by James Quinn
He told of himself as a teenager, wearing his first black suit and standing over his mother's grave, tears streaming down his cheeks and his father's hand on his shoulder to comfort him. He told of the family moving North, back to Glasgow which was his father's hometown, to try to start again.
He told of the cold and the harsh streets and of the London boy with the accent that Glaswegian kids laughed at. Of the beatings after school for the kid that wasn't one of their own; a foreigner, an outsider. He told of the day that he fought back and drew first blood on the attacks after school. How he had busted the older kid's nose and how the rest of the school had looked at him differently after that day.
He told how of he had run with the street gangs of Glasgow, how he had felt a part of their community at last. How someone had given him his first blade, a straight razor, and the first time, but never to be the last, that he had used it in anger. And he told of the look of shame, disappointment and anger on his father's face when, after being arrested for beating up a member of a rival gang, scarring his face with the blade, his father had come to pay his bail, a week's wages, to get him out of lock-up. The family had gone hungry that week and he had lived with the shame of that.
He told of how relieved he felt when his papers for National Service had come through and he had virtually sprinted to the Basic Training Centre. How he was glad of his escape and a way out of the drudgery that he was in… and how he had cried when he had left his father and his sister.
Masterman paused the proceedings and got them some tea each. “Just for the record, do you have any skeletons in your closet that you haven't told me about so far?”
Grant shrugged. “Nothing to write home about. A couple of women that I'm not too proud of having spent the night with? That what you mean?”
Masterman laughed at that. “Well, as long as it's not chaps, I think we are all good. Continue.”
He told of Army life, of the routine, the cohesiveness of it and how he had thrived. He told of how he had been in the first fire-fight of his life and how it hadn't been as scary as the first street fight he had fought in. After that, it had been a blur. He told of a letter, come six weeks too late, that told of the death of his father, a heart attack, and how he had never had the chance to mourn. After that, he had decided that he didn't want to return home at the end of his required service and had asked for a transfer to the Intelligence Corps, his German language skills being an asset, he reasoned. And they were! Unfortunately, getting into trouble with his fists hadn't helped and his Commanding Officer had shipped him off to the Far East as a punishment.
But most of all, he remembered the boredom of the past year – no action, no purpose, no fighting; just treading water. To relieve the boredom, he had ventured into a bit of black marketeering and smuggling; getting in with the locals, bringing in booze and cigarettes. He had turned a profit.
And then that bloody officer had found out, talked himself up, wanted to deal, and had wanted a cut. An argument, cross words, the wrong words, a punch thrown, a boot kicked, a blade drawn.
“And that's, roughly, how I ended up here,” said Grant, a wry grin on his face.
Masterman nodded, absorbing it all. “Is that everything?”
Grant shrugged. “I think it is, sir. Yes.”
“Good. It's not the worst tale I've ever heard. I pride myself on having an eye for untapped talent and in you I see that. I'm putting a unit together and I'm looking for people who have a certain mindset and certain skills. What the Army would call mavericks, but which I call potential. Get your gear together, you're a free man, you're coming with me,” said Masterman.
Which, to Jack Grant, sounded like he was swapping one set of chains for another.
Chapter Seven
Fort Monkton (SIS Training Centre), Gosport, England – 1958
Jack Grant was pushed through an updated Intelligence Officers course on Masterman's orders. The normal three month course was condensed into little fewer than two. “I need him now! Not in three bloody months!” complained Masterman to the Directing Staff at the Fort.
There were eight of them on the course. Most seemed to be of the officer class; privately educated, from good families, titles. No ranks or patches were worn at the Fort, so, in true Secret Service fashion, nobody knew who anyone was or where they had come from.
Only Grant was from Masterman's unit; the rest would be going off to be deployed to various intelligence units around the world. For the moment, they were all classed as civilians and for the next eight weeks they would not move outside the secure training facility. For Jack Grant, after the heat and sweat of a Singapore military prison it was like a Five Star hotel.
The days were long and hard work; PT fitness, classroom lectures, practical exercises that covered all the skills that the fledgling spies would need. They learned the art of conducting surveillance on the streets of the towns around Hampshire and of running counter-surveillance detection runs to make sure that weren't being followed. Much of the classroom-based teaching he had learned on the Basic Course when he had joined the Intelligence Corps, so there was some overlap, but SIS had a different set of criteria to military intelligence; their scope was broader and more diverse.
Wednesday was Vehicle Combat and Tactical Driving day when the students were taught how to intercept vehicles, how to knock vehicles off the road, how to perform J-turn escapes and vehicle ramming techniques in an army of battered and beaten-up old cars. They learned photography, map reading, how to set up covert surveillance hides, covert communication procedures and the best types of electronic listening devices to 'plant' in a room. “But most of all, my good fellows,” said the Senior Directing Staff, looking over his glasses at them in the classroom, “you will learn that the most important skill an intelligence officer has at his disposal is bloody good, clear and concise report writing!”
Grant found he was enjoying the course, the training and the people and he could see how they were rapidly coming together as a team. There were, of course, the usual spats and disagreements, the same as with any competitive group of people, but Grant was surprised with the way that everyone handled it – including himself. They talked it through logically and for him, that was refreshing. He could feel himself growing as a person. In the Army, they would just have settled it with a punch-up!
It was towards the beginning of the second month that they started on a series of lessons entitled Agent Spotting, Recruitment and Handling, or ASRH for short. Their instructor was a small, dapper man named Reilly, who said that he had recruited his first agent when he had infiltrated the Bolshevik movement in the early part of the century. His voice was a curious mix of effete English and Eastern European Slav.
“You have to be both mother and father to them, my dears. You can love your agents, but you must also be tough with them. Give them an inch and those buggers will take a mile. You control them, always remember that, not the other way around,” he said.
Jack Grant found the art of running a source fascinating. The students were taught about the different types of agents and the kind of information that they would be able to supply to their case officers.
Then they were shown all the methods of manipulation, coercion and handling of a source.
“Motivation is a key component,” said Reilly. “Why should Mister A spy for you? Is he greedy, does he need money? Is he vengeful? Does he hate his employers? Does he have a fragile ego and needs to feel like he is playing the world's game and outsmarting everyone? Do we have to blackmail or coerce him? Or is he a patriot who wants to save his country from a despotic regime? These are all factors that we have to assess, my dears. We have to be able to read our agents and gauge what they want, need and plan to do next!”
They spent two weeks running realistic scenarios about agent contact meetings, incorporating covert communication drills and working on their tradecraft. The final exercise consisted of each of the students travelling to Portsmouth to meet an 'agent' in the field, wh
ich in reality was one of the DS staff, and to pitch a recruitment offer to them.
Grant's was an overweight woman who constantly sneezed and said she hated her country's government. “They are communist pigs!” she said. “They make me sit in an office all day and file communication reports!”
Grant assured her that he understood completely. Perhaps they could meet again in the future? Perhaps next time she might like to show him some examples of the type of reports she dealt with? He would be interested. He had a friend who could help her with some medication for her bout of the flu.
“Achooo! That would be most helpful. Thank you. The Communists don't care about my flu. They are pigs!” she sniffled.
“What are friends for?” said Grant.
They all passed the ASRH exercises and they were even given a much-needed night off. The next morning, a Sunday, the DS was waking them up early. “I don't care if you underestimated the strength of the local beer and have hangovers. Get yourselves up and ready. Thirty minutes to get your gear sorted out and then we hit the road.”
“Where are we going?” asked Mortimer, a former barrister who had been recruited to SIS.
“Where? Well, you're getting to have a bit of fun for a few weeks – somewhere cold and wet and bleak,” said the DS.
The final part of the training was at a former wartime Special Operations training school that had been taken over by SIS in 1945. Rhubana Lodge was located on the extreme outskirts of Morar in Inverness-shire and its location was exactly as the DS had promised; bleak and wet and cold.
They had taken the train north to Fort William and from there, they were met by disguised military trucks that loaded them into the back like cattle. They rode that way for over two hours.
Jack Grant looked back over the scenery that he remembered from his youth when his parents would take him and his sister out for rides in the car. The mountains, lochs and villages passed him by and he tried to remember if he had been this way before. Maybe? Maybe not? Memory could play tricks on you. The one constant thing was the rain and the cold. Maybe Singapore hadn't been so bad after all.
Eventually, the valley separated and they took a private dirt road down to a large stone building that was surrounded by huts. It must have been set in at least five acres of rough ground, all protected by barbed wire fences. No one was coming in here, or perhaps it was to make sure that no one got out.
The trucks pulled up and the driver ordered them all out, showing them to the hut that was to be their accommodation for the next few weeks. “Get your heads down,” advised the driver. “You start first thing in the morning. Anyone wants some food, the canteen is just across the yard. Good luck.” And then he went.
The eight of them looked at each other and shrugged. Expect the unexpected. That's what they'd learned to expect.
“Wonder why there are nine beds when there are only eight of us?” someone said. With nothing else to do, they were left to unpack their gear and get a brew on.
An hour later, and with everyone relaxed on their bunks, the door to the hut was kicked open and in walked a large lump of a man with a kit bag slung over his shoulder. His face was set in a scowl and at first, Jack Grant wasn't sure if it was from the rain outside, or just from temperament.
“Where's my fecking bunk?” growled the man in a Birmingham accent.
Aah, thought Grant. It's temperament.
One of the officer types walked up to the invader and made a show of trying to shake hands. Mr Scowl gave him an even deeper scowl and looked at the proffered hand as if it was covered in excrement. Mr Scowl threw his bag on the last remaining bunk and made himself a mug of tea.
For the next thirty minutes, Mr Scowl, who turned out to be called Mitchell, held court to whoever was polite enough to listen to him about his achievements, the generals that he had met, the fights he'd been in, the amount of people that he'd killed in combat, and how he was fucking annoyed because he had to do this Mickey Mouse shooting course in the fucking wilds of fucking, pissing Scotland when he should have been off to his next posting!
They learned that his name was Albert Mitchell. Paratrooper. Warrant officer who had been bumped up to an intelligence slot and was due for a refresher with small arms, hence why he was here and probably why he was in a bad mood. Grant got the impression that Mitchell had a bit of an attitude problem and liked to push people around to make himself feel good.
Jack Grant's plan of action was to ignore Mitchell and have as little to do with him as possible. They were here to learn, not to be bunk buddies and, to be honest, Mitchell seemed like the type of bloke that didn't have many friends, or even wanted them. Jack Grant was perfectly fine with that, so he settled back on the bunk and closed his eyes, ready for sleep, preparing his mind for whatever the hell was waiting for them tomorrow.
The next morning – 06:30 – they all made their way to the Mess Hall for breakfast. Grant was surprised to find Masterman already tucking into a fried breakfast and huge mug of coffee.
“Jack, come and join me,” said Masterman, pushing back a chair for him. “I thought we might have a little chat before school begins.”
Grant fetched himself some food and a coffee and settled down opposite Masterman. “What you doing here, boss?” he asked.
“Oh, just thought I'd catch up with my star pupil. The DS at the Fort said you did fantastically well. I do pride myself on having an eye for the right type of operative. Turns out I was right about you. Congratulations!” said Masterman.
Ever self-deprecating, Grant just nodded in acceptance of the compliment.
“Here's where you'll learn all the dark arts, Jack,” said Masterman. “We call it the killing school. Unarmed combat, silent killing, and close quarter battle. The Killer will show you them all.”
“The Killer?”
“Ha! Yes, your instructor for the next few weeks. You'll meet him soon. I'll let him introduce himself, I don't feel that I could do him justice,” said Masterman, cleaning his plate. “Don't let his looks fool you, though. He really is a killer.”
With breakfast finished, they all made their way to the lecture hall to meet this mysterious, iron-jawed soldier. What they found was far from being a man mountain; instead, standing at the front of the class was their instructor who, for a brief moment, Grant thought was the cleaner, there to tidy the rooms once the day was over.
The instructor said his name was Taylor. Major Harvey Taylor, late of the Ghurkha Rifles, was a portly, middle-aged and bespectacled man, with a dry wit and an air of sadness about him. He seemed almost Pickwickian and had the look of a schoolteacher who belonged in some prep school. But during the War, Major Harvey Taylor was reputed to have been one of the most accomplished gunmen that the Allies had. Dropped behind enemy lines to assassinate Nazis at close quarters, Major Taylor was one of the most renowned experts at close quarter killing with a firearm. After the War, he had been recruited by SIS to help train future recruits in the art of silent killing and close quarter battle.
Grant and the students looked on in amusement while the Major walked up and down, delivering his opening address. The Major was too much of a character to be taken seriously.
“Now, gentleman – and I use the term very, very loosely – you are here because the powers-that-be have decided that you need to be taught the ultimate skill of the intelligence operative, that of murder. This is a school of murder. Murder is our business and we like to keep our business thriving! So murder you will bloody well learn!” he said coolly.
Grant noticed a few raised eyebrows from the rest of the team, but he said nothing and kept his own counsel.
“Now, before you lot get ideas above your station and think that I'm just going to hand over firearms to you rowdy lot – think again! First, you learn to fight with your fists, then with a knife and then, and only then, when I deem you acceptable in the first two disciplines, will I teach you the art of the gunman!” taunted Major Harvey.
The group were ordered to make thei
r way to the shooting house, an old converted barn that was equipped with indoor ranges and a number of purpose-built rooms complete with targets, as well as a gym for unarmed combat training.
The assassin taught them all the killing techniques that he had mastered during the war. They boxed, they grappled and they threw each other onto the training mats, and when he was sure that they were physically coordinated and able to survive a 'scrap', it was only then that the Major taught them how to kill with their bare hands.
He taught them how to crush a man's throat with the edge of their hands, how to throw a man to the ground and then incapacitate him with a solid boot-kick to the head. How to throttle someone by means of a rear naked choke, how to snap necks, gouge eyes, snap fingers – he taught them to fight dirty and win!
At the end of the first day, they stood bruised, bloodied and exhausted.
“Get some food, get a shower and get some rest! Tomorrow, we deal with blades,” said the Killer.
The next day was a repeat of the first – except this time with sharpened steel in their hands and straw dummies to practice upon.
“You don't slash with the knife, you stroke!” said the Killer, as he cut angles on the straw dummy in front of him. He moved around it like a photographer getting the camera angle right, and when he thought it was perfect, he would slash, opening up an imaginary artery or vein.
“You paint with the edge of the blade – 1… 2… 3… 4… 5 – and when he has lost blood, you don't just gently insert the weapon, you stab, stab, and stab again, prison-style!” he informed, as he grabbed the straw dummy and shanked it again and again, ripping out its guts.
He paired everyone off for knife duelling practice. Grant was paired with Mitchell.
“Alright, short-arse,” said Mitchell, his cockiness showing through. “I'll try not to hurt you too much!”