The Redaction Chronicles Collection

Chapter 7

DOMINICAN REPUBLIC – 30TH MAY 1961The harsh daylight sun was finally receding, giving way to a more comfortable and cooler evening. Despite this, the bugs and gnats from the nearby swamp still swarmed about, hoping to gather in the last vestiges of the day"s heat and occasionally picking at the six prone bodies lying in the roadside ditch.

The killers had been in place for the past three hours, waiting, sweating, and ignoring the bugs and the heat. They numbered eight in total; six Dominicans and two Europeans. The Europeans and four of the indigenous team were waiting in the ditch for the target; the remaining two were parked a few hundred meters up the road in cars, acting as spotters. It was also their job to act as ramming vehicles, to trap the forthcoming limousines of "El Benefactor" in the center of the kill zone.

The "Catalan" glanced over at his partner the "Georgian". They were both dressed in civilian clothes, short-sleeved shirts, hard-wearing slacks and work boots. The field radio crackled into life. The two Europeans glanced at each other one more time and their eyes met. They knew this was it. No false alarms, no backing down, no mistakes. The killing would start soon.

“La luz Es brillante, la luz Es brilliante,” the spotter shrieked into the radio. “The Light is Bright.” It was the code for the imminent passing of El Benefactor"s motorcade.

The killers had been funded and encouraged by the Americans from the Embassy, and the arrival of these two European specialists had spurred them on from what had once been the kernel of an idea, into something that was about to become very real.

The Agency had quickly tired of El Benefactor"s growing unpopularity, and fearing that he would not put up much of a fight to fend off a Communist takeover, they"d decided it would be beneficial to remove him from power. Their opinion was "If we can"t own him – nobody can", and it wasn"t long before the Agency had called in its most versatile freelance operators – the two Europeans – to plan out and organize the largely untutored and inexperienced freedom fighters into a small but effective assassination team.

Now the code was registering into the group of killers. Men tensed, weapons were checked, safety catches were flicked off, and rifle butts were jammed into shoulder positions. They spotted the dust cloud first, kicked up from the arid country road as the two-car convoy sped along. The intelligence they had received told them that the road, a quiet back route, was the most likely to be taken when El Benefactor visited his favorite mistress in San Cristobel. It was the perfect ambush spot.

The dust cloud grew nearer and the growl of the heavier engines got louder. And then it happened, not hurried or at a frantic pace, but slowly. The mid-speed amble of the two-car motor convoy of gleaming Lincolns"; the roar of the gunned engine in the ambush truck as it gained speed to block the motorcade; the growl of the truck when it turned in a perfectly formed "U" into the center of the road, causing El Benefactor"s vehicles to brake hurriedly. And then the noise of the multiple automatic weapons as they spat out death, which was aimed, very accurately, at the prone motorcade.

For a few brief moments, nothing more, the noise was deafening. The men of the killing team were all keen to get into the fight and put as much ammunition as possible into the President"s vehicles. Each wants to be able to tell the tale to his grandchildren. Each one wants to be the man who killed that brute Trujillo.

The first volley was impressive and completely incapacitated the cars. Then, as several of the President"s security men struggled to regain the initiative, and even contemplated fighting back, the freedom fighters were on the move, firing, closing down their enemy, changing magazines so that they can continue with the salvo.

Leading from the front was the Catalan"s partner, the stubby, hard-looking Georgian who shouts to them to “Atacar hacia adelente”, before emptying his own weapon into an unfortunate bodyguard who had decided to run. It seems there can be no survivors…or witnesses. Then the noise falters and stops, the smoke starts to dissipate, and the removal of a seemingly unbeatable dictator is almost at an end. It is so quick – and so easy after all.

The Catalan got up from his prone position and motioned for the Georgian to attend to the President"s backup vehicle, where the few remaining bodyguards were being unceremoniously dragged from the car and beaten. They wouldn"t last much longer. He sauntered over to the mortally wounded lead vehicle. His face was a mask of sweat and tension, from the serious business of killing. The sides and windows of the car had been shattered by multiple bullet holes and smeared with blood from the interior. Already the smell of death was making its existence known.

“They fought back bravely, commander,” said Rafael, the youngest member of the team. The Catalan nodded and peered inside the vehicle. It was a charnel house. The driver and bodyguard had been pulverized. A series of single shots rang out from nearby.

The Catalan straightened up and looked around to find the Georgian and his team executing the remaining bodyguards. “Where is Trujillo?”

“He ran for the tree line, Ramon shot him in the legs. He"s guarding him and waiting for you.”

“El Benefactor is still alive, though?”

“Si senor.”

“And for us, no casualties?”

“No senor. They never knew what hit them.”

The Catalan made his way over to the tree line and there, with the little freedom fighter guarding him, lay the man who had held a small nation in his vice-like grip for more than thirty years. Blood was oozing from his legs, which lay at an unnatural angle, his suit covered in mud and dust, but the face… the face still held contempt and arrogance. But not for much longer, thought the Catalan.

But not for much longer,“El Presidente. Do you know who I am?”

The rotund, white-haired man glared back. “You are a pig of a "freedom fighter" and mother-fucker who sucks on the c***s of traitors!”

The Catalan smiled and shook his head. “No senor, I am not from your pretty island. I am from far from here… but I have a message, a message from the Norte Americanos.” The shock on Trujillo"s face was clear, thinks the Catalan. He has been outwitted by the Americans.

The shock on Trujillo"s face was clear,He has been outwitted by the Americans.“Your time here is over,” murmured the Catalan, and in one fluid movement he drew a large caliber revolver, a Smith & Wesson, and fired a single shot through the eye of the dictator. An old man dead in a ditch. “Ramon, you and the boys take the body away and hide it. And here…” he handed over the revolver to the only other witness to the execution. “If anybody asks, you shot Trujillo. Okay?

youRamon took the pistol and stared down at it, feeling its weight and the grease running across his fingers. It was a good weapon. “Si senor. We can hide the body at one of the safe-houses until it is time to display it to the world.”

The Catalan nodded in approval. “Good, then organize yourselves and go! Get out of here as quickly as you can.”

“What about you Commander, you and La Bala?”

La Bala was the nickname the boys had given to the Georgian. It was a term of affection. La Bala, "the bullet", because the small Georgian did indeed resemble a bullet. Small, stubby, hard, balding…

“We will be leaving by a separate route. You will not see either of us again, our job here is over. Go well.”

The Catalan and the Georgian would have to move fast. They had a separate vehicle parked several minutes away along an arterial route, which would take them to the safe-house they had been using for the past few weeks. A clean up and fresh change of clothes would be in order, before they offered an after-action report to their in-country CIA case officer, Tanner, at a meeting in the bar of the Hotel Rafael in Cijaud Trujillo.

By the time the news of "El Benefactor"s" disappearance had started to filter through, the men would be on a fast seaplane to Miami and their CIA contact would be reporting back to Langley that Agents QJ/WIN and WI/ROGUE, the Catalan and the Georgian respectively, had completed the terms of their current assignment and were on their way stateside for a final debrief by the Chief of the Executive Action department.

BEIRUT, LEBANON – AUGUST 1962The small, stocky man stood on the corner of the busy thoroughfare. He checked his wristwatch nonchalantly. Supposedly for the time, in reality to see if he was being observed. He gave a quick glance either way to his periphery. Nothing.

He wore a lightweight, cream colored suit that he"d had made on a whistle-stop visit to Hong Kong years ago, and a pale blue, open necked shirt. The Middle Eastern sun had filtered through his cropped, white blond hair leaving his scalp burned. He wore a pair of dark wraparound sunglasses to reduce the glare. He was early-thirties, trim, in shape, and alert. His cryptonym was "Gorilla". It was a name which fitted him like a glove, not because of his size or bulk, but because of his rolling gait when he walked, the furrowed glower behind the sunglasses, and the hint of a hirsute nature peeking out from beneath his well-tailored suit.

He was on the move again, pushing his way through the pedestrian walkways, past the crowded restaurants and coffee bars. Exotic looking women with liquid hips were shopping in the designer stores, businessmen were conducting meetings over a plate of meze, and friends were chatting over cups of Cafe Blanc, the herbal tea made from hot water, orange blossom and honey. It was easy to see, thought Gorilla, why Beirut was described as the Paris of the Orient.

mezeIt was easy to see,why Beirut was described as the Paris of the Orient.He moved at a steady pace along Hamra Street, being careful not to catch anyone"s eyes directly, or bump into the mass of bodies packed onto the pavements. If he had "bumped" anyone it would have been greeted with a respectful “Pardon en moi.” Today, he was using French as it fitted in better with his cover and would disguise his identity for later.

Pardon en moi.It was then that he saw his "Squire". A fat man with a standard moustache and swarthy complexion, he was sitting in an old Buick. His cover was that of a Servee driver, the name for the local taxi service. Both the car and the driver had definitely seen better days. A Squire was a local, low-level intelligence asset who provided equipment or services to visiting field agents. Forged documents, money, safe-houses, weapons and transport all fell within a Squire"s remit, and very much like their counterparts from the Middle Ages, they were expected to be on call at short notice.

ServeeA quick glance, then Gorilla strode across and smoothly entered the rear passenger side of the vehicle. If he thought that it was hot out on the street, it was nothing compared to the stifling mugginess that he faced inside the car. On its plus side, the vehicle had limited visibility, partly due to the dust-laden windows that had never been cleaned, thus allowing the meeting inside the vehicle to be as discreet as it was ever going to be.

The Squire remained stock still, and he continued to stare out of the window at the passers-by. Hamra Street was busy at this time of the day, and it made it harder to spot local surveillance teams, so he spoke out of the corner of his mouth and flicked an occasional glance in his rear view mirror.

“Sallam Allaikum,” said the driver.

“Allaikum Sallam,” replied Gorilla. With the formalities complete, they settled down to business.

“You know where you are going?”

Gorilla nodded. He"d read the reports and knew the route from studying a local map.

The target had a small office located in a quiet corner of Rue Jeanne D"Arc and Gorilla had telephoned that very morning to arrange a "business meeting" with the target, using the ruse that he was a French investor looking to hire the target"s services through his Import/Export business. Gorilla had hinted that he had an illegal cargo to move and hoped that he had pricked both the target"s curiosity and greed. At least this way, the target would be alone and exactly where Gorilla wanted him.

“The package?”

“Under my seat. It"s the best I could do at short notice, but I think it will suffice.”

Gorilla reached under the driver"s seat and withdrew a small satchel. Inside, covered by a square of muslin, lay his work tool for the day – a Beretta M1951, complete with a bulbous noise suppressor. Old but reliable – not his preferred weapon – but given the limited resources available, it was certainly acceptable.

He quickly tested the spring in the magazine, checked the action of the weapon, attached the sound suppressor, smacked home the magazine and let the slide roll forward. A quick chamber check, to ensure the bullet was seated properly and then he flicked the safety on.

His only other piece of equipment was a bouquet of carnations. To the casual observer, he would look like a man on the way to meet his lover or mistress, but the bouquet would hide the silenced Beretta in a sleeve nestling against the flowers. Gorilla concealed the weapon inside the bouquet and cradled it in the crook of his left arm.

The target was a Lebanese-born contract agent by the name of Abu Qassam, who had been playing both ends against the middle in French North Africa, operating for the British but betraying their operations to the FLN, the French National Liberation army.

Things had come to a head when it was discovered that he had personally taken part in the t*****e and murder of a key British intelligence asset in the region. Realizing that he"d gone the length of the rope, he"d fled to his native Beirut where, mistakenly, he had assumed he could hide and would, years later, be safe.

The British could forgive him his betrayal, to a degree. But the murder of one of their own – never! They had set about planning retribution. A tracking team was assembled; favors were called in throughout the intelligence community, sources were cajoled and leaned upon…until they had his new name. Then they had an address. Then they had a time and date. And it was at that point that the small man in the lightweight summer suit, Gorilla, was summoned.

His unit"s expertise was dealing with enemy agents, traitors, extremists – and this was his fledgling operation for them. A "hit" they said, a quick in, quick out. Do this right and there"ll be a step up the ladder, maybe even permanent secondment. In truth, Gorilla knew very little about the background of the case, the bare minimum, and to be frank – that was way too much anyway. For this kind of operation, the only information he required was a time, a location, and a description; anything more was showing off on behalf of the case officer running the show, in his opinion. His only priority was to get the job done and get out with a clean pair of heels.

“I will wait here,” said the Squire. “I can give you at most five minutes, after that you will be on your own.”

Gorilla nodded. “Five minutes is more than enough time; I"m not planning on having a chat with him. Keep the engine running.”

A quick scan of movement on the street and he exited the car, nonchalantly clutching his lethal gift.

He had killed men before during his time in the military, some in situations not dissimilar to this one, but never in such a coldly targeted, ruthless way. He knew he was more than capable of the task the colonel had given him; why else would he have been chosen? Gorilla had a special collection of skills that made him useful for jobs like this. He knew it, the colonel knew it and the hierarchy at Broadway knew it.

He glided along the street, scanning from behind the dark glasses for people taking an interest in him, but again nothing. He moved like a spectre. That was one of Gorilla"s talents, the almost intuitive skill to become unnoticeable. One of his instructors had once commented you could lose him in a crowd of two people.

Moving into an empty side street, he saw the target location up ahead: a small doorway with a brass plaque outside stamped with "Import/Export", accessed by a twelve step flight of stairs. He climbed the darkened hallway, counting the steps slowly in his head as he moved forward. He settled the carnations more comfortably in his right hand and walked up the last few steps to the heavy wooden door with a glass viewing window that was the office of Al Saud Import/Export Company. He turned the handle of the door with his left hand, entered and closed the door gently behind him.

He instantly assessed the layout of the room and its contents – the shadows of the curtained room, the ornate cabinets and pictures adorning the wall, the languid figure reclining back in an office chair behind the desk. The man was smoking French Gauloises and a small glass of Arak lay half empty before him on the desk. No other people present. Good.

The assessment took a fraction of a second.

Then Gorilla was moving forward, seeking to dominate the room. It took three strides to reach the desk. The man began to stand, extending a hand in greeting, smiling. “Monsieur Canon, how…” he started to say, but Gorilla had reached the front of the desk and quickly, but not hurriedly, raised the bouquet with both hands to chest height. The motion was deceptively casual.

Confusion passed over the target"s face. Why was this client pushing a bouquet of flowers at his face? Was it some kind of strange French custom? As the target reached his full height, he perhaps realized, belatedly, what was happening. Gorilla touched the delicate petals to the man"s forehead, gently brushing his skin, and pulled the trigger hidden within the lethal bouquet twice in rapid succession. PHUT, PHUT!

The sound was barely noticeable, nothing louder than a vigorous cough, certainly nothing to attract anyone"s attention from outside. With the first shot, the man stared at Gorilla as though he had been smacked in the forehead with a cricket bat. His head rocked backwards, and through his own momentum, started to crane forward again just in time for the second shot to hit him, inches away from the first bullet. This time, however, the bullet didn"t rock the target any further, instead his legs simply gave way and he dropped like a marionette whose strings have been swiftly sliced through. He fell in a crumpled heap behind the desk, work papers and invoices scattered all over him. What had been white was now red.

Gorilla made his way around the desk and fired two more shots from the now ragged-looking bouquet into the target"s head. Just to make sure – but he knew from experience that they were not necessary. The whole operation had taken no more than fifteen seconds. A bit slow, thought Gorilla, who hated shoddy shooting, especially in himself. No fancy stuff, no long speeches, just BANG and the target is dropped.

A bit slow,After the extreme act of violence there was silence, the only ambient sound being the tat-tat-tat of an old air fan in the corner of the room.

Gorilla"s heart started beating at a rapid pace as a surge of adrenaline hit him. He took two slow, deep breaths, closed his eyes and started moving. He quickly returned to the office door, turned the door sign to read "Reunion en cours", pulled down the blind and locked the door. He discarded the flowers on the desk and set about searching the rest of the office, striding swiftly from room to room. He moved silently, with the suppressed Beretta leading the way like a lethal tribune. Less than a minute later he was satisfied that he was alone.

Job done, he thought. Now all he had to do was leave without bumping into the b****y cleaning woman, or whatever random happening was liable to throw itself into the mix on these types of operations. But his concerns proved unfounded.

Job done,He disassembled the Beretta, breaking it down into its component parts – suppressor, magazine, and slide. Picking up the spent casings from the shots he"d fired, he placed them all into his inside jacket pockets before leaving the office. His presence raised not even a glance as he exited the office and made his way onto Hamra Street, heading back to the Squire"s taxi. Moments later, Gorilla opened the rear passenger door and dropped down into the seat.

“Okay. Off we go. But take it easy, no gunning the engine or high speed,” he said to the driver.

The Squire nodded and began to move the car out into the busy traffic. “Was everything okay my friend? Any problems?”

Gorilla placed the pieces of the Beretta into the satchel before tucking it back under the Squire"s seat. “Everything was fine. The less you know about it the better.”

“I understand. You will tell your organization that I performed well. That I was of use?”

Gorilla nodded. This Squire had performed exactly as he"d requested. Good driver, adequate weapon choice, no flapping. “Of course. My people will no doubt reward you well. You were very good.”

“Inshallah. Thank you, and where to now, my friend?”

“The airport. I have a flight to catch.”

By the time the body of the target had been discovered, Gorilla would be winging his way to Paris before travelling home to London. A circuitous route for sure, but it would at least keep the trail he left down to a minimum.

He settled back and watched the sun cast the Corniche and the mountains in the distance in a yellow haze. Glancing down, he noticed a single speck of blood on the lapel of his jacket. It was a testament, and in fact the only proof, of his first Redaction.

WARSAW, POLAND – OCTOBER 1962The long watch of Tomasz Bajek began on a bright Saturday afternoon and had started some three hours earlier when he had taken over the surveillance shift.

The operation, bizarrely enough, was in Warsaw Zoo, which to Bajek seemed a strange place for a group of fully grown men to be trying to blend in unnoticed on a warm weekend. But he supposed that foreign agents did not have the luxury of working only on weekdays.

The zoo had been rebuilt in 1949 following the bombings of the Second World War, and was now one of the main attractions of the new Poland. He had already completed three rounds of his sector of the zoo and was now sitting down, rocking the pram that he"d been pushing for the past few hours. To the casual observer, he no doubt looked like a devoted new father who had been ushered out of the house by his frantic wife on the weekend, to spend some time with his progeny. The zoo was a relatively inexpensive day out.

However, all was not as it seemed. Bajek was not a new father, and the pram held nothing more than a toy doll, wrapped up in multiple layers of blankets and bonnets on the off-chance that an overzealous member of the public should desire to see the baby. All that was visible were two bright blue eyes peeking out. He could think of nothing worse than wandering around a zoo for hours on end. He had never visited the zoo before, he hated b****y zoos, and after this job was finished he would never want to visit it again.

In reality, Tomasz Bajek was a young, junior officer in Poland"s internal security service. He had been working in the counterespionage department for the past four years, helping to catch spies and traitors.

Normally he was tied to a desk, but today, due to a shortage of staff, he had been seconded to one of the roving surveillance teams. A break from the drab head office was always a pleasure.

He was the sixth operative in an eight-man team, which ranked him somewhere above a headquarters cleaner, but below the filing clerks. Each of the team had their own designated areas inside the zoo"s grounds. Two surveillance vehicles were also part of the operation - one was disguised as a refuse collection truck, circling the perimeter, whilst the other was that workhorse of security services; a repair wagon, complete with a suitably slothful workman who"d taken many hours to do not very much at all.

Bajek had the area covering the park and wild boar enclosure. Pleasant enough, but not when you"re waiting nervously to capture a western spy.

The job had been passed to them by the Russians. Unusually, a senior KGB officer by the name of Major Krivitsky was in command of the operation. Squat, vulgar, disdainful of the Polish intelligence officers under his command, Krivitsky had set out his stall in a blunt manner at the morning briefing.

He stood at the head of the team, his large knuckles resting on the desk, chin jutting forward, soulless black eyes fixed on them, daring them to challenge his authority. He had then proceeded to lay out his experience. Fought in the Great Patriotic War, lifelong communist, an NKVD officer before they had changed their name to its current anagram; agent-runner, spy-catcher, hard bastard and the one person you don"t want to cross. And all spoken in the absolutely lousiest Polish Bajek had ever heard. The man"s voice was guttural, and at times almost incomprehensible, but it was clear enough to get his briefing across.

A network of Polish spies had been rolled up and now the Russians wanted the chance to get their hands on a live, western case officer. But no ordinary western agent, not someone who worked through the Embassy, someone who had the safety net of diplomatic immunity.

No, this was a non-official cover operative sent in on the "black" to retrieve incriminating material. “The deal is this. You can have the Polish agents, we want the westerner,” glowered Krivitsky. “A show trial,” said Krivitsky, “to embarrass the Americans, the British, whoever the f**k it was. Then a prolonged interrogation, some Gulag time and then we sell him back to the West for one of our agents in a few years" time.”

So who was this agent? What did he look like?

“We don"t know, so don"t ask. Tall, maybe, young, sure. That"s all we got, and we won"t be getting any more where that came from,” murmured Krivitsky, who seemed loathe to give out any more information than he absolutely needed to. The rumor Bajek had heard was that the Polish spy Krivitsky interrogated hadn"t had a strong enough constitution, and had decided to play the game no more. Permanently.

“We got a trap set for him,” Krivitsky had announced. “A time and a place. We set the "all clear" signal. Chalk mark on a lamppost on Marszałkowska Street. Means come and empty the post-box. Dead letter drop. He thinks he"s getting the keys to the Kremlin, but we are going to be there rolling him up. So remember… you work for me. You do as I say. You don"t, I make sure that you are sweeping the s**t from the sewers for the rest of your life.”

The dead letter box was in fact a loose brick, third row down, sixth brick across in a wall that surrounded the Herpetarium. It was located behind a small bush that provided, briefly, cover from any surveillance. The repair wagon which housed a member of the surveillance team had a discreet long lens camera pointing at the entrance to the pathway.

The plan was to observe the target entering the tiny pathway between the wall and the shrubbery, alert the rest of the team, and they would then move in to make a hard arrest on the foreign agent and detain him once he"d exited.

Over the past few hours they"d seen a few possible candidates for the soon-to-be-captured spy, but none of them fit the profile of a foreign intelligence agent. An elderly couple walking arm in arm, a mother on a visit with her two playful children, the usual retinue of courting couples. The most likely candidate had been a tall man of middle years, western business suit, but who had quickly been identified as a party official.

One of the team had "worked" him months ago after a suspected security leak from his Ministry, and the most contentious thing about him was his love affair with a junior secretary from the admin section. The team quickly ruled him out and minutes later, he was seen walking towards the park, hand in hand with a young flaxen-haired girl who was definitely not his wife.

Bajek glanced at his watch, it was 4.45p.m., the light was starting to fade and the zoo would be closed within the hour. Maybe they were in for a no-show, or maybe the spy had picked up on the surveillance and decided to abort the emptying of the letter box, which meant that he might be stuck walking around the zoo again tomorrow. Damn.

He heaved his heavy frame off the seat and decided on another series of ambles around his route, pushing the pram, and feigning interest in the limited selection of animals the zoo had to offer. He completed one circuit, returned for a second, and it was at the commencement of his third, and what he hoped would be final rotation around the zoo, when he heard the sound of the whistle.

The whistles had been issued to all members of the team and were the equivalent of an early warning system. Not especially cutting edge, but effective nonetheless. “You see him – you blow the whistle. Got it?” Krivitsky had warned at the briefing session.

Bajek turned his head in the direction of the peal. At first he saw nothing – just the zoo in its familiar state, visitors examining the animal enclosures. Normality. Then he saw a movement. A man of similar age to him, dark haired and skinny compared to Bajek"s bulk, dressed in a workman"s overalls and jacket, running at full pelt from the direction of the dead letter box, and seemingly, heading towards the main pathway which led to one of the exit points.

Closely behind the runner, although with no chance of ever catching his quarry, was Stefan, the oldest member of the surveillance team, sporting a bloodied nose. Poor old Stefan had one hand pressed to his nose, trying in vain to stem the flow of blood, and the other swinging, in an effort to propel him forward faster. It appeared the spy hadn"t wanted to be taken and had fought back.

Then all the whistles seemed to be blowing at once, alerting the rest of the team to move in, and it was then that Bajek seized his chance. He wasn"t a natural runner, nor was he particularly fit despite his youth, but he did have one vital advantage. He was standing at a 45-degree angle to where the spy would be in a matter of moments. If he could cut across the grass he would be able to intersect the runner"s route, blindside him and bring the man down with a body charge. Bajek"s bulk would be no match for the thinner man; he would simply knock him off his feet.

The pram which had been his surveillance partner for the past few hours was flung, discarded, toy baby and all, and he was off! Pumping his arms, thrusting his legs along to propel him forward, he caught sight of the man from the corner of his eye. It was a race for survival. Bajek for his chances of promotion and escape from his prison-like desk; the spy, he was sure, for his life and liberty. Ten seconds to go, he was sure he could make it…

Five seconds to collision. Bajek, the hero of the service, the man who brought down a ruthless western spy… blood is pumping in his ears… the only sound he can hear is the noise of his heart thundering…

He can see the man clearly; young, certainly, but with a tough, handsome face… three seconds, almost…

But then something strange happened. The man seemed to trip, stumble, but then regained his balance. Bajek nearly has a hand on the spy"s jacket collar when he finally hears the report.

At first, Bajek becomes aware of the Russian shouting, in fact, screaming would be a more accurate description. Then the crash of numerous rounds being fired, the "whizz" of bullets passing by him, the screech of the caged animals as they react with fear. Then the spy seems to stagger – at least to Bajek – but still the gunfire continues. Who the hell had a g*n on the team? Bajek thinks. I thought we all had whistles.

Who the hell had a g*n on the team?I thought we all had whistles.The final few bullets seemed to explode into the running spy. One to the shoulder, and the final one – the most serious – took him in the rear of the skull, providing him, momentarily, with a pretty red halo before he crashed unceremoniously to the ground. The world seemed to stop, a breath held in anticipation of more to come. But no more do come. The bullets have done their work. The spy was splayed out face down, his arms and legs twisted at odd angles so that he resembled a child"s rag doll, tossed aside in a fit of pique.

Bajek knelt down to examine the wounded man. There was a mass of blood and grey matter, caked all over the concrete path.

The left side of his head had been blown away, a fatal wound, but to the man"s credit, he was still clinging to the last remnants of life. His body twitched every few seconds, his eyes rolling wildly and his jaw worked as though he was trying to speak.

Bajek moved closer, so that his ear was almost touching the man"s lips. At first there was nothing, then with a massive effort a word came out in a hoarse whisper… to be repeated again and again and again. Each time, the strain on the dying man took its toll, but still he expelled the same word until finally he had nothing left to give. His eyes rolled back into his head and he slipped away. Bajek closed the man"s eyes and raised himself to one knee.

The rest of the team stood stock still, like mourners at a funeral, which in a way they were, Bajek supposed, providing a cordon to keep the public onlookers away. And there at the back of them all stood that bastard b****y Russian, the so-called professional, the big man from the KGB, who had fired the fatal shots.

The Russian stood now like a child chastised, hands at his side, pistol still in his right hand, a guilty look, a look of shame in his expression. His eyes cast around the Polish team and he dismissed the shooting with a shrug. It was then that Bajek, the junior officer, who was only a rung up from the office cleaner, snapped and lunged at the man. No deception, no thought or planning, just a straight charge and jump to reach the Russian"s throat.

“I almost had him… you… you… butcher!”

butcherBoth men went down in a tangle, the pistol dropping to the floor as Bajek started beating at the KGB man with fists, elbows and feet. Bajek found himself being pulled back hurriedly and restrained. He was pulled one way while Jan, the team leader, picked up the Russian, dusted him down, and began to apologize, moving him in the opposite direction.

“I"m sorry about that, Major. You have my word, he will be punished, he is a junior officer with little experience of how operations in the field work. He is young. The shooting? Accidents happen. No, of course you didn"t intend to kill him. A tragic accident. The man should not have run. Please, let"s get you back to base; my team can sort this out, so that we can prepare our reports together.”

Bajek was aware of the Russian storming back toward the vehicles that would spirit him away from the scene. The rest of the team were re-grouping, calling in the "meat-wagon" to take the body away, dispersing those members of the public who were brave enough, or stupid enough, to continue showing an interest.

Bajek slumped down against the wall of the Black Bear enclosure. Jan, the team leader, came to stand over him, hands on his hips. “Do you know how much trouble you"re in? You"ll be lucky if you don"t get kicked out of the service for this.”

“That stupid Russian panicked. He blew the whole operation,” growled Bajek, his anger still prevalent, but slowly receding with the increasing realization of what he"d just done.

“So what? It"s his head on the line, or at least it was, until you waded in with your fists. Now you"ve embarrassed the service and made an enemy of a Major in the KGB. Well done.”

“I thought the KGB were supposed to be the professionals and we"re just the poor country cousins? If that"s their best, God help them,” Bajek complained.

Jan shook his head, appearing resigned to what he had to do. “We are the poor cousins. Let"s be realistic, we can"t operate without the Russians" help. They own us. The deal was, we got the local agents of this network and the Russians get the Western case officer running them. I"ll have to escort you back to base, Tomasz. The Director will want to read you the riot act, before he decides which dark hole he"s going to drop you down.”

areBajek staggered to his feet. Jan gently gripped his arm and started to lead him away. “What did he say anyway?” he questioned.

“Huh?” Bajek flicked a look back over his shoulder to where the body of the western spy lay. One of the team had draped a coat over the body, trying to conceal it until the meat wagon arrived. The zoo animals had started to react, perhaps due to the odor of the dead man"s blood that wafted upon the air, invigorating their primal senses. Bajek paused for a moment, deep in thought.

“Well,” Jan pressed. “What did he say? Are you deaf? It might be important.”

“He said nothing, nothing at all, he was probably just trying to breathe.”

It was only later, when he sat at his desk, sweating while the senior officers of the Service decided his fate that Bajek allowed himself to recall what the man had whispered again and again. He"d repeated one word, in English, in his last dying moments. At the time Bajek wasn"t sure what the man was trying to say. So once back at headquarters, he had picked up the well-thumbed office copy of the English/Polish dictionary and rifled through its pages until he had found a match for the word the man kept repeating.

In Polish the word was "Tata". In English the man, in his dying breaths, had repeated and repeated and repeated; “Dad… Dad… Dad…”