A few years have elapsed since the fall of the Berlin Wall and, with the collapse of the Iron Curtain, Washington decides to disband the Quadrille. But there are rumors in the grapevine that a former Russian operative of the Soviet G.R.U. is back in action working with the Russian Mafia, and someone in Capitol Hill gives orders to Col. Berkowitz to infiltrate America’s East Coast underworld with one of his former troubleshooters from the Cold War era, with his eyes and ears wide open. The problem is that the right man for the job is no longer around. His name is Patrick Coonan; his codename: Delta.
A few years have elapsed since the fall of the Berlin Wall and, with the collapse of the Iron Curtain, Washington decides to disband the Quadrille. But there are rumors in the grapevine that a former Russian operative of the Soviet G.R.U. is back in action working with the Russian Mafia, and someone in Capitol Hill gives orders to Col. Berkowitz to infiltrate America’s East Coast underworld with one of his former troubleshooters from the Cold War era, with his eyes and ears wide open. The problem is that the right man for the job is no longer around. His name is Patrick Coonan; his codename: Delta.
Nassau, Bahamas, in mid-1997.
The hotel is named Atlantis and it had just been inaugurated. It is a palatial mansion built on the emerald waters of the Caribbean Sea, in the heart of a tropical paradise full of that pristine and romantic charm so typical of the Old World. Its architecture is imbued with the same sumptuousness that one tends to find in the spy films featuring Agent 007. Hell, even the gambling house has been christened Casino Royale; I guess in honor of Ian Fleming’s first novel. If you are curious to know if in those moments I was feeling like “Bond, James Bond,” why yes, I suppose I was.
There’s nothing wrong with indulging in disposing of a few dollars at the blackjack tables and the slot machines; after all, money is earned to be spent, right? That’s the American way of life, a concept that keeps the economy alive and healthy, always thriving and circulating. To hell with the badgering voice of my conscience, I was on leave; or so I thought until I saw the messenger.
At first, I didn’t realize he was a courier, of course; we seldom do until they identify themselves as such. This gent was a man of worldly bearing, in his early forties. He was wearing a smart white dinner jacket with a red bow tie, it harmonized with the wide pleated satin sash that ran as a cummerbund over a pair of black pants. His body still looked hard and lean, without the slightest hint of an incipient belly. The truth is that the man looked fit that was probably because he followed a strict daily regime of exercise and a balanced diet. Something that I, if you must know, had ceased working at in those days; so, when you stop to reflect on the events that took place, I must concede that the Colonel acted in a timely manner.
No one like old Marlon Berkowitz to keep his troops from falling into neglect.
Coming back to the messenger, he approached one of the gaming tables and from time to time threw furtive glances in my direction. When I decided to leave my spot and head for the canteen, the man wasted no time in following. He took one of the swivel stools to my right, and it was then that I noticed he was carrying a folded newspaper under his arm. He ordered a Scotch and paid cash to the bartender, adding a tip. Then he turned and walked away, but when the folded newspaper fell to the polished marble floor the man ignored it. I bent down quickly to pick it up and after downing my drink all in one move, I got off the bar stool and headed for my suite.
There’s no need to emphasize that I was intensely curious about the melodrama. It had been several years ago, in “92, that the Washington fat cats had opted to disband the Quadrille, our old unit. And now suddenly, just like that, as if by magic, that unexpected man had walked into my life with a return ticket to an uncertain and forgotten world of cloaks and daggers, a world of which little or nothing was left in me.
I mean if that’s what this was all about.
Almost eight years had passed since the fall of the Berlin Wall and the collapse of red Russia’s Soviet empire.
Between them Mikhail Gorbachev, that gutsy Pole Karol Wojtyla (whom the world also knew as Pope John Paul II), President Ronald Reagan and Margaret Thatcher had given the final boot in the ass to Communism in Europe and the trail of feces left by the Soviets in the Baltic republics was something to watch.
Consequently, these world events had taken me away from the elimination missions which I carried out during the last stage of the Cold War, during the time I served faithfully in the Quadrille under the orders of retired Col. Marlon Berkowitz.
The candid minds on Capitol Hill, as they watched events unfold, decided that keeping a shadow outfit like ours operating in peacetime was not “politically correct.” And perhaps they were right about that when one considers our modus operandi. The only difference, I think, the big difference, between the Commies and us was that ours was a social cleansing unit that instead of focusing on the elimination of enemy personnel abroad, worked hard on preventing all those sons of bitches from messing with us on our own backyard.
After my dismissal in ’92, I had survived by killing for hire for a New Orleans broker who served as a contractor for certain Syndicate families, that kept me afloat for about three years. Now I was flying back and forth to South America in a four-seater Cessna. My present endeavor was to deliver weapons and other military supplies to the Castaño brothers, the leaders of a fierce right-wing group called the Autodefensas Unidas de Colombia (United Self-Defense Forces of Colombia to you) who had set up camp in the Colombian jungles and were having a blast killing guerrillas of the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia, also known as FARC, in arrangement with some of the local drug lords. Believe it or not, Uncle Sam found their peculiar pastime quite convenient. It was a way to keep the pro-Communist guerrillas at bay without having to send U.S. troops into the region.
Although it may seem so, it was not such a risky job. Almost nothing compared to what I’d done and would do with the Quadrille, under the code name Delta.
Back to my vacation in Nassau, at first, I imagined that the stranger who had approached me in the casino was a messenger sent by my current employer, although I dismissed the thought almost immediately because, in those days, the CIA was in deep water with a Senate commission and my liaisons officer at Langley had ordered me to keep a low profile for a few weeks. Zero trips to Colombia on behalf of The Company; the time had come for me to hang up my guns and indulge in amusement. To compensate for my loss of income due to the cease of operations, I was paid a handsome bonus that also served as a retainer so as not to commit myself in the days to come. The boys from the Planning Department wanted to be sure that they could count on me as soon as the Senate suspended the inquisitions on their activities in the southern cone of the hemisphere.
For a moment I imagined the look of annoyance on the Colonel’s face if he were forced to admit to my face that he wanted me back because he needed me; certainly a funny notion, because he’s a haughty and cantankerous old bastard and it has always been kind of hard for him to openly admit that I was the best of all the “eliminators” he ever had under his command in that world of hushed sentences that always formed part of his life.
Could this be what was really happening, I wondered as I felt the bite of nostalgia.
And suddenly I experienced a wave of déjà vu, recalling all those years of wild youth when my association with the Quadrille allowed me to give free rein to my hunting instincts, the times when I ruled disposing of enemy agents left and right all over the American Union ─ on rare occasions even abroad ─ with the purpose of keeping our national security intact.
Had the old fox managed to get back to his old ways? Had he been able to set up his lethal shop again and bring together our old pack?
Hell, I thought, only one way to find out.
That same afternoon, once installed in my rented suite at fifteen hundred dollars a night, I leaned against the metal railing of the balcony overlooking the ocean, no shirt on, to enjoy the splendid sea breeze that was blowing up there. I held a glass of ice-cold champagne in my left hand and a Montecristo cigar between my teeth, while the fingers of my right hand clung to the piece of paper I had received with the neatly typed instructions. And yes, truth is that yes, it was a call from him that had been sent to me wrapped in the newspaper delivered to the casino by his messenger. It came with a traveler’s checkbook, a U.S. passport with my picture although it had been issued under a false name ─ Peter S. Barnett, if it matters ─ and a large amount of cash: mostly dollars and a few hundred million in Colombian pesos.
Great! I thought, money dropped from the sky... Who will I have to kill this time to earn it?
Reading the instructions, I recognized the crisp, direct style of his prose.
EYES ONLY:
Effective immediately you are to cease any activity in which you find yourself engaged at present and take the next available flight to Miami, Florida... We expect your arrival within the next forty-eight hours... Do not delay, Delta; time is short... Make contact by telephone as soon as you arrive and use your code name.
Judging by the tone of top secret and unquestionable authority he’d employed, combined with the use of my old Quadrille code name, more than a message it could be said to be a direct order ─ which, of course, it was. He never considered the possibility that I would refuse; for him he was still my boss, and I would obey him until the end of time that was all.
Well, he’d made the rank of colonel in the U.S. Armed Forces for a reason, hadn’t he?
The message was not signed, of course; it never is. I read it more than once before burning it with the red tip of my Montecristo and scattered its ashes in the coastal wind, but deep inside me something rebelled against his interference in my private affairs without warning, just like that, and I couldn’t stop thinking why now, dammit, after so long without making contact and go fuck yourself, old goat! at the same time.
“Why now, God dammit!” I shouted angrily at the wind.
Then I came to my senses and figured that if I resented him, he would resent the new gods in the Potomac just as much, after the ingratitude and disregard they’d shown for all of us, disbanding our unit in such abrupt manner, regardless of all the sacrifices we did for God and Country while they needed us.
The difference, I’ll say, is that he, Marlon Berkowitz, was always a patriot. And so was I, in the naïve years of my youth; what little was left of that intense feeling that once swelled in my chest was complemented, now in my maturity, by the simple fact that killing for a living is the only thing I have learned to excel in life.
And that’s the truth, whether I like it or not.
In Red Goliath, Oscar Ortiz gives the side of Patrick Coonan readers haven’t yet come across as he grooms Miss Fitts into an integral analytical role. The radar shifts on Leonid Kaminski, who has made a name for himself in Lake Okeechobee thanks to his association with some influential Russian figures. Coming from a hiatus, Coonan has ‘neglected his form’, which makes him suitable for the job; this time, he’s not just "an eliminator of problems," but an infiltrator. Even so, the stakes are higher this time, perhaps than they have ever been for Coonan. Because Big Dave and Viktor Zotov are active.
As always, Coonan is an intriguing protagonist—brutal if he chooses to, and a perfect narrator, especially of the events shaping up his world. His choice of where to hibernate speaks true to his character, and he’s always ready, knowing soon enough a familiar individual or a brand-new one would walk up to him with a direct order from the Colonel. Though he might not know what MIT stands for, he’s good in his trade. When called to action, he swiftly blends in with the Kaminski’s gang, drawing in more enemies than he’d have wanted.
Right from the onset, the pace is frenzied, and tension remains high. First, Marvin and Coonan start on the wrong foot, setting the tone for their hostile interactions moving forward. How Coonan manages Krista Kaminski's situation further intensifies the conflict between them. What is particularly intriguing is how Coonan draws out Zotov, the Goliath. Interestingly, this time he finally encounters his equal, another killing machine capable of making him howl like an animal in pain: "The brutal cry that escaped my throat echoed throughout the entire house.”
By crafting a protagonist reminiscent of James Bond and placing him in a world rife with intrigue and danger—where trust is scarce, and crime is escalating—Ortiz has made a lasting impact. He has not only created compelling characters but also showcased his skills as a master storyteller.