The Cipher

Chapter 7-3

This time he had been flown by USAF cargo plane to an ancient fort in Malta, where the Agency kept a discreet paramilitary training base for its covert operators. Two weeks" worth of demolitions, small arms and surveillance training made him feel alive and he relished the thought of becoming an "action agent".

Halfway through the training his case officer came to him for a final preparation. “You"ll need some cosmetic work, toupee, new identification, and a new cover. You"ve operated in Africa with the Legion, we don"t want you running into old contacts and being caught out. Don"t worry about that we"ll take care of it.”

He had flown to West Berlin and from there direct to Leopoldville. His mission was to prepare a plausible cover for himself – someone mentioned a small retail business – organize a base of operations and begin to recruit suitable personnel for a covert intelligence network and a covert action team. Armed with a bit of money, some basic information and a lot of guts, he had thrown himself into his new role of a covert operator.

But now as he sat among the feces, blood and vomit that had spewed from his body, and with all things being equal, he wished that he had never opened that letter in Belgium and had told the CIA officers to go and royally f**k themselves.

* * *

It was the soft scuffing of feet on the concrete floor outside his cell that awoke him from his dream.

He twisted his head around inside the hood, craning his neck, trying to gauge whether it was food time or beating time. Maybe it was a trick, another mock execution, or maybe this time it was going to be the real thing.

The clank of the bolt on his cell door being retracted made him involuntarily tense his muscles, bracing himself for whatever degradation they had in mind for him this time, except that this time there was no violence, no shouting, no cold water, no rubber hoses, only silence and the occasional whisper and slow careful movements of persons"unknown. He felt the handcuffs being unlocked before he was unceremoniously lifted to his feet and told to stand. They dressed him quickly and with no grace; pants up, shirt unbuttoned, no shoes, because his shoes had been stolen over a week ago. He was clothed, but barely.

Strong hands grabbed him from either side, fingers digging into his biceps and then he was propelled forward moving left, left, left, up some steps, right, and all the while his bare feet bearing the brunt of the stone floor. It was the air that hit him first; coolness after the stifling confines of the cell. It"s an execution, he thought; firing squad in the courtyard. Best to take it outside; don"t want to foul the cell with more blood and brains.

It"s an execution,firing squad in the courtyard. Best to take it outside; don"t want to foul the cell with more blood and brains.A creak of un-oiled metal came from what he later learned was a car door being opened and he was pushed into a seat. The heat returned again. His heart was pounding now, his breath coming in rasps. Through the hood he was unsure, but he thought he could hear a muffled conversation taking place outside the car. It went on for several minutes; perhaps French, perhaps English. Again he was unsure. He heard another door open, felt the weight of another body entering the vehicle on the driver"s side. An engine was gunned and the vehicle fled at speed.

The drive went on for, he guessed, the next ten minutes or so. Say nothing, just wait until an opportunity presents itself. And then what? he reasoned. I"m beat up, exhausted, can barely walk! What good could I do?

Say nothing, just wait until an opportunity presents itself. And then what?I"m beat up, exhausted, can barely walk! What good could I do?He felt the speed of the vehicle drop until it casually slowed to a halt. The sound of tires crunching on the rubble road told him they were out in the countryside. He felt the hood being removed slowly from his head and experienced that wonderful moment of pleasure when cool, fresh air enveloped his bruised and cut face. Slowly he opened his eyes, partially at first, aware that any bright light would hurt the one good eye which wasn"t completely shut from the beatings.

He opened it to its full aperture and saw darkness. He was in the front seat of a car, what make he didn"t know, and next to him in the driver"s seat was the dark shadow of a man. They were definitely out in the countryside – that much he could see; no buildings, darkness, isolation. “I"m going to turn on the courtesy light. You might want to shield your eyes for the moment,” said the dark shadow man.

The voice was speaking in English, but was also strangely familiar. The light clicked and bathed the interior of the car in a yellow tinge. Almost immediately, insects began trying in vain to penetrate the windows.

“How are you, my friend?”

David Gioradze turned his head towards the man, squinting his one good eye against the light, but at the same time eager to see the face of his savior. The man was dressed impeccably, as usual, in a summer suit and silk tie, and even in this extreme heat he looked relaxed and in control. The only addendum to his normal attire was a Colt .45 tucked at an angle into his waistband. “Luc… Luc, is that you? How…”

“Relax you"re safe now, those animals have done their worst to you. They can do no more.”

His mind whirled with surprise, confusion, mistrust and panic. Was his cover still intact? Had he told them anything of importance? He didn"t think so. Those animals had been more interested in information about local forces, rather than freebooting foreigners interfering in Congolese politics. He was quite happy to give up the local agents he had managed to recruit, anything or anyone as long as he wasn"t "blown".

He risked another look at the man he knew as Lucien. Who was he? How was an agricultural salesman from Marseilles able to spring him from a secret police torture cell? He gathered his thoughts, took a breath and started again. “Why did you come and get me, how did you get me?” he muttered through cut and bruised lips.

howThe man known as Lucien LeClerc switched off the interior light, started the engine and began to drive.

He pressed the accelerator down to the floor, keen to reach his destination as soon as possible he tore up the road leading away from Panza. Gioradze lay back in his seat and watched in a daze as they drove further and further into the darkness. Occasionally he would close his eyes, only to jerk them open moments later to escape from the horrors of the torture cell; punching, kicking, burning and beating. It was when the knives and machetes came out that he had really screamed in terror.

“Take it easy, just breathe. I"ll tell you what I can on the way.”

“On the way to where?” said Gioradze, the mistrust in his voice evident.

“Don"t worry, I didn"t rescue you from one torture cell to take you to another. There"s a makeshift airstrip not far from here. A private plane is waiting for us.”

“Thank, thank you.” He felt a wave of relief wash over him; he might even get to see the end of the day without being murdered. “How did you get me out?”

Marquez nodded. “It wasn"t that difficult. The hardest part was finding out where you had been taken. I knew that you"d been lifted after leaving the hotel. After that, well, a serious bribe into the right pockets helped smooth your release. They said that you would be returned unharmed. Obviously they lied. How was it?”

“I don"t want to talk about it… it was rough… the bastards.”

“Seems reasonable, I don"t blame you. If it helps, I left them a little present inside the briefcase containing the ransom money.” A smile touched the corners of Marquez"s mouth.

Gioradze looked at him quizzically. His friend Lucien looked back at him with a cold smile, a callous smile. “The case is lined with plastique. On a timer, the moment they spring open the lock well, let"s just say that they"d better spend that money soon. I"m just sorry that we couldn"t see the explosion. It"s the very least I could do; we do, after all, have something in common.”

A confused look crossed the little man"s face. Lucien leaned in closer and whispered; “We have the same employer, David.”

There was a pause as Gioradze began to work out exactly what the man meant. “What…the Americans…but how?”

Marquez shrugged as if it was a matter of no concern. “Different departments employ us certainly, but it amounts to the same. We both do the Agency"s dirty work. Your Agency codename is ROGUE. In truth you are David Gioradze, former soldier, mercenary and bank robber, according to the local CIA man at the Embassy who briefed me. Is that correct?”

Gioradze leaned back in the seat and nodded.

“Well then, allow me to introduce myself, my true self should I say. I am Juan Raul Marquez, Agency cryptonym, WIN.”

“Two CIA operators in the same place, but the odds of us meeting must be huge!”

“Really, do you think so? The CIA is nothing if not prolific and does tend to scatter its money and its agents profusely. I was sent here on one mission, you were sent here to do a different one, but we are both of the same ilk. It isn"t that surprising that we would come into contact eventually, Europeans in a strange land do tend to gravitate towards each other.”

thatGioradze let the implication of the night"s events sink in.

“Besides, I recognized you for what you are straight away; a spy, like me. Your rather embarrassing attempt to "recruit" me only confirmed it,” teased Marquez.

Gioradze began to cough and wheeze, the sucking of the air into his lungs was no longer to help him breathe, it was to give out great bellows of laughter. “Oh… that… is so… good! Of all the people to try to recruit and it turns out to be a fellow agent… well, that"s my contract with the Yankees over and done with.”

“Um, not quite. If I have learned one thing about working with the Americans, it"s that they don"t throw away good resources at the drop of a hat,” said Marquez.

“What do you mean?”

“It seems, or so I have been informed by my case officer, that they have further use for both of us. The situation has altered while you have been locked away. The Congo is no longer on their radar; it seems that the Congo crisis has been resolved. Lumumba has been captured; hence your assassination operation is now void.”

“Captured or killed?”

“For the moment, let"s say captured, but from what I hear he won"t see the next forty-eight hours out. Firing squad, I hear. The Americans will have their man Mobutu in place, the Russians have been kicked out of the country and normality for the CIA has been restored.”

“So where does that leave us?”

“In quite a fortuitous position actually. Despite your rather inept agent recruitment methods and your exasperating skills at organizing a covert attack team, I have been singing your praises to the CIA.”

“Why?”

“Because you are, I believe someone that I could work with, so long as we understand the chain of command,” replied Marquez.

Gioradze knew what that meant. He knew how the chain of command worked. “In other words, you"re in charge,” he said.

“Let"s just say I"ll be the first among equals,” purred Marquez.

Gioradze thought for a moment. “Okay, I can live with that. Besides, I owe you for getting me out of that hell hole. What"s the plan?”

Marquez nodded, satisfied that his plan had worked out as he expected it would. “Good. The Agency has decided that we are to be partnered up. They have big plans for us and the word from the man in Washington is that they have plenty of work for us to do.”

“Such as?”

“The details are a little sketchy at the moment, but broadly speaking, the CIA want us to do what we do best, covert action, assassination, sabotage and kidnappings. The benefit for them is that they will have two experienced covert agents running their operations for them.”

“I could see how that would be attractive to them,” said Gioradze.

“Our first job starts as soon as we get back to Florida. There is a little problem in the Dominican Republic that the CIA wants us to take care of as soon as possible. Interested?”

“Okay, fine, but first I need a cognac. Better make it a double.” Gioradze turned away and looked out the car window at the dark night sky.

In the distance a faint light hinted at landing lights where a small plane might land, for example. Could he trust this man, let alone work with him? He was an enigma certainly, but Gioradze took seriously the risks that this killer had taken to save him from certain death. It was a life debt and one that he would honor.

In that respect he knew he would be Marquez"s man for life – or at least until he was killed, or Marquez found someone better to work with. But that was alright, Gioradze had survived on far worse odds than that in the past.