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
Chapter One
Luxembourg – 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