by James Quinn
Jack Grant still felt like a man twenty years his junior. He still had a bit of the Gorilla in him, he smiled to himself. He thought back to his lost love. What she had looked like, felt like and smelled like. His Lisbeth; her small frame, her raven hair and those green eyes that sparkled. He always did have a thing for girls with green eyes. She had been his first love and the one who he had wanted the most, the one who captivated and frustrated him, who he would have picked forever, but who was ultimately lost to him, destined to be out of reach.
When he knew her, she had been in a bad place, both geographically and physically. But he had brought her back to life. They had risked their lives for each other; first her as his agent, and then he as her lover, trying to hide from a psychopathic husband. Their love had been forged in adversity and they had bonded with the love and passion of survivors. And there had been passion. My God!
Deep behind enemy lines, the fear of torture and death facing them both if they were caught; the spy and her case officer, the abused wife and her lover – it was all intertwined. But despite all that, there had been passion and furious lovemaking in the moments between all the danger and espionage. So much so that there had been children born; the fruits of their love, the twins, Katherine and Peter, who had been separated for so long, but were now, after all these years, he hoped, back together as a family.
“Tu me manques,” he said, the tears rolling down his cheeks. And he saw her once more in his mind… small and dark and beautiful… those sparkling eyes shining like emeralds. His lost love. He took a spray of wildflowers that he had picked nearby out of his coat pocket and placed it carefully upon the spot where Lisbeth had fallen all those years ago.
He wiped away a tear and then turned away. He would never come back here again. He headed back towards the Lada.
His pilgrimage over, he took a breath and readied himself. He had the money and the 'kill-list' that the KGB man had given him, he had access to the weapons cache that Jojo McKay's people had put in place and he knew the price of his ticket home; the assassination of a cabal of madmen by his own hand. And if it meant he could finally get back to his life and his family – well, that was all the motivation that he needed.
And when it came to revenge and looking after his family, Gorilla Grant was the best in the business.
Chapter Two
London – 10th November 1989
They were sitting in the main departure lounge of Heathrow Airport waiting for their flight to be called.
“We got a message that he would be coming over tonight. I thought you'd want to be there and for him to see a friendly face,” said the Red Fox.
He had collected her that morning from her father's apartment and they had taken a taxi together to the airport. The covert message had come in the form of a telephone call to an SIS unlisted number in West Germany. The caller simply said, “I'm done. It's over. I'll be out in three days' time at Abel's bridge.” Voice recognition software had confirmed that it belonged to Jack Grant.
Katherine Grant looked over and smiled at the old spy. “Thank you.”
Freddy Oxley checked his watch. Bloody hell, they should have been boarding by now! “I'm sorry that your brother was unable to join us, but I don't think the West German government is quite prepared to forgive and forget in his direction just yet.”
“I'm sure,” she replied kindly.
“Besides, he's rather busy at the moment being debriefed by our people. He's been very helpful, I'm told,” said Oxley.
Once they had reached the safety of the West, Peter Vogel had been whisked away to an SIS safe house in Surrey for a full debrief of what he knew. He would remain in SIS protective custody for the foreseeable future, or at least until a settlement could be arranged for him and the rest of the family.
“Ah, it's us,” said Oxley, pointing up at the Boarding Now sign on the display board. They moved through the crowd heading towards the BA Departure Gate. With the usual formalities completed, they made their way onto the aircraft and settled into their seats in First Class.
“Your father is a remarkable man, Katherine,” said Oxley. “The deal he made with SIS and the Russians… well, he could have absolutely backed out of it at any moment. Once you were in the West, he could have reneged and sold us out – but he didn't!”
“My dad was always a man of his word, Mr Oxley,” she said, glancing out of the window as the aircraft moved into position.
They sat in silence as the plane gathered speed and conducted its ascent. Once the plane had levelled out and normality was restored, Oxley went on with his narrative. Katy thought it best to let him talk.
“We heard nothing for a while. We reasoned that he had been most likely caught in a Stasi round-up operation…”
“I don't want to know what he was doing in East Berlin, Mr Oxley, thank you,” she said kindly. “I just want my father back with us.”
“Of course, my dear, of course,” said Oxley, flustered.
What Gorilla Grant was doing was cleaning house, albeit with the sanction of the KGB. The joint SIS/KGB operation, something that Oxley never thought would ever work, had been a success. Slowly, the conspirators had been taken out one by one; a Finance Minister who had been found drowned, Senior Party Officials who had been executed at gunpoint; a lethal stabbing of an intelligence bureaucrat – all of whom were connected to the seditious 'Network'.
At the last count, more than half a dozen murders, seemingly random, had occurred in East Germany over the past few months. And of course at the top of the list had been that odious little creature Ulrich Vogel, who had been found murdered in his hospital bed, his throat slit from ear to ear. There had been unconfirmed reports that the murder weapon had been something thin in blade profile; like a straight razor, for example?
Gorilla still had the touch; a silent kill and then disappearing into the East Berlin underworld until the next target presented itself. He had diligently gone through the hit list he had been given by the KGB in order to offer the Russians' plausible deniability and, more importantly, for him to protect his children once they reached the West. A deal was a deal, after all.
Two hours later, the BA flight touched down in Berlin and Oxley and Katy were met by a driver from the Embassy that had arranged a strip side pickup.
Being back in Germany gave Katy pause. Berlin was a city of contradictions for her now. She had lost her father, but had found her brother. In the days following their escape from East Germany, Peter and Katherine had spent long hours in the SIS safe house in Surrey, discussing what had happened, their family history and what it would mean for the future. They had found a familiarity with each other as siblings, even estranged siblings, often do, especially when those siblings happen to be twins. They began to form a friendship and bond; slowly, patiently, not needing to hurry, understanding that they had time and a future as a family.
The driver dropped them at the Glienicke Bridge that connected Potsdam to Berlin across the Havel River. Several days before, there had been rumours that the GDR was going to open up its borders and as the crossing toppled like dominos, a swarm of people began to take faltering steps to leave the East, until eventually the swarm became a tsunami.
“The whole wall coming down did rather catch us here in the West on the hop. The speed of the crumbling of the East German system was unprecedented. I do honestly believe that the work that your dad was doing over there played a significant part in the dismantling of the government. By doing what he was doing, he allowed the more progressive elements to grow and thrive,” said Oxley, wrapping his scarf tightly around his neck.
They walked slowly up to the mouth of the bridge, dodging the endless stream of pedestrian traffic from the opposite direction.
“I was actually working on an escape plan to get him over the border when all this happened,” said Oxley, as they halted and took up a space next to one of the support beams. The position allowed them to stay out of the stream of traffic, while at the same time giving them the advantage of b
eing able to study the faces in the crowd.
“Why here?” she asked. “Why not at Checkpoint Charlie?”
“Could be any number of reasons,” said Oxley. “It might have suited him geographically, that's one consideration. The other thing is, we are getting reports that the Stasi are photographing people who are crossing in the centre of Berlin. I mean, it's not like the SSD have gone away. Perhaps your dad wants to stay off the radar as much as possible in case he's identified. Protects you, protects him. At the moment, he's in the undercover man's mindset; survival is his main focus.”
“But you don't think that is the main reason?” she asked, sensing that there was more from the old spy.
Oxley smiled at her, rubbing his hands together to keep warm. “Katherine, I think your dad knows his spy history well. The significance of this bridge, the history, the spy swaps. It was here that they swapped Abel for Powers. I see it as a way of Gorilla… er, Jack… leaving it all behind. He's swapped one life for another. I think he's sending a message to SIS.”
“Which is?”
Oxley shrugged. “Leave me alone, I'm done with all this nonsense now.”
Katy brushed the hair away from her face and smiled. “It's an interesting theory, thank you, Mr Oxley.”
Oxley was stamping his feet and rubbing his hands together vigorously now, to try to keep warm. “It's bloody Baltic here. Look, do you fancy a coffee? There's a little stall across the road. Bet someone is doing a thriving trade here today…”
“Wait, look!” she said, grabbing his arm and holding him in place.
Oxley turned his head round and peered into the throng of people. And there he was, in the distance, mingling with the crowds that were freely crossing a wall that didn't exist anymore.
He was wearing an old black leather jacket and a leather cap, his hands thrust into his pockets, casually sauntering along. He looked thinner but it seemed to suit him well and the white beard rounded off his disguise perfectly. Oxley supposed that living undercover in enemy territory and assassinating ruthless men did that to you, gave you the gaunt look of the survivor.
Gorilla spotted her at once on the opposite side of the bridge; you always knew your own kids, even at this distance and in this crowd. It was the inbuilt sense of the parent.
After thirty-odd years of a man-made barricade cutting this city in half, now it was so easy to just leave it. No need for planning, no need for cover stories or false papers, or praying that luck was on your side. Now you just walked across an imaginary line that didn't really exist anyway anymore. In a sense it was a bit anti-climactic, but he didn't care. It was what it was and he was now free.
His task had been to help a new political mindset flourish by removing the most dangerous elements that wanted to stop a new age of peace. It was a job, a contract, nothing more. Once he left this place, he didn't think he would ever want to return to Berlin.
But of course there had also been revenge. A revenge to satisfy honour, but also to protect his family for the future; after all, he didn't want madmen to come at him and his children ever again. It was about self-preservation.
He had snuck silently into the hospital room of the old bastard, had drawn his razor and waited. When Vogel's eyes had opened, aware of a presence looming over him, Grant had pressed down hard and run the keen edge of the straight razor across the other man's throat. The effect had been instantaneous; the blood had spurted and run free, covering the sheets quickly. Vogel's eyes had bulged so much that it looked like they were going to pop out of his head and the noise from his throat was a sinister gurgling sound as he began to drown in his own blood.
Gorilla had leaned forward and whispered into the dying man's ear, “This is for my Lisbeth.”
Then he had turned, not looking back, and left the hospital ward as silently as he had come.
She waited until he had crossed the imaginary line of what had once been the wall and all that it stood for. Then she began to walk, increasing her pace until she was running towards him.
Katy dodged past the thick crowd of the exodus from the East until finally, she was right in front of him, his face smiling and happy at last. She threw herself into his outstretched arms and they hugged, the tears flowing freely for both of them.
“Dad, oh Dad…” said Katherine Grant, squeezing him tightly to make sure that he was real.
“Hush now, I'm home,” said her father. “And I'm never going away again.”
Epilogue
11th September 2001 – London, UK
The good-looking, well-dressed American businessman walked through the international departure lounge at Heathrow and headed for the bar.
The news had just broken on all the major new channels. Indeed, the footage of the planes crashing into the Twin Towers was being broadcast far and wide, with reports coming in of an attack on the Pentagon and of a plane crashing elsewhere on the East Coast. He had watched, shell-shocked, in his London hotel room as the sickening images of terrorist-controlled passenger planes were obliterated. The first thing he did was contact head office and report in.
“Get back here ASAP,” said Control. “Get the first available flight. We are on war footing.”
So, he did. He packed up his suitcase, checked out of his hotel and got a taxi to Heathrow. After that, it was the usual chaos of getting a ticket. He would have to fly Paris–Ontario and then hopefully, when the Defense Department gave the all-clear, the final leg of his flight would allow him into American airspace and then back to Langley.
The young spy was barely twenty-seven years old and he had just completed his third assignment for CAD – the Covert Activities Division of the CIA. It was a nothing mission really, a recruitment of a Russian arms dealer in London. The Russian had a reputation for being tough and unrecruitable; many had tried but all had failed. But the young spy had quickly earned a reputation in Langley as a Field Operative who could not only be trusted to handle physical 'Covert Action', but also had the temperament to be a natural recruiter of spies, agents and sources of information. People opened up to him, talked to him, trusted him, and even liked him. For his part, he was able to manipulate, inspire, and get people to do things that, initially, they hadn't wanted to do.
The Russian had tried to threaten him, using his bodyguards to try some rough stuff; but the American had quickly dispatched the two thugs with his bare hands in seconds, he was that quick – and his reputation for hand-to-hand combat was becoming legendary. After that, the Russian had become much more pliable. Oh, he would have to be tested, for sure, but as of that morning, the spy had recruited his first 'source' for the CIA.
The airport bar was called The Lounge and was one of those open-plan, dim lighting and steel furnishings everywhere kind of places. It was okay, just not to the American agent's tastes. It was pretty much empty. A solo barman. A few long-distance travellers gathered around the obligatory TV set trying to suck as much information as they could about the events in New York – and failing.
He was about to head straight to the bar and order a large vodka and ice, when he spotted a shadow at the far end, away from everyone else and sitting in beautiful isolation; a little guy, elderly, looked like someone's grandpa.
The American paused, pretended to take an interest in the events on TV and chanced a surreptitious second glance at the old guy. It was! It was him! He had always had a skill for remembering a face and where he had seen it last, or where he knew it from. Names, he was not so good on, but with faces, he was a veritable computer brain.
The face; older, certainly, but yes, it was him!
The last time he had seen it was in an orientation file back at CIA when he was a probationer. They let you have a look through the rogues gallery of some of the most experienced and deadly operatives that a young CIA/CAD operative might ever have to meet. Some were dead, of course, but some were still active and some were even retired – which, in their game, was rare.
The question was; which one of the final two was the o
ld guy at the bar?
The American made a show of asking the barman where the toilets were, knowing full well that he would have to walk past his target to get to them. A quick glance at the back of the old guy's head as he walked past, noting the short grey hair and thick shoulders, and then he was through the door and into the men's room.
He took a pause and thought about what he should do next. Operational protocol dictated that he should just report it in when he got back to HQ. That would have been the sensible thing to do. Yeah, sensible and boring – jeez! Besides, this guy was a legend… no, more than a legend! This guy had inspired a generation of field operatives, so to get a chance to speak to him – even for just a few minutes – well, in this business that opportunity might never happen again. The chances of bumping into him at this location, well, they were a billion to one!
He knew what he was going to do. He was going to play it cool. He was going to go to the bar, maybe sit down near the old guy… the legend… order a drink and see what happened. Yeah, that's what he was going to do. No fuss, no muss.
Minutes later, he approached the bar and slid onto one of the stools. He left a two-stool gap between himself and the old guy.
“Do you mind if I sit here?” asked the young spy politely.
The old guy looked up from the book he was reading – Shibumi by Trevanian; a story about a retired assassin. “No, help yourself,” the old guy growled, but not unkindly.
“Thanks. Vodka. Ice,” he said to the barman. Moments later, the drink came and the young American took a sip. “Good book?”
The old guy peered over the top rim of his glasses and looked at the newcomer. Young, tanned, well-dressed in a business suit, medium height and fit-looking. But there was something about him… the recognition of a 'breed' rather than an individual face.
