Free The Proxy Assassin by John Knoerle Page B

grisly tales of Iron Guard atrocities during the war as we drank
Ţ uic ă
. I only remember one story. How they rounded up folks in one village and used the electric saws at a meat packing plant to process the entire population, men, women and children.
    Man oh man.
    Frank Wisner’s worldwide clash of ideologies seemed a distant hum out here in the Carpathian Mountains. It seemed to me the real conflict was tribal hatred, and the settling of old scores.
    I was encouraged by our conversation. Why would the old buzzard tell me his people weren’t fire-breathing Bolshies unless he wanted me to pass it along up the chain of command? He was reaching out, he wanted to bridge the gap between the fierce Magyars and the buttoned down warriors of the Central Intelligence Agency. I wasn’t going to be dragged out into a field and forced to dig my own grave.
    That’s what I told myself in my plummy haze. It was a good feeling that lasted until the old buzzard poured himself a fresh one and crowbarred himself off his chair. The armbreakers stood with him. They hoisted their glasses. I hoisted mine in response.
    The old man said something in Hungarian. The only word I recognized was
Securitate
.
    I drained my glass because that’s what you do when somebody makes a toast, but it made no sense. The infamous greeting to the Emperor given by Roman gladiators as they entered the Coliseum came to mind.
    â€˜We who are about to die salute you.’
    -----
    I atea last supper of cold beans and crusty bread. And more plum brandy. I was permitted a spoon this time. Then they dumped me in a swayback bed in a tiny upstairs bedroom, cuffed to the bedposts wrist and ankle.
    I should have killed myself when I had the chance. I should have made a mad dash for it and got myself shot, or wrestled the gun away from my pursuer and done the deed myself. The
Securitate
weren’t going to play patty cake like the Magyars. They would get down to business.
    The human body is such a cantankerous machine. The brain can’t make the heart or the other vital organs stop producing consciousness. The brain needs the co-operation of the extremities to do that via gun, knife or L-pill. Kinda makes you wonder who’s in charge.
    I would have one last chance. They had to uncuff me in the morning. I could follow Fearless Dan’s instructions for quickly debilitating an opponent. Simultaneous knee to the groin and under-the-chin palm shot followed by a two-thumb eye gouge.
    Yes siree. And I would do the same to the other half a dozen security goons in attendance provided they waited their turn.
    Fearless Dan also taught us how to painstakingly roll a newspaper into a lethal dagger. Perhaps I could ask for the latest edition of The Times of London when served my morning tea.
    I rolled over and passed out.
    God bless plum brandy.

Chapter Fourteen
    Myproxy assassin gambit was a bust. Guy Burgess’ NKVD minders didn’t know, or care, that I’d paid him a visit.
    I checked the papers the following morning, had a late breakfast, then called the British Embassy about eleven. Posing as a reporter I asked to speak to the Second Secretary. Guy Burgess was on the line in no time, sounding decidedly undead. I hung up in his ear.
    I couldn’t figure it. I
knew
Burgess was a two-timing rat.
    Smarten up, Schroeder, the Blue Caps knew it too, knew that Burgess was, in fact, a human train wreck. They would take what he gave them with a fat grain of salt and wouldn’t bother with surveillance. If my suspicions were correct they had someone else to keep an eye on him. His roommate, Kim Philby.
    I was now, it must be admitted, a complete and utter screw-up. Nikolai was dead, Guy Burgess free as a bird. I could slink back to Cleveland and hide in the back stacks of the Public Library. Or I could confess my sins to Frank Wisner and take the Romanian job as penance.
    I suspected it had to be the second option. I
had
sworn bloody vengeance