[center][h3]Of Rebels and Assassins  - Part IV[/h3][/center]

[b]Perpignan, France - 1960[/b]

The curtains had been thrown wide open to allow the sun to stream in to the small hotel suite living room. The bluish cigarette smoke that had filled the space had at last been dispersed by a persistent ocean breeze and the cool air was a welcome change from the stuffy feeling of a week ago. A half empty coffee pot sat on the kitchen counter, a battery of used mugs scattered around it with even more on the table, pushed to one side to make room for the five folders that had been laid out. Each of the folders bore a name on the cover, carefully printed in a neat, feminine hand. To the three men who sat slouched in the battered red velvet chairs, their eyes red from a night of reading, the five folder represented their best hope for the future of their country.

"Why don't you go first, Neto." Costa pushed himself back from the table, rubbed his eyes, and then sank further into the velvet, watching the other man. They had all agreed to pick their favourite from the small pile once each had been read and considered. Shopping for an assassin was, in some ways, not unlike shopping for a whore. 

"I still don't understand why there are only five." Neto sighed as he glanced at the folders. Each name bore beneath it a promise of violence and redemption. All of them men with skills they had picked up over years on the job, all of them quietly referred to Costa by men he knew in France. 

"Well, there are no shortage of men willing to die for the cause. The problem is, Delgado knows before they do, so we had to bring in an outsider, someone not known to the Cazadores." Since they had first had the conversation about hiring a hitman, the Cazadores had performed another series of raids, netting dozens of potential revolutionaries and their weapons. The firing squads and flame throwers had been busy. 

"Makes sense," Amaral shifted his considerable bulk, his chair groaning in protest. "I don't think the Spanish reach has gone international... Yet."

"Very well, I like this fellow." Neto tapped a finger on the folder he had drawn closest to him. The manila paper was badly faded, as if it had been in a museum or library for to long, and a burn mark from a cigarette marred the surface. "Joseph Alsop. He's an American, served in their civil war as a sniper, continued on to become a political hit man of some renown. I understand he is quite adept at head shots from a great distance, which could be useful, getting close to Delgado seems to warrant a death sentence. Also, he happens to be in Europe at the moment, helping a faction of the British government deal with another. Perhaps he will come work for us when he is done."

"Alright, Amaral?" Costa turned his gaze to the lawyer turned politician. 

"This one." Amaral didn't hesitate as he picked up the thickest folder. Costa had seen the contents himself. A picture of the man hitman himself and then dozens of his victims. "A Russian, or Ukrainian, who has made his money and his name all over the former Russian Empire. Even the Czar himself would have reason to fear this fellow. Fast, fearless, dangerous, and perfect for our mission. Granted his Spanish is apparently rather... Rustic... But, he doesn't need to speak with Delgado, just kill him. And he seems quite capable by any means needed, he even infiltrated the palace of the Afghan Sheik apparently and killed him while he slept with his wife. You have to admit that takes some skill."

There was a silence when Amaral finished and both he, and Neto, turned their attention to Costa where he was sitting with his elbows on his knees, hands folded in front of him as he regarded the three remaining folders. To kill Delgado was not going to be an easy task and would call for someone who was far from ordinary. The American was certainly a good choice, he was a long ranged killer but he was well known, and Costa was sure that if they knew of the American, the Cazadores certainly did. They would have a spy network in Britain at the moment, it was no secret Delgado wanted Gibraltar. In fact, it was entirely plausible that Delgado was actually the one paying the American to kill British politicians. 

Then the Russian. Good at so many things but certainly very well known by any intelligence service worth its salt, not to mention his poor english was no doubt better than his Spanish. A known hit man asking for directions with a thick accent when the Spanish were throwing up roadblocks everywhere would hardly go unnoticed. No, it would have to be someone else.

"I think," He said after a long pause. "That it needs to be an unknown. The infamy of those two assures us the Spanish will be watching them. That all said, I chose this one." He reached out and laid a hand on the thinnest file of them all. It bore the name [i]Spectre[/i] and the paperclip held only a single sheet of paper to the inside. Even then, the page was only partially filled.

Name: Unknown
Code Name: Spectre
Nationality: Unknown
Height: 6'0
Hair: Blonde
Eyes: Blue
Background: Unknown
Confirmed kills: Unknown

"The man is a blank page, pardon the pun." Neto burst out as he looked at the document across the table. "We know nothing about him."

"Exactly." Costa replied. "I thought so as well but he comes highly recommended by a man in the Irish Republican Army. He said the fellow was South African, but another contact who hired him in Germany thought he was Scottish. Either way, they haven't the slightest clue who he is but he did their jobs, and did them very well from what I hear. I looked in to the two deaths I am aware he was contracted to do, and both were reported, investigated, and declared to be accidents."

"I don't like it." Amaral said, crossing his arms. "How can we trust someone we do not know?"

"We could meet him?" Suggested Neto. Costa could tell that the other man was truly worried about the operation going badly. "At least he is nearly impossible to trace. If he is killed, it would not lead back to us."

Costa wasn't sure why Neto was concerned about that. Delgado certainly knew that someone was trying to kill him and he would be a fool if he didn't know that the three men living on the top floor of a hotel in Perpignan weren't somehow involved. Privately, Costa was concerned Neto might be the weakest link in the chain. 

"I will arrange a meeting." Costa said with finality and the matter was settled, at least for the moment. He picked up his coffee mug, poured the cold contents in to the sink, refilled it and added a drop of brandy. Mug in hand he stepped out onto the patio and stared down in to the street.

He could not help but notice a shadow within a shadow shrink away as he appeared. It seemed they were being watched after all.