A Game For Assassins

Chapter Three

Chapter ThreeMarquez stood at the window and gently peeled back the curtain, so only the smallest aperture was made allowing him to view the frozen scene outside. He scanned the street for any sign of a threat, but saw only the empty streets below him. He turned to the American. “Who would be my contact?”

“You would work directly with me. No contact, either overt or covert, with the American Embassy or the local CIA stations where you are operating. You work at arm's length, independently, with no chaperoning. You try knocking on Agency doors, they'll tell you to take a hike and that they don't know what you're talking about. I will give you a series of telephone numbers and you will be required to check in regularly, to give and receive up-to-date intelligence. After each successful hit, I will release a designated amount to a personal bank account of your choice. You don't complete the contracts; you don't get paid. Questions?” said Mr. Knight.

“I would need several weeks of planning, to organize my team and work out how we would complete the operation.”

“Of course,” Mr. Knight agreed.

“Monies are to be paid directly into my private account at the Banque International de Luxembourg. I will distribute the funds as and when I require them.”

“Absolutely.”

“I will look over your intelligence and planning so far. If it can't be done, I will say so. I will not waste our time. If that is the case I would require $5000 as a severance payout. My time is precious, you understand.”

“Agreed.”

Marquez gave the scenery outside one final look before turning to the American. “Then if all that is acceptable, I would say you have a contractor.”

* * *

“Max. Our guest is leaving, please fetch his coat.” The call went out to the factotum, down the stairs in the lower level of the building. A distant “Yes, Herr Knight,” was the reply.

With the successful reactivation of Marquez, Mr. Knight, ever the practical intelligence officer, had a more pressing problem, namely the tying up of loose ends. Conversely, it was also a fine way to test the Catalan killer's loyalty to the operation and to see if his skills had diminished in any way over the years since he had last been employed by the Agency.

“Herr Marquez,” he whispered as the man stood to smooth down the creases in his tailored suit. “I suggest that we meet one week from today in Vienna. There I will hand you all the biographical details of the targets, funds and a list of resources available to you. I would also like to go over your plan at the same time.” The American reached into his inside jacket pocket and removed an envelope. “Here is a ticket to Vienna, some expenses and an itinerary.”

Marquez pocketed them; he would read through them later. “What about my cryptonym?” he asked.

“Well, I think if you are agreeable, we will stick with your original Agency codenames; QJ/WIN and WI/ROGUE. Is that satisfactory?”

Marquez nodded his approval. He knew that the CIA used cryptonyms that began with a two-digit prefix called a digraph. This digraph usually denoted the locale where the agent had first been recruited. In his own case QJ stood for Luxembourg, the place of his initial recruitment. His partner's digraph of WI represented the Congo, the place of his first operation and the country that had brought them together.

The latter part of the cryptonym was usually something random, or that fitted together to make a complete word. However, in the case of WIN and ROGUE, there was always a sneaking suspicion on Marquez's part that some anonymous CIA officer had judged their personalities well: one a ruthless winner, the other a risk taking criminal. He smiled. It felt like he was back where he belonged, safely inside the protection of a CIA sponsored operation. This contract, possibly his greatest challenge, he was sure would also be his greatest masterpiece.

* * *

The following week was a whirlwind of activity for Marquez. He temporarily closed down his little antiques business in Luxembourg, citing the need to visit an elderly relative in Spain and warning his customers he may not be back for weeks, possibly even a month or two.

He also made discreet contact with several members of the European underworld, with whom he had worked in the past. Each was a specialist in their chosen field. They were expensive, but well worth the price that their expertise brought. Finally, he locked himself away in his beautifully furnished apartment above his little shop and set to work. By the second day, he had the workings of a plan and a strategy of how he would complete this most challenging of contracts.

His plan was simple. Take out the easier targets first, without arousing the suspicions of the KGB. Accidents were always good as they weren't as obvious as a bullet to the head. They bought the assassin time to escape and didn't alert any investigators to the fact that foul play had been used.

Experience also told him that the higher profile the target was, the less likely the use of 'accidents' was, of being an option. Their security was invariably higher and therefore they had a level of protection that made it much harder for the erstwhile assassin to get intimately close to the target. Close quarters work may be an option in this case, but he doubted it. Besides, he would know more once he had a chance to read through the American's intelligence assessments on the targets.

The devil is in the details, he told himself. He sat back in his chair, stretched, then reached across to the telephone sitting on his desk. He heard the click of the operator picking up and asked her to connect him to the private number of a bar in Portugal, which belonged to his former partner.

* * *

The meeting of the two European killers took place at a small cafe located on the Stallburgrasse 2 in the old town area of Vienna, exactly eight days after Marquez and the American had first met. It was discreet, off the beaten track, away from its flashier rivals and a perfect place for two old friends and business partners to reacquaint themselves.

It was commented on by the SIS intelligence analysts who later reviewed the case, that this momentous meeting was a pivotal point in the operation; as much hinged on the successful recruitment of the Georgian killer. It had been a good length of time since the two men had last worked together and much could have changed in the little killer's attitudes. He had, after all, found a new country, a woman and a lifestyle.

The SIS analysts also felt that if he had turned down the offer of a lucrative contract, it would have signaled his imminent death sentence. Contract killers, especially top level ones, despise being turned down by former partners as they are invariably seen as security risks or even worse; there are fears they may try to undercut the original contractor. Hell hath no fury like a deceived assassin, it would seem.

However, on this occasion the analysts and naysayers needn't have worried. The killer had reverted to type and just as a leopard is said to never change his spots, so it was for the small Georgian – he would never turn down a lucrative contract sponsored by his old partner.

David Gioradze, the Georgian, arrived at the cafe at the appointed time. He was dressed in a thick, fur-lined coat, gloves and a hat to keep the cold at bay. He had spent the past few years enjoying the warmer climate of Portugal where he had made his erstwhile home, running a small bar and enjoying the many pleasures of that country, not least, the wine and the women. Having to travel to Vienna during the winter months did not exactly fill him with pleasure.

He made his way through the tables to the counter, ordered a Kleiner Schwarzer, the Austrian name for a small black coffee without milk, and pointed the waitress to the corner table in the shadows, where the unmistakable figure of his former partner reposed. He took in the man's long aquiline face, his perfectly groomed hair, his cultured manner, his fashionable, yet conservative clothes made by the finest tailors in Italy. This seemingly cultured and urbane businessman was one of the best contract killers in Europe. Inwardly, he sneered. In truth, he disliked the man, hated his aloofness, his penchant for young men, his sometimes effete manner. They were not friends, never would be, and the fact that they came from different social classes only widened the gap. But on occasion, the two men would come together to form a symbiotic relationship. The iron hand in the velvet glove was how they had once been described; Marquez the planner, Gioradze the hammer.

“It's been a long time since Leopoldville,” said Gioradze, shaking the other man's hand.

They had first met in 1960, when both had been working, separately at first, for the CIA in Africa. To the CIA officers who ran them, and to the headquarters staff at Langley, these two Cold War mercenaries were better known by their registered codenames, the ones that would be used in confidential communiqués. Gioradze was known, perhaps in reference to his penchant for taking risks and daring nature, as WI/ROGUE, while Marquez, in reference to his single mindedness and commitment to finishing a job successfully, was known as QJ/WIN.

Marquez smiled back at his partner. He still has that ice cold smile, thought Gioradze, the smile that invites you into its embrace, just as he plunges a dagger into your back.

“Indeed,” said Marquez. “Not to mention Mexico, Brazil and Bolivia. Come, my friend, sit down. We can talk about the old times, once we have discussed our bright and prosperous future.”