The Redaction Chronicles

Chapter 1-1

LUXEMBOURG – NOVEMBER 1964The recruitment of the first European killer, who would later go on to be the operational field controller on the ground, took place on a freezing cold evening in Luxembourg in a small and privately run villa called the "St. Hubert" in the pretty town of Clervaux. It was a fairy-like house situated in a fairytale hamlet.

The "Man from Luxembourg" as the Catalan-born killer was colloquially known within the international mercenary milieu, was greeted at the door of the small villa by Max Dobos, the American"s Hungarian factotum, contact man and cut-out. The Hungarian was also there to ensure that the Catalan and the American were not disturbed and that their meeting would remain "Sub Rosa".

“He"s waiting. Been in town since lunchtime. I have to search you, it"s routine,” said Dobos.

A frisk, and a pat down – good, but not up to the Catalan"s standards by any means. Then a disrobing of his winter coat and a quick-paced climb up a winding staircase to a first floor landing, and a closed, heavy wooden door. A rap on the door and a muffled “Enter” sounded from within.

The door opened up into a sparsely dressed room with an oak table, several comfortable-looking couches, and at its center, two upholstered leather reading chairs facing each other. The large windows were curtained to prevent any outside surveillance, but the Catalan knew that the view of the valley outside would have been breathtaking.

“Allow me to introduce Herr Knight,” said Max Dobos to the Catalan, overseeing the formal shaking of hands. They were using English, the common language that bonded them all, and with the introductions complete the American was keen to take charge.

“Max, if you would be so good as to leave us and make sure that we aren"t disturbed. Thank you.”

The Hungarian middle man gave a curt nod, and exited swiftly. A click of the door and the distant sound of him scampering down the flight of stairs ensured they were alone. With the chaperone gone from the proceedings, the American and the Catalan appraised each other as only men of a certain confidence and experience can do; with professional respect and a little wariness.

The American was known only as "Mr. Knight", no first name given, and as with all aspects of his tradecraft he had performed perfectly and planned everything down to the last detail. He was medium everything. Medium height, middle aged, salt and pepper hair, middle-ranking business suit. He exuded ordinariness, except for the eyes. The eyes had a hard coldness to them that could, on occasion, change from an icy glare to a fiery rage. They were the eyes of a zealot.

To the American, the Catalan was tall and patrician, with slicked, jet black hair that had horns of grey streaking the temples. He was well dressed and well presented. Yet the American wasn"t fooled for a moment. This European was dangerous and an experienced killer of men. His reputation preceded him.

“Shall we perhaps sit and make ourselves more comfortable?” suggested the American, keen to control the pace of the meeting, as agent runners are always apt to do with possible future agents.

And so they sat, face to face across a living room, hands resting comfortably on their respective laps, with only the American"s briefcase between them.

Elsewhere in the villa, and unbeknownst to either the Killer or the Spy, a tape machine slowly began to turn, covertly recording every word…

* * *

“You did some exceptional work for us in the past. I"ve studied your file. Very capable, very professional, especially that operation in the Dominican Republic, taking down Trujillo.”

The Catalan merely smiled a self-deprecating smile and shrugged. “I was glad to have been of service. Your organization was very generous… while it lasted.” The Catalan"s voice was thick and deep.

“I know, I know, believe me. The people in charge of operations back then had their backs to the wall, especially following the assassination of President Kennedy. A lot of senators and public bodies decided they wanted to clip the Agency"s wings. We had to step back and cut contact with anyone who was involved in what they would class as even mildly contentious activities. We"re sorry about that. Let"s move on.”

The Catalan nodded his sympathy. “Such is the way of our trade and we are all at the mercy of those higher than us. But obviously things have changed, otherwise you wouldn"t have travelled all the way from Langley to make contact with me.”

Mr. Knight leaned forward, bringing his guest closer into the fold. “Even politicians are pragmatists in this day and age. We are fighting a Cold War, whether we like it or not, and in order to conduct operations against the Soviets, we need soldiers. Capable men such as you, men not afraid to get their hands dirty. Not "Wild Cards" – far from it, but professional operators who know how to run an operation.”

“You are very kind.”

“No, I am not kind, far from it. But I am honest and I like to tell it straight. The cull after the murder of the President was a blip, nothing more. Now we have serious work to do and I would like to have you working with us. How do you feel about that?”

The Catalan inhaled and pondered the raindrops drying on his leather shoes. “I have other business interests these days that take up much of my time. If I were to work with your people again, I would need a strong incentive.”

In truth, he was keen to work with the Americans again. Since his enforced retirement as a contract agent, he had confined himself to his legitimate business enterprise, the running of an art and antiques store here in the center of Luxembourg. After operating around the world, he"d decided he needed a refuge; somewhere small, discreet, quiet and cultured. Luxembourg, for him, had fitted the bill perfectly. Despite his lifestyle as a small businessman, he had also been a part of several not-so-legitimate enterprises, namely the funding of several small-scale h****n smuggling operations across the Mediterranean, which, while making him a tidy profit, had failed to provide him with the adrenaline rush of his previous work for the Americans.

Mr. Knight locked eyes with him, his stare direct. “My friend, if you ** for this operation, I can assure you that the resources available and the remuneration will exceed anything that we offered you before; on that you have my word. There"s a new broom heading the Agency and he wants to sweep away the crap that the Soviets have been hitting us with, while we"ve been distracted by being raked over the coals. At this juncture, I am merely enquiring to see if you would be interested in principle. If that is the case, then we will move on with the details of the project, if not, well… then we shake hands, you go your way, I go mine, and you never contact or work for the Agency again.”

The Catalan held the American"s gaze for a brief moment, weighing up his options. To commit or to refuse; both held advantages and disadvantages, and when all things were considered, it really didn"t come down to the money, welcome as it was. It was more the desire to be an active part of the great game that he had been a part of for most of his adult life.

So, the decision was clear, to carry on being a small-time smuggler on the fringes of the European underworld, or to take on the challenge and be a major player in the Cold War? It was always useful to have powerful allies such as the Americans, especially if his less-than-legal enterprises and investments turned sour. He smiled a sad smile of resignation and acquiescence. Really, there was never any doubt.

“Mr. Knight, please, tell me more about this operation. It intrigues me. How can I be of service?”

* * *

The American poured them both a shot glass of schnapps, a taste for which he"d acquired during his time in Germany after the war. It was a nice opportunity to halt the "pitch to the Catalan. Leave him dangling, keep him off balance and lets me set the pace, thought Mr. Knight.

Leave him dangling, keep him off balance and lets me set the pace,But the hiatus in the conversation had to be timed correctly. Too keen with the details and the Catalan may be scared off, too much of a pause and he wouldn"t take it seriously. Mr. Knight knew from experience of handling agents in the past that the trick was never to go directly to the matter at hand. Instead the wisdom was to start out wide and gradually bring it in to a narrow focus, hence the offer of the schnapps and his next preamble.

“Following the death of Kennedy, the Soviet intelligence apparatus and their satellite services began to test the boundaries of what they could get away with in operations against any number of Western intelligence services. They"d already had success penetrating French, British and German intelligence, but the CIA was proving a tougher nut to c***k. So they decided to take advantage of our inability to conduct covert action operations and chose to up the stakes, by eliminating several of our agents and operatives in Europe and Asia. When the politicians closed down our Executive Action capability, they also threw out its operations chief. Without him, his assets and his planning skills we were left effectively unarmed. A bit like a g*n without the bullets.”

The Catalan nodded his understanding. He"d met the Chief Operations Officer of the CIA"s covert action capability several times, mostly in Italy. An overweight drunk who had gone to seed a little bit, but still a man of great experience and an excellent covert operator, none the less. Both men raised a silent toast to the absent CIA man and downed their schnapps.

Mr. Knight continued sipping at his drink. “Damn… that"s good. Anyway, the Agency put up with this for as long as it could stand it, then it started to fight back. Oh, not against the Russians, hell, that would have been the easy part. No against the damned politicians, oversight committees, and s**t heels that know as much about running covert ops as they do about astrophysics! Our argument to them was clear. Some very high up people in the Agency formed a quorum and approached several sympathetic congressmen, some of whom had helped us out during the war and knew where we were coming from. Good men, lovers of freedom and democracy.”

Mr. Knight poured himself another shot of schnapps and downed it. “Look, we know we got a bit carried away recruiting and running all kinds of assets in some very unsavory parts of the world. Our people said to them, "We f****d up. But if you guys want to win this Cold War of ours for all the freedom loving people of the world, then for the love of God take the gloves off so that we can at least hit back from time to time!" ”

“Very commendable,” said the Catalan, eager to get to the nub of this American"s proposal. “So, what is the contract? Which dictator are we to neutralize this time?” The Catalan noticed a frown pass across Mr. Knight"s face. Maybe I have misunderstood the proposal, he thought. Then, just as quickly, the cloud passed and the American regained his composure.

Maybe I have misunderstood the proposal,“No, not a dictator. Not this time. Not some African butcher, or some Latin American hard man. The Agency has very wisely decided that we are not in the dictator-removal business anymore. We"ve had our fingers burned too many times,” explained Mr. Knight.