[center][h3]Of Rebels and Assassins  - Part III[/h3][/center]
[b]Perpignan, France - August 10, 1960[/b]

"Comrades, we have failed, twice, and now the Cazadores seem to be coming for us all." António da Costa said the words with a sigh as he settled in to a leather chair that creaked beneath him. He was one of three men in the small dimly lit hotel room that overlooked the harbour below. 

There was a sense of finality in the sentence and the other men winced when he spoke. No one could deny the truth of his words. They were all exiles, living in France to protect themselves from the Spanish, and it was a shameful moment. 

"You can be sure that Delgado will not be so careless with his own security a second time." This time it was Freitas do Amaral who spoke. He was a lawyer and politician, one of the wealthier ones in Portugal. "We missed our chance."

The sound of a clock chiming in the hallway mixed with the sound of a trolley rumbling by on the street below. A breeze pushed vainly at the heavy curtains drawn over much of the patio door, barely stirring the cigar smoke within. Few people were out and about as French soldiers, most of them sporting the red arm band of Communism, wandered up and down the boulevard. 

"We were betrayed." The third man, Henrique de Sousa Neto, said from his place looking out the window below. Together, the three men made up the primary resistance to Spanish occupation, lobbying the British Government, trying to raise Communists in France to fight for Portugal. Limited success had been had on all fronts so they had opted for the simple expedience of assassinating Delgado and the Royal couple. Both had failed spectacularly and their careful network of contacts within Portugal were being annihilated by the Cazadores and agents of the Centro Nacional de Inteligencia. 

"We were indeed my friends, but by who?" Costa said, sighing again even as he lit a cigar and blew smoke toward the already yellow stained ceiling. "I think we must start to think outside the box. Delgado and his agents seem to have an intimate knowledge of out operations inside Portugal that leads me to believe we are exposed and risking harm to our fellow countrymen."

Following the failed attempt on the King, Queen, and Delgado, the Spanish Intelligence community had moved quickly. Two of their prisoners had died under torture, but they have given up enough information to allow the Spanish to rip the limbs from the Portuguese resistance moment. Men and women who had once been quick to offer their support suddenly found reasons to be out of the country, or unavailable. 

"I agree." Neto was nodding vigorously. He was a highly successful industrialist with deep pockets. He harboured secret aspirations to become the next Prime Minister of Portugal and had been laying groundwork to make it happen when the Spanish moved in. His shoulders were slumped, his posture that of a man who spent much of his time reading at a desk. "We must regroup. Rebuild. Fight on."

"No..." Amaral drew the word out slowly as he said it, eyes partially glazed over as he stared down in to the harbour below. Sweat was beading his forehead. His skin had a waxy pallor at all times that had earned him several unpleasant nicknames. Zombielike or not, he was the smartest man in the room, and the true brain trust behind their operations to date. "We need to bring in an expert."

"An expert?"

"Yes, the type of man who kills for money. Someone completely outside our organization, someone the Spanish would not even know. A true professional." He had heard of such men before. Men who operated well outside the laws of any country and could be counted on to complete a job they were paid for, or die trying. He was reminded of one such incident in which someone had tried to kill an American statesman, why couldn't he remember the mans damn name...

"It will not be cheap." Grumbled Neto.

"No, my friend, it will not, but the ultimate prize is Portugal herself." Amaral was nodding slowly as he tapped the fingers of his right hand against the glass, left hand tucked behind his back against the crumpled tail of his dinner jacket. He was warming to the idea. "Someone only the three of us know."

"How do you propose to find such a man?" 

"I think I can make some quiet enquiries." Costa was staring up at the yellow stain above him. He was the only one of the three with any military background, having served as a Colonel in Mozambique until the Rhodesians smashed his unit. "There are certain people who do this sort of thing."

He had never actually met any of them but he knew they were out there, ex-military men who specialized in removing obstacles, usually in industrial matters, but occasionally in politics. It was almost beyond belief they were thinking of assassinating a national leader, but then again the Spanish had turned flam throwers on surrendered communists. It was a new world. A new war. 

"Is that our only real choice?" Neto was clearly still not happy about the idea of spending more money. Much of his considerable fortune had already been spent on funding the assassination attempts and resistance groups.

"Yes, I think it is." 

"Very well. But I want a list of at least three we can chose from." Neto was holding up three fingers. "I like to have some selection when picking a political assassin." A bleak smile crossed his face. "How bad is it that we should even come to that."

"I will begin right now." Costa said with finality, standing and reaching for his jacket and hat. "I will return this evening, until then, adios."

He pulled the door closed behind him and hurried down the stairs and out in to the street. The town was quiet at this hour, dinner hour had yet to begin, but he knew who he needed to speak with.