them, the real power players, we can only guess at. We have our suspicions, but until we get our man in there, inside their camp, it is a mystery.”
“By 'our man', I assume that you mean Jack Grant?” asked the Deputy Chief, flicking open a separate file for reference.
“Yes. Grant has a reputation for working in tough places undercover. I'm sure we all remember his success for us inside the Yakuza in the late Sixties?” said Oxley, standing his ground and getting shots in.
“Well, how could we forget? It was a turbulent time, to put it mildly. So what exactly are you asking SIS to do, Freddy? Your briefing pack is a little… vague,” said C.
