by James Quinn
“That's correct.”
“Who is your father?”
“The Colonel,” said the Harlequin, his face set and his eyes narrowed. He had assumed that Grant knew who his father was.
Grant's eyes widened. “Vogel? Ulrich Vogel is your father?”
“Yes.”
Grant let the information sink in. Of course, it absolutely fitted with Vogel's Machiavellian cruelty. Now it became clear why this young man was the way he was. Grant knew that he had to turn this situation around and find some way to penetrate this assassin's armour. He thought he knew how, but it was all about timing, the right moment, the right level of trust. So for now, he would bide his time.
“Do you understand the specifics of what we need?” said the Harlequin.
“You mumble a little but I get the general idea,” said Grant, nodding that he understood. There was no way he was going to be able to shoot his way out or 'accidentally' lose the gun down a drain or in a river. Vogel and his tame killer had him by the balls.
Geneva, Switzerland – 1989
“Is this going to be another one of your paltry efforts to recruit me?” said the KGB man.
“Sacha, I would not embarrass you in such away again. Besides, I'm not sure we can afford you these days!” replied the Red Fox.
Both men laughed and embraced in the Russian style, totally ignoring the people passing them by in the park. They had agreed to meet in the Parc de Bastions; the lush and open-plan park near the Old Town, their bench overlooked one of the many giant chess boards dotted around the locale.
They were not just spies, but two old friends and professionals who had, over the years, helped each other out with information about a common cause and assisted each other up the ladder when they could. The last time they had met was when KGB officer Sacha Krylov was stationed in the London Rezidentura as part of their Line K Counter-Intelligence section. One of Oxley's Russia Desk officers had made a clumsy attempt at recruitment whilst dabbling on the Diplomatic cocktail circuit.
The Russian had gently, and kindly, rebuffed the younger spy, telling him that “My friend, I must refuse your kind offer, but if I was ever going to be a double agent for anyone, it would absolutely be for Queen Elizabeth!”
His manner and social grace was in stark contrast to the dishevelled and unkempt SIS man and these days, the stylish and urbane Sacha Krylov was Head of Station in the Geneva KGB Rezidentura.
“So, how are things?” asked Oxley.
“Freddy, I'm happy and content. The office is running smoothly and Geneva suits my taste. I'll put it this way – I have a better social life than when I was based in London!” said Krylov, laughing. They talked about old times, old friends and who was screwing around behind their wife's back, the price of beer in London, anything but the nuances of their profession.
“I hear that you are playing with the big boys these days, dallying with the politicians,” said Oxley, watching to see if there was any sign of surveillance on them. He doubted it, but if there was, it would only be the Swiss security mob.
“As always, Freddy, you are well informed, but it's true I have been asked to consult on several political projects for the Kremlin. The winds of change, they tell me. I'm just content to still be of use,” replied Krylov. “Now, enough of this fishing, you old fox. Tell me what's up and why you've come all this way to meet an old friend in a park. I mean, you didn't even offer to buy me lunch!”
Oxley moved in closer on the bench and lowered his voice. “Okay, Sacha, cards on the table for you, I'm here in an officially unofficial capacity.”
“How very cryptic of you, Freddy. How can I help?”
“Dimitri Sobolev.”
“Gorbachev's man? What about him?” asked the KGB man, wondering where his old friend was going with this.
“I'd like your thoughts on him,” said Oxley, studying his friend's face for any hint of deception.
Krylov sighed and told him what he knew and liked about the man in Moscow's architect for change. “I love my country, Freddy, I am a patriot and I would do anything to stop anyone harming it. But even I recognise that change has to come. We are bankrupting ourselves fighting a Cold War that we are inevitably going to lose. The only way for Russia to survive is by finding a new identity for the future, changing the old way of thinking and forming new alliances with the West. Between Gorbachev and Dimitri Sobolev, they have come up with a plan to work with the West, whilst still retaining their love for the Motherland.”
Oxley thought for a while, analysing what Krylov had said. “That would be my assessment too, Sacha. We owe the next generation the opportunity for hope and not to have to fight old men's wars indefinitely. I believe that is what Sobolev and the man in Moscow are trying to achieve. Sacha, I'd like an introduction – or, at the very least, I would like you to act as an intermediary between SIS and Sobolev.”
Krylov looked suspicious. “Why, may I ask? And why do you need me for that? Get your offices to put in a call through the Kremlin.”
Oxley moved in closer and whispered, “We have word that there is a plot against Sobolev.”
“What kind of plot?”
“Let's say the lethal kind.”
“Genuine?” asked Krylov, alarmed.
“Absolutely, Sacha. I would not have come all this way to meet you on something unverified.”
The KGB man nodded. “I know. Okay, tell me what you can and I will see if I can help.”
So Oxley told him about a cabal growing against Gorbachev's policies and the endeavours of Sobolev's Prism think-tank. He told him, in vague terms, about a hit contract that was due to take place in the near future and how it was designed to destroy trust between various elements of Soviet and Western intelligence and then, by default, the relationship built up so far by the politicians on both side of the Iron Curtain. “Sacha, they want to wreck any hope of ending the Cold War,” he said.
“And you know all of this, how?” said Krylov, the professional counter-intelligence officer in him trying to work out the angles.
“Let's just say that we have a source that has direct knowledge of the assassination plot. The source is also the assassin. I need that source kept safe and alive for the foreseeable future.”
“What about the rest of the conspirators? There are always more!” said Krylov, who had hunted down more than a few traitors in his time. In fact, more than anything else, the hunting of traitors was his passion.
Oxley shrugged. “At the moment, we only know of a few percent of them. What we don't know is how far this plot goes up the food chain and who else we can trust. But, as we move nearer the time, I would guess that the rest of the conspirators will be in touch with one another. That could be the route we need to track them down – phone intercepts, radio signals, tracing of associates. You know how it works.”
“And is this assassin of yours, is he or she any good, or are they just another psychopath that likes the idea of killing?” asked Krylov.
Oxley pondered how much to tell his friend; too much and it would put the operation at risk, not enough and he might decide that he wasn't trusted and walk away. Finally, he said, “I don't think it's too much of an exaggeration to say that back in the day, this particular contractor was top international level. As far as I know, he's never failed to complete a hit.”
“So that's why you came to me?” said Krylov, his mind lost in thought about what he had just been told.
“Naturally. You've been out of Moscow for several years, so in that respect you are untainted, plus you've had a working relationship with Sobolev in the past. You are a natural go-between. There is a conference scheduled for next week and at that conference Sobolev will be assassinated. Our plan, Sacha, is to run a bit of a deception operation that keeps both Sobolev and my source alive,” said Oxley.
“I like how now it is suddenly 'our' plan,” laughed the KGB man.
“SIS already has an officer pegged for the Sobolev conference. He's a good chap, but unfortunat
ely he is expected to come down with a severe bout of gastroenteritis, poor fellow.”
“How unfortunate,” said Krylov, without any hint of sympathy.
“Indeed. Don't worry, the Chief of our service will sign off on it and will in fact be submitting the name of yours truly as a poor stand-in.”
“That is convenient for your operation! So you want me to reach out to Sobolev?” asked Krylov.
The Red Fox nodded. “Sacha, you would give it an air of credibility and would be able to confirm my bona fides like no other.”
“And what is in it for me?”
“You mean apart from stopping an assassination against one of your most influential countrymen?”
“Yes! Am I Don Quixote all of a sudden?” laughed Krylov.
Oxley did his habitual eye-rolling. “Bloody KGB hoods! Okay, what do you want?”
The KGB man thought for a moment. He had the germ of an idea, and as much as he loved the lifestyle of the Swiss, on a professional level he was bored trying to conduct operations in Geneva. There was simply no challenge to it. No, he wanted something with more action, another step up the intelligence ladder, perhaps even the ear of Gorbachev himself. “I want in on the operation. I want access to your source!”
Oxley frowned. “Bloody hell, what for?”
So Sacha told him, and after fifteen minutes of speaking, even Oxley had to admit that the KGB man knew how to turn a situation to his own advantage. What a player!
Finally, they had a gentleman's agreement and the outline of a plan. “I'll give you thirty minutes with him, but if he refuses then that's down to him. We have no control over whatever else the assassin does or doesn't do.”
“Agreed, but don't worry,” said Sacha Krylov, smiling. “I can be very persuasive.”
Gorilla walked through the rain-spattered darkness of Paris. The streets had a sort of final desperation to them, almost like a dying animal that was trying to hold onto the last slithers of its feral territory. He could sense death. It was in the shops and stores, in the faces of the people he passed. And yet here he was; history's wildcard, here to break the machine. He was the assassin set to throw a grenade into the cradle.
He had ruminated for days on what he should do… how he should approach this most difficult of problems. An hour later and exhausted from walking at a brisk pace, he knew what he had to do and how he was going to do it.
The Harlequin had left earlier that day, starting the long drive to Austria. He had spent the previous night changing his appearance; dying his hair dark, cutting it short and then adding a few subtle changes to his dress and manner to disguise his real identity. The once blond assassin had to cross three separate borders – Luxembourg, Germany and Austria – over a ten hour journey. It was a slow and cumbersome process but, in the long term, it was completely worth it because, hidden in a concealed box underneath the chassis of his Renault Espace, was the weapon and ammunition that would be used in the assassination.
Once the Harlequin had reached his destination, he was to set up a safe house in Linz, posing as a tourist visiting the region. Then, and only then, was he to contact Grant at the Paris safe house to confirm that he was in place and then the next day, Grant would fly out to Austria and be collected by the Harlequin at the airport.
So Gorilla Grant was left alone in Paris for the next few days. He was reasonably sure that there had been no active surveillance on him by SSD operatives based in Paris. For one thing, he was certain that he had not been picked up by any hostile surveillance and secondly, he reasoned that, as this was a private operation, Vogel would not be able to draw on SSD resources without tipping someone off about his 'private project'. Besides, Vogel thought that he had Grant between a rock and a hard place and was arrogant enough to assume that Grant would just roll over and do what he was told.
He found a little bar nearby, ordered a glass of red wine and asked for some coins to use the payphone. Moments later, he was calling the SIS contact number in London and dictated the latest intelligence that he had about the hit; Austria, the Castle, how they planned to get inside, and what Sobolev and his security team should expect him to do. The last thing he wanted was for some overzealous bodyguard to start getting all enthusiastic with his itchy trigger finger.
The reply was vague and nondescript to say the least, a mere, “Confirmed.”
So as usual, he was on his own and would have to fend for himself. He visited an ex-military and police surplus store that he knew about in Montmartre and, after perusing the contents of the store, came out with several less lethal items than he was used to having at his disposal; cash and no questions asked. He had no doubts that he would have to use them in Austria to get what he wanted.
He walked back to the safe house, taking his time, remembering old places that he knew and letting his mind wander.
Katy. She was there at the back of his mind, like a barb that refused to be ignored.
If he was to succeed, he needed to hide her away in the safety of his mind. He could afford no distractions. He had always been that way when he was operational; he would get on a plane and forget about everyone left behind at home. It had worked and helped him survive whatever it was that he had been called upon to carry out. He compartmentalised. So for now, he would put her away. She was safe for the moment, and he would hear her voice once more just before the hit in Austria.
The rain was getting worse, so he headed back to the apartment. Paris was absolutely his whore when he needed her to be, but she could also be a bitch.
Office of Abeteilung AX, SSD Headquarters, Normannenstrasse, Lichtenberg, East Berlin – 1989
Ulrich Vogel watched the women writhing on the bed.
He had long since lost the ability to become physically aroused by sexual pleasure; the cancer and the medication had halted that many years ago, but mentally he liked to indulge in voyeuristic fantasies.
The VHS video was one of his favourites that had been smuggled across from the West, the best that Hamburg had to offer. The women were moaning in ecstasy, either real or imagined, as they scissored each other to the point of orgasm, their bodies grinding in a feral frenzy.
It was a welcome distraction as he worked through in his mind the details of his operation. Had he missed anything? Could everyone be trusted? Were there any variables that he had not considered? He thought not. He thought he had put together a brilliant plan that covered both his political and personal machinations.
“Ja, ja… oh mein Gott… ja!” The full-breasted blonde woman was now performing oral sex on the smaller dark-haired girl. To Vogel, it was mildly interesting.
When he had been approached by the Network, he had at first resisted. He was old and riddled with cancer and he knew that was why he was chosen by the more powerful men, the politicians and Ministers who wanted to cleave in two the chances of a reunification with the West. It was because he was disposable and had nothing left to live for. Oh, true, he was an exceptional covert operations officer who had a wealth of experience, but the primary focus was because he was a dead man walking.
The video now showed a large black man entering the blonde woman from behind, pumping into her hard, while she continued to perform cunnilingus on the dark-haired girl. He supposed it was mildly erotic.
Colonel Ulrich Vogel believed in the Network's cause; after all, the very thought of working side by side with his lifelong opponents – the West Germans, the Americans, the French and the British – was disgusting to him. So the Network had waited and watched and looked for an opportunity.
He turned his attention briefly back to the screen; the dark-skinned man was now being fellated by both of the girls at the same time. He knew how this particular story played out, he had seen it so many times, and he knew that the man would not last much longer before he climaxed.
Ironically, it had been the vomit-inducing thought of working hand-in-hand with the CIA, SIS, and DGSE that had given him the idea of using a Western assassin, a Western 'stooge', to carr
y out the hit against Gorbachev's man. The idea was to present the idea that 'rogue' elements of Western intelligence were the ones that were truly opposed to 'the reaching of hands across the Iron Curtain' and had taken executive action to end it once and for all.
The Network had approved of his idea, had voted on it and, through a series of covert meetings and passing of secret messages, had authorised Ulrich Vogel to be the Operational Commander of their project. A project that they believed in time would bring about the political downfall of Gorbachev and take the Cold War to new levels of hostility, the status quo restored.
And that was when Ulrich Vogel had capitalised on the situation; the combining of his professional life and his personal life. What better way to complete his mission than to use his hated enemy, Jack Grant, as the stooge to take the fall for the assassination? Oh, the satisfaction that would give him before his death was immeasurable! To have manipulated his enemy, the man he loathed, into a position of weakness by using the love of his daughter against him! His final wish before he died was to know that he had brought about the death of Jack 'Gorilla' Grant, which would then be followed by the execution of his daughter, Katherine, by the hands of the Harlequin.
The beauty of this perfectly symmetrical plot excited him, made him flushed and aroused. He turned his attention back to the screen in his office and watched as the black stud masturbated over the faces of the two women, who had their tongues out, ready to lick up the residue.
Vogel always enjoyed the ending and was surprised to notice that he, too, had ejaculated.
The Harlequin was waiting for him in the long-stay car park at Vienna International Airport. Grant cleared through Arrivals and made his way across the concourse until he found the Renault. He climbed in the rear seat and they were away.
“How was the flight?” asked the Harlequin, keeping one eye on the road and one to the rear-view mirror in case of surveillance.
