by James Quinn
Oxley cleared his throat and went for it. “Chief, I am merely asking for permission to work with, and alongside in a liaison capacity, selected members of Russian Intelligence. That is key to the overall mission. Without that official permission, well, we don't really have a mission, unfortunately. Aside from that, we are looking at standard logistics assistance – travel, documentation, finance – in order to smooth Grant's insertion behind enemy lines, as it were.”
“So you are looking for a surgical strike?” asked the Director/Ops.
“I think so, Gerald, yes. We get Grant in play with Vogel and his people, get them to trust that he will do as he says regarding assassinating Sobolev, and then we launch the sting operation.”
“It's a bit bloody risky, isn't it? Aside from the girl getting home, what's in it for us?” asked the Deputy Chief.
“Aside from penetrating an assassination plot to take down one of the man in Moscow's peace transition architects, you mean?” said Oxley slyly. “Think of how much standing that would give us with Russia. We wouldn't need to go cap in hand to the CIA for every little thing anymore! SIS would be at the top table, offering currency, alongside the KGB, CIA and everyone else.”
C and his Deputy Chief shared a knowing glance. They had long hated being cut out of the loop by their American cousins, so to have something to barter with could only benefit SIS. But was it worth the risk?
“Of course the final thing,” said Oxley, going in for the kill, “is that Grant assures me he could persuade one of the Stasi's top field operatives and trigger men to defect! Think of it, Gerald… the Harlequin sat in the defector's chair spewing up what he knows about SSD characters, operations and methods!”
“Yes, I was going to ask about that. I assume this SSD operative would be asking for sanctuary, relocation, and a pardon from criminal prosecution in the West?” asked the Deputy Chief.
“I think it would be the sweetener, yes,” said Oxley. He could feel he was gaining traction with his case. If he could just keep the momentum going a little bit longer…
“How the bloody hell does Grant think he can persuade an SSD hard man to defect? Sounds a bit fanciful to me, a bit pie in the sky,” said C.
“Grant apparently has some leverage, some information that he is willing to use to get the Harlequin to defect. He sees the rescue of his daughter, halting the assassination, exposing Vogel and facilitating the defection to the West of the Harlequin as all part of the plan. I get the feeling that if we don't help him, he'll just bloody well go and do it without us and probably get himself killed in the process. I've asked him what the leverage is that he has against the Harlequin, but he refused to tell me,” lied Oxley. In all his years, he had learned the delicate art of keeping information back about field operations from the desk men; what they didn't know, they didn't worry about.
The three intelligence bureaucrats looked at each other and nodded.
“Well, Freddy, if you could step outside for a wee while and let us put our heads together and ruminate on this. We won't keep you long,” said C.
He sat in the outer office, chatting amiably to the Director/Ops Secretary and nursing a cup of tepid tea.
Had he covered all his bases? Had he sold the operation well enough? He knew what they were thinking; ready for retirement, looking for a last hurrah! But they were wrong… well, mostly they were wrong. I mean, he couldn't deny that the thought of running serious ops behind the Iron Curtain got his heart racing again. But in truth, Fred Oxley not only wanted to get this father and daughter back home safely, he also had the opportunity to make the world a better place before he shuffled off this mortal coil.
He had fought the Cold War in some hard places and he would be damned if he was going to let a bunch of East German and Russian thugs disrupt the possibility of peace between the East and the West. After all, that was exactly why they had fought against Communism for so bloody long!
The door opened to the Briefing Room and C and his Deputy exited, not even looking in Fred Oxley's direction. Was that good or bad, he wondered? He sensed that there had been push-back against his plan, perhaps a disagreement?
Gerald, the Director/Ops, poked his head around the door and beckoned for him to come in.
“Okay, Freddy, we'll let you run with this little operation of yours. But beware, if there is any blowback, we will cut Grant off at the knees. He will become disavowed, to use our American Cousins' phrase. We'll deny all knowledge and will simply portray him as a crazy old spy that got himself in too deep with some very bad people. Do I make myself clear?” said the Director/Ops evenly.
“Absolutely. Thank you, Gerald.”
“Get yourself down to Resources and get everything you need. Understood?”
“The paperwork is already in play,” said Oxley, his mind now turning, figuring out if he had missed anything. He thought not, but the old spy in him would double-check once more.
“So what's your next plan of action?” asked Director/Ops.
Oxley thought for a moment. “I'm going to have to reach out to the other side – the Russians – find a go-between on their side that can get me into Sobolev's inner circle and arrange a covert meeting.”
“You have someone in mind? Remember, we don't want politicians involved in any of this. We want them kept out of the loop in case the house of cards falls down.”
Oxley nodded in understanding. “Don't worry. I have someone in mind. He's KGB, Line K –Counter-Intelligence. We've crossed paths in the past. He's good, professional.”
“Will he flip on you? Sell you out?”
“I bloody hope not! But this is the KGB we are talking about here, so who knows?”
“Well, rather you than me,” said Gerald, the Director/Ops. “I don't know what the world is coming to when we are putting our faith in the enemy to help save us. Next thing you know, we'll be negotiating with the Irish!”
Chapter Eight
Rue Toullier, Latin Quarter, Paris – 1989
The streetlights were beginning to flicker into life, casting a hazy glow, as Gorilla Grant turned into the Rue Toullier.
The Latin Quarter of Paris had long been home to the more avant-garde and bohemian members of Paris's artistic, educational and scholastic society. It had a mystique of its own that was proud of its fringe element. Gorilla Grant had lived and loved and killed in Paris at various points in his life, and while for him London would always be the place that he thought of as home, Paris he thought of as his whore. He would stay, use the city and then leave her behind, tainted in some way.
He was dressed as a manual worker; boots, jeans, sweater, heavy woollen jacket and over his shoulder was slung a duffel bag. He had flown in that afternoon from London using one of his less than reputable passports, then did a quick check-in with SIS by leaving a message on the secure telephone number he had memorised. Oxley would get it and know that he was now in play.
He found the address that he had been given; Number 9c, a third floor apartment, and he stood outside for a moment, scanning the street. When he was satisfied, he pressed the intercom buzzer. A crackled voice came through instantly, and Grant thought that he had been watched as he approached.
“It's Gorilla,” he said.
The buzzer opened the lock and he pushed his way inside. The staircase was the standard winding variety with tiled steps and he followed them round until he came to the door that belonged to the 'Safe House'. He knocked and almost instantly the door was pulled ajar slightly. Cold eyes observed him for a brief second, and he guessed a pistol was pointed at him covertly, before the door was pulled back to full extension and the two men became aware of each other. The last time, it had been in Rome; one hunting the other. Now it seemed they would be temporary allies.
But something happened on a primal level, something that neither of them could explain. Jack Grant had lived with it his whole life, even more so when he thought of himself as Gorilla Grant; that blood-rush, that rage that was a living, breathing thing ins
ide him. The rage, in the past, had helped to hurt and kill and commit violence upon his enemies. He had always struggled to control it and dampen its fire.
But he had never sensed it quite so strongly in another human. He took one look at the blond assassin, the Harlequin, and knew that the other man was feeling that similar flush of violence inside also. If either man had had weapons in their hands, it would have been a bloodbath. They locked eyes briefly for a second, each inspecting the other and then the moment passed and the temperature in the room returned to normal.
“Can I come in?” asked Grant, slowing down his breathing, suppressing the rage.
The younger man nodded and moved back to allow him space to enter. The past comes back to haunt me and then some, thought Grant.
“Our safe house for the next week or so,” murmured the Harlequin. It was bland and unremarkable and the trudge up the stairs to the third floor hadn't done anything to dissuade Jack Grant of that fact. The apartment itself was functional and furnished with cheap furniture, which was all the better for when they had to abandon it once the operation was complete.
“Your room is in there,” said the Harlequin, nodding towards a room at the rear. “Kitchen, bathroom, lounge, my room. You should get some rest. We have a lot of work to do. Tomorrow, we go over the intelligence on the target.”
Grant nodded, accepting the situation. Then he turned to the blond assassin and said, “Do you always do what Vogel asks of you?” Grant's tone was accusatory.
The blond scowled, just for a moment, and then his composure came back. “I am a soldier. I do what is needed… I'll be ready at 7am. I'll see you in the morning.”
The next morning, there was breakfast waiting on the table that they would be working from. Good coffee, warm bread rolls and cheeses on a plate. The younger man had been busy and was already eating. He looked up as Grant entered.
“Eat, and we'll start to work through the information we have,” he said. There was a big stack of folders next to him on the table.
Grant poured himself a coffee, black with sugar, and then grabbed a handful of rolls off the plate and sat. He reached over and pulled across one of the open files. The files were thick and contained everything that he would need to know about the target, Dimitri Sobolev.
The file about the target, despite its bulk, was of limited value to Grant. There was nothing really of tactical value in it with the exception of a recent photograph of Sobolev. No, what he was really concerned about was how he would gain access to Sobolev to be able to complete the hit. He entered what he liked to think of as his 'operational trance' now, pushing everything else from his mind and focusing on planning and completing the contract that he had been given. He carried on reading until the location of the hit was finally revealed: Austria.
Schloss Osterreich was a thousand-year-old privately-owned castle that had been in the same family for multiple generations. Located in the Mostviertel region, it had thirteen bedrooms, a private golf course, and a state-of-the-art conference facility. It was the perfect location to hold a private conference between delegates of various Soviet and Western intelligence agencies, most notably SIS, CIA and DGSE. It was private, off the beaten track and, above all else, it was on neutral ground.
According to the intelligence file, the point of the conference was to open up a dialogue on relatively neutral ground, where professional intelligence officers from both sides of the Iron Curtain could discuss intelligence 'shipping rights' and operational demarcation lines as their political leaders attempted to move forward to a period of openness and cooperation.
Dimitri Sobolev was the Chairman of the meeting and it had been his driving force that had negotiated a deal to get the opposing spies and others around the table. The word was that there had been a lot of resistance to the idea initially, but Sobolev's dynamic personality had swept even the most hard-headed spook along with him. The man was a negotiation tour de force.
Grant looked through the folders on the location; blueprints, satellite reconnaissance photos, maps, diagrams, local roads in and out, as well as a study of the personnel and staff that helped operate the castle. It was a logistical nightmare and penetrating its security covertly was going to be tough. But there was always a way; a weak point, a flaw in the system, always. He just had to find it, so he buried his head in the papers and began digging.
At one point, he looked up from the files that he had been reading and glanced across the table at the Harlequin. The younger man was engrossed in one of the papers that he was reading, his brow furrowed as he concentrated and drank in all the information. Grant took a moment to look over at the strong, handsome face.
“Anything?” he asked.
The younger man looked over and shook his head. “Possibilities, but nothing that stands out.”
“I agree. You have done this type of thing before?”
The Harlequin thought about whether to answer for a moment and then nodded. “In many places, in many cities.”
“I know. I've heard stories. That hit in Africa. Very impressive,” said Grant, genuinely meaning it from one professional to another.
A slight nod of the head was the only acknowledgment from the Harlequin. “I have read your file also, many times. Beirut, America, Asia, Mexico, and Europe… you kept busy.”
“It was a busy time. I was never short of work or kept idle,” said Grant, before returning back to the files.
They had less than two weeks to come up with a plan that had a halfway decent chance of success. In the next week, they would start preparing to travel to Austria and have everything in place at an, as of yet, unspecified forward operating base. By the end of the third day, they had pinpointed three possible methods of getting into the castle and close to the target. Two were risky, but the third one showed promise.
“I still think option three is workable,” said the Harlequin, looking down at his sketches and notes, tracing the route on a map with a pencil.
Grant nodded. “I agree. It provides good cover, it has easy access, plus it gives me time to secrete myself in position.”
Ironically, if their plan worked, it would be one of the castle's most prominent security features that would be the weakest part of the building, something that he could exploit to his advantage.
That evening, the second call to Katy was due to take place. He sat in the lounge and waited next to the phone, willing time to move faster. The Harlequin had discreetly retired to his bedroom, giving the older man the privacy to speak with his daughter. The phone rang once and Grant had his hand to it instantly.
“Katy!”
“Dad! Dad, it's me.”
“Katy, are you okay?”
“I'm fine, just worried about you.”
He smiled. Just hearing her voice had instantly lifted him. “I'm okay. I'm working hard to get you home. Just hang on in there a bit longer. It won't be too much longer, I promise.”
“I am. I will. I'm okay, I just need you to be safe,” she said.
And then the line was cut.
Grant replaced the receiver and sat for a moment. She sounded fine, healthy, not mistreated in any way, so that was a positive. Vogel would want him to be motivated for now, so mistreating Katy would be counter-productive.
“They tell me that we will do another call to Katy when we reach Austria,” said the Harlequin, standing in the doorway of his bedroom.
Grant looked over at him and nodded. “Okay…”
“I was fortunate to be able to spend some time with your daughter recently. I was her protector in her current location. She is being well treated and well looked after, I can assure you,” said the Harlequin. He sat down next to Grant and placed a leather case on the table between them. He opened it and inside was a black pistol.
“You know this gun?” asked the Harlequin.
Grant nodded. “Of course. It's a Sig Sauer P220.”
“Correct. You have used it before? You know how to operate it?”
Grant rolle
d his eyes and was half tempted to give the younger man a terse reply. Something along the lines of, “Sonny, I've fired and killed more people with guns than you've had birthdays.” Instead, he said nothing and merely nodded.
“This will be the gun that you use for the hit. It is tooled to fit a suppressor. You get one fresh magazine for the hit. No more,” said the Harlequin.
“Understood,” said Grant, lifting the weapon out, stripping out the magazine and pulling back the slide to ensure that the chamber was empty. He spent a few minutes handling the weapon, getting a feel for its working parts, weight and actions.
“Do you need to practice with it?” asked the Harlequin. “I understand it is several years since you last acted operationally.”
Gorilla Grant smiled. “Oh, that's not quite true. I had a little bit of practice in North Africa recently. Besides, I'm going to be within touching distance of the target in Austria, so if I miss at that range, well, you should probably have picked a better assassin!”
The Harlequin laughed to himself, for a moment forgetting who he was dealing with. In spite of himself, he had come to admire elements of this old spy and assassin; the way he carried himself and his no-nonsense humour. Not that he would ever forget or forgive his feud with Gorilla Grant, or what he would be doing to him once this mission was over, but for now, he at least had a working relationship with him.
“Can I play with it for a day or two, though? Dry fire, no live rounds obviously. Practice some quick draws and stoppage drills?” asked Grant, returning the weapon to the case.
“Of course, that is not a problem,” said the Harlequin. “Now to specific orders. Sobolev should be executed by a shot to the head and you are to leave the weapon at the scene.”
“Leave the weapon? But that goes against protocol,” said Grant, confused.
“My father was most specific about that.”
Grant flinched at that. “Wait. You said your father?”
