A Game For Assassins

Chapter One

Chapter OneLuxembourg – November 1964

The 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.

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.

“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.

There was a frown this time from the Killer. “Then I am confused. In our previous contracts, we were always directed toward such targets, that was our specialty?”

“Oh, I can assure you, your skills will not be wasted, otherwise why else would we have chosen to re-activate you? No, not a high profile target such as a head of state, but important enough to this operation to warrant your attention. Seven people… excuse me seven 'targets'… to be eliminated within a given time frame. They are scattered across Europe, have minimal or no protection and are totally unaware that they are being targeted,” Mr. Knight explained calmly.

“Soviets?”

“Of course. Soviet agents to be more precise, but it amounts to the same thing. I'm afraid you will be off the KGB's Christmas card list for the foreseeable future.”

The Catalan nodded. He was not unduly worried; he knew how to cover his tracks. “And the fee?”

“Double the usual monthly retainer from your previous employment with us, with a $25,000 bonus upon satisfactory completion of the contract, plus the usual expenses and resources available.”

The normally poker-faced killer raised an eyebrow at that. A payoff of $25,000 would set him up for the rest of his life and would easily see him into retirement. The Americans must want these agents removed very badly indeed.

“We already have much of the plumbing in place, but we can go over that in more detail at our next meeting,” the American continued.

Plumbing, the Catalan knew, was the Agency's euphemism for pre-operational planning. Before any job was given the green light, the case officer in charge had to provide the necessary resources to actually make the operation viable.

“However, because of the deniable nature of this contract you will need to source certain things for yourself. We want everything done at arm's length, to keep the facade of plausible deniability in place. Passports, vehicles, specialist equipment and so forth. Is that a problem?”

“No, not at all. I have a good man that I use in Antwerp for false documentation. He is very professional, very discreet. However, I will need assistance to help me execute this contract. Suitable personnel. Qualified people.”

Mr. Knight leaned down and lifted a manila folder from his briefcase, opened it and made a small notation with his pen. “Yes of course. We would in no way expect you to carry this out on your own. We were rather hoping that you would take it upon yourself to perhaps approach and recruit your former partner on our behalf. Is that acceptable?”

“Certainly. He is a fine operator, and one of the few men I would trust to work with,” said the Catalan smoothly.

“I understand he can be a little reckless at times. A little wild?”

The Catalan thought back to his time working with the Georgian. The little man was both reckless and ruthless at times, but remarkably, he had always been able to rein him in and control him. “He does have that reputation, but not with me. If you wish me to take this contract, and I'm guessing that you have gone to a lot of trouble to arrange this meeting, then I want the Georgian as my back-up man. This is not negotiable.”

The American seemed satisfied with the answer. He clicked his pen to retract the ballpoint, returned it to his pocket and sat once more staring directly at his guest. They had reached a point of no return and, from this moment on, the operation would either go forward or be stillborn.

“So who are these targets? Until I have an understanding of precisely who and what they are, I cannot give you an accurate assessment of success feasibility,” said the Catalan.

Mr. Knight pulled another manila folder from his briefcase, and with a quick flick through the pages with his fingers, he handed a single, typewritten sheet of paper to the Catalan. The words 'TOP SECRET' were emblazoned in red diagonally across the page. He evidently had his own copy as he immediately turned his attention to the folder resting across his lap and began to speak. “I think for brevity's sake, for the moment we should refer to them by their professional titles,” said Mr. Knight.

The Catalan nodded his agreement and returned his gaze to the briefing document, while Mr. Knight cleared his throat and assumed the mantle of a teacher conducting a lecture.

“So we have the Soldier, an army colonel currently assigned as his country's liaison officer to NATO headquarters in Paris. There is the Diplomat, who is operating out of an embassy in Hamburg; he is part of a diplomatic policy think-tank for creating strategies to counter Soviet expansion. The man is also a closet homosexual.”

Mr. Knight ran his finger down the page until he reached the next targets on the list. “The Engineer is a senior scientist currently believed to be seconded to a project designing a new missile delivery system. The man was a leading light in the Nazi war machine during the war, a protégé of Werner Von Braun, no less. Then we have the Financier who is a senior banking official with a noted Swiss banking house in Zurich. He has direct access to various government funds and is an expert in re-routing and hiding KGB monies in the West.

“The Politician is Special Advisor to the current UN Secretary-General and a former member of the Italian parliament. She is very influential, with many friends across Europe and the USA, apparently also has the ear of the current Chief of Staff in Washington. Finally, we have the Quartermaster; a respected businessman who runs a secret sideline, procuring illegal arms for Soviet-backed operations across Africa.”

The Catalan sat quiet for a moment. It was an impressive list, no doubt, but there were several nagging doubts running through his mind, not the least of which he decided to voice. “Would it not be better to try to turn these agents? I know from my own experiences during the war that the perceived wisdom is to use agents to catch more agents. Killing them merely leaves you with a dead end.”

Mr. Knight sighed. He'd expected this reply at some point and his carefully constructed response had been prepared in advance. “That is the usual way of doing things, certainly, and as a professional I agree with what you're saying. But this operation is just one part of a bigger project. The reasons don't concern you, only the conditions.”

The Catalan frowned. “There are only six names on this list; you said there were seven targets.”

Mr. Knight cleared his throat and placed his hands carefully on his knees, almost as if he didn't trust them to remain still. When he spoke, his words were clipped. “The seventh target is, we believe, the KGB controller who runs these agents personally. At the moment, we only have limited information about him. That will change over the coming months. We know that he's currently active in Europe somewhere. As soon as we find him, we will pass you the information.”

Both men stared openly at each other for a moment, weighing up their options. It was the American who finally spoke. “So we have now reached a line in the sand. I think I need a clear answer.” There was a deliberate pause before he spoke again. “Are you able to handle this operation?”