A Game For Assassins

Chapter One-3

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.

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!”

Both 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.”

Bajek 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…”

Book Two: The Rules of the Game