by James Quinn
He climbed into the battered and mud-splattered Land Rover, rumbled the engine to life and headed out of Arisaig. The drive was slow and carefree, with Grant taking in the stunning vista of the mountains which sheltered the village from the harshest of Scottish elements in any season. He'd been driving for no more than ten minutes when he spotted the vehicle following his old Land Rover.
He'd sensed it, before he'd seen it. A prickling of his skin, his senses trembling, the hairs on his arms standing on end – all were alerting him to the fact that he was being watched, observed, assessed and evaluated by persons' unknown. Whoever it was, he was useless at vehicle surveillance. Driving a bloody big show-off car like a Jag made him stick out like a sore thumb in the rural environment. The only people who had flashy cars around here were the 'bookies', and gangsters from Glasgow, and they didn't tend to be visiting small fishing villages at five in the morning in Jack's experience. “Okay, sunshine,” he muttered to himself, his eyes never wavering from the rear-view mirror. “Let's see what your game is.”
Grant had watched the Jag's headlights, throughout the hour's drive down to Fort William. It had turned out to be so easy. Drive into the centre of town, dump the Land Rover and go about his business. It had taken him less than ten minutes of dragging himself around the stores and streets, before he'd identified his 'watcher', and then another five before he'd procured the name from his mental list of faces. Jack Grant recognised the face; a senior officer in Berlin, from bloody years ago. An Intelligence Corps Captain, attached to agent running. Penn, that was it. Jordan Penn, Jordie for short. Nice bloke. What a shame. Well Mr. Penn, thought Grant, nice bloke or not, I'm about to spoil your day.
* * *
Jordie Penn, former Captain in the Intelligence Corps, and now private security consultant to the rich and famous of Mayfair, had already had a pig of a day. He'd been on the go since three am. Jack Grant, his target, was routinely up and out early and therefore, he'd needed to be up at least several hours earlier, lying up in a spot along the route. He'd sat freezing his backside off in the Jaguar, trying not to let the windows steam up. He couldn't put the heater on, because that would mean turning on the engine and possibly alerting someone, so he'd had to leave the driver's window open to stop the condensation… and it was arse-numbingly freezing. Bloody hell!
Penn had enjoyed the drive up and through the Scottish mountains the previous day. He had taken in the majestic views of the Glens and the hills and had gloried in their ruggedness. He'd witnessed the clouds merging into, and hanging low over, the mountain peaks like some kind of camouflage. They were, he was sure, one of God's finest achievements. But it was the rain and the cold that was crucifying his part in the surveillance.
He had seen Grant – God, he had resembled a dishevelled fisherman – climbing into the Land Rover and heading off along the main arterial route down through the mountains, past Ben Nevis, and into Fort William. It had been slow going for Penn in the Jaguar, trying to keep Grant's vehicle in sight, while remaining unseen. Once they hit Fort William, it had been easier. More people, even at this early hour of the morning, had helped him to blend into the surroundings. Not that Jordie Penn was any kind of expert at hostile surveillance, far from it. His forte had been running a pathetic bunch of displaced persons as agents in post-war Berlin. So shadowing a target, even on UK soil, was something way outside of his remit. But… since his recruitment to this new operation he'd been doing an awful lot of things outside of his usual job description. The order had been given from the 'boss', so he was determined to see it through. “Follow him Jordie, get him on his own, then make the approach… bring him back into the fold,” had been his brief the previous evening.
So Penn stuck to Grant as best he could. Up and down the high street, watching where he went. It was on his second tour of the same street he'd been down less than five minutes ago, when Grant made a sudden lurch into an entryway between two shops. It was probably the access road for deliveries. Penn took his time and peered into the concrete walkway, before he cautiously followed his target. The laneway brought him out into a courtyard, full of small industrial units. Several workers glanced up and scowled at him, before carrying on with their work.
“Where the bloody hell did he go?” Penn muttered, as he started to walk back out into the street. He was halfway along the laneway when he saw the dishevelled fisherman he'd once known in Berlin and… he was coming straight at him at speed! He exhaled sharply with the impact and Grant's fist tightened at the Intelligence Corps regimental tie at his throat. Pushed backwards, his feet were kicked out from under him, and his back hit the hard ground with not inconsiderable force. Above him, the furious face of Jack Grant glared down, his fist drawn back and ready to pound his face into a bloody pulp.
Jack Grant snarled. “Well, Mr. Penn, you better tell me what you want bloody quick – or you'll be picking your teeth up with broken fingers!
* * *
Penn had been dragged to his feet and wisely, he talked… quickly. He obviously knew of Gorilla's reputation for violence and he was wise enough not to test it. “Someone wants you to attend a meeting. Now. Thirty minutes' drive from here. A private meeting.”
“Who?” snarled Grant, dusting the dust from Penn's jacket.
“I can't say. But it's a meeting you'll want to attend. It's a 'friend'.” His face had flushed under the sudden onslaught of violence from the smaller man, but he was slowly regaining his composure.
A 'friend' was an informal name for members of SIS. Grant was intrigued, but he was more than determined to play hard to get, at least until he had more solid information. “Piss off. You think I'm going to just walk into a trap? You've been at the whisky, sunshine.”
“I was told to tell you it was relating to your old offices, back at Pimlico,” said Penn reasonably.
“I've been out of that for a wee while now, I don't know anyone there anymore.”
“Nevertheless, my employer has taken great steps to keep this meeting secret. He's respecting your privacy, and your family's security.”
At the mention of his family Grant's demeanour grew even more aggressive and he glared at Penn, fury invading his face. “How long for?”
“A few hours, no more, then you can return to your village,” said Penn.
Grant weighed up his options and then issued a warning. “Any funny business and I start breaking limbs. Yours will be the first, Penn. Just so that you know. For the record… you understand?”
They travelled back in convoy, Penn leading the way in the Jaguar and Grant following close behind in the mud splattered Land Rover. The route from Fort William took them northwards, almost back to where Grant had started from that very morning in his tiny fishing village. Penn suddenly turned sharply to the left a few miles before the village, negotiating the Jaguar down a private road that was little more than a track. Less than half a mile away, through the fog and the rain, Grant could make out a large mansion house in its own private grounds. It was isolated and protected by the mountains standing guard around it on the banks of the Loch. Grant knew what it was immediately. Inverailort House was something of a legend within the quiet communities and villages in the Lochailort area. During the war, it had been one of the first Special Training Centres for the sabotage service and any number of fledgling Special Forces groups. Its grounds and rooms had played host to all kinds of nefarious black arts; small arms training, silent killing, explosives and sabotage.
Now though, the building was vacant and obviously in need of some repair. Even though the post-war years hadn't been kind to it, the house still stood formidably against the fierce weather and the elements. They parked directly in front of the main doors and Penn led the way up the stairs to the main doors. He produced an iron key from his pocket, turned it in the lock, and pushed open the large wooden door. The main reception hall was bright and airy, but with the look of a place used infrequently. The main staircase divided the hall into two large corridors and Grant estimated
the mansion must have anything between ten to fifteen large rooms at its disposal.
“We go this way,” said Penn, ushering Grant down one of the grand corridors. The smell of mould and mildew filled Grant's nostrils. They carried on for a good twenty feet, past heavily-curtained windows, until they reached what had once been the main dining hall. It had definitely seen better days. The wood was warped and cracked, there was an overwhelming smell of dampness and moisture, and darkness permeated the room making it appear smaller than Grant suspected it actually was. The heavy curtains in this room had been drawn shut and the room was poorly lit by faded wall sconces. It reminded Grant of a dour church he'd been made to visit when he was a boy.
He heard Penn close the door behind them and he stepped further into the gloom. Grant took only a few faltering steps before he heard the sound of rubber tyres squeaking on the dusty wooden floor. He made out a wheelchair at the far end of the huge dining table, and watched as it slowly pivoted to reveal the silhouette of a man. The darkness disguised the features of the man's face, but Grant would have recognised the voice anywhere. In truth, he'd suspected who had summoned him, even before they left Fort William.
“You look like you haven't shaved for a month,” said the voice. It was deep, basso, commanding and in control. It was the man he'd fought side by side with, and the man he'd killed for.
It was the Colonel. Masterman. It was Sentinel.
Chapter Three
It had been a little over two years since they'd last met, at the funeral for a former Redaction team member who had been killed during an operation in Rome. Masterman, once a large and powerful man, now resembled a broken scarecrow. His frame had lost all of its bulk and his body was contorted at unnatural angles, almost as if he was wracked with pain whenever he moved. His complexion was pale, and sickly. The Colonel looked like a man ten years older than his true age. Except for the voice and of course, those eyes, which still held the familiar bombastic fire.
Masterman, to his credit, took the shock and surprise on Grant's face well. “I had a run in with some flying lead and explosives. It ripped apart most of my back, damaged my spine and broke one of my legs. Not to mention what it did to my face.” Masterman raised one hand up to the scar tissue running across his face.
Grant eased himself into a chair; he could feel his legs trembling with shock. “Jesus, Colonel, you should have let me know, I would have come—”
Masterman interrupted, clearly not interested in any pity or remorse for his plight. “Pah, you had enough to deal with. I understand that now – you'd been through a rough operation. It hit you harder than you liked to admit and the best thing for your sanity was to give yourself some air to breathe, away from the death and the killing. Not that we didn't miss you, Jack. Many a time we could have done with your pistol skills, to assist us in halting a bit of trouble.”
“What happened? Was it a mission?”
Masterman nodded, wincing with the movement. “I was ambushed by a dead man, or at least, we all thought he was dead.” Masterman paused and Grant suspected he was using the extended silence, to decide how much to tell him. Finally he said, “It was your old team mate, Trench. We had word that he'd been taken out during an operation several months before in Macau, and I had no reason to doubt the information. Until I see him sitting in a sniper's perch, shooting down my security team and killing my informant in Australia.”
For a moment Grant couldn't take it all in. Trench gone rogue! What the hell had been happening in the year since he'd left the Service?
“I never trusted the bastard, but to his credit, he was a damned good Redactor. Trench is working for some very bad people, it seems, and they're the reason I need you back in the game and operational,” Masterman added.
“What? Me! I'm out of it, Colonel,” spluttered Grant.
“Our country is under attack,” said Masterman. “And the average man and woman on the street haven't even got a clue about it… yet. Besides you're never completely out of it… not in our game.”
Grant stared at Masterman, trying to assess if his old comrade was serious. Masterman, Grant knew, wasn't prone to bouts of melodrama. He saw the fear in the other man's eyes and spoke. “Alright. Tell me everything.”
“It started with an investigation,” Masterman began. “The Chief had personally involved himself in the smallest details of the case. He judged it to be of such significant threat to the nation, that he took charge of it himself. The details, even now, are still hazy and unclear. I received a package a week after C was killed, containing copies of the evidence he'd accumulated. Sir Richard was a careful man and it seems he feared he would be a target for assassination. He had evidently chosen me to pick up the mantel and carry on the fight… little did he know, I'd been taken out of the game as well.”
Masterman glanced down at his damaged body, pausing for a moment of reflection before he carried on. “It seems the Chief had been approached directly, by a former agent from his old wartime network, someone who had been part of an operation during the war in Asia. You know how it is; sometimes old agents pop up and try to make themselves useful again. Most of the time they're just after cash, needing a hand-out and missing the workings of the intelligence game, but according to the information I inherited; this agent was unique. This man had become aware of an organisation, one that if not controlled properly, could have been a threat greater than anything we've faced so far.”
“What kind of organisation? Terrorist?” asked Grant.
Masterman shook his head. “Not exactly. It borders on a private intelligence network, subsidised by the use of mercenaries for hire, private assassins and illegal arms deals in the region. All to the highest bidder, I might add. There were even rumours that they'd waged a war with several Yakuza clans in Japan, but the Yakuza fought back by forming an alliance. It was a close run thing though, and the gangsters were lucky to make it out alive.”
“So what was the information about?”
“Just rumours at first, talk of extortion, terrorist actions, the usual rubbish that we get all the time. But this one was a bit different… there was talk of a weapon, that if unleashed could have been devastating,” answered Masterman.
Grant cocked his head to one side. “A weapon. Explosives? Missiles?”
“No. A biological weapon, something we hadn't seen before and way beyond anything our experts have at the moment. Even now, the details on it are a tad vague. The Chief communicated secretly with his former agent and requested more details. What he discovered seemed to shock him into action. According to his private diary, he immediately ordered the agent to come into protective custody and make himself known to the SIS Head of Station in Hong Kong.”
“And did he?”
“No. The agent never made it. He was found with his throat slit, the day before he was due to meet with the Head of Station. Someone had gotten to him first, before we could question him in more detail. In the months following this event, the Chief's patience appears to have grown short and he targeted SIS resources at finding out more about the people behind this organisation, and the possible whereabouts of the bio-weapon.”
Grant frowned. Whatever this bio-weapon was, it had been enough to have the Chief of the Secret Intelligence Service frightened. The whole situation seemed rather seedy and totally un-British. Since when did the SIS back down against terrorists? Something didn't add up. “What about Redaction? Couldn't you have sent the boys after them?” he asked.
Masterman paused, slowly moving his wheelchair until it was directly facing Grant. He pulled out a commando dagger from a sheath on the wheelchair, and pointed it at Grant like a schoolmaster instructing a pupil who is being particularly dense. “Redaction is gone, Jack. We were decimated. All your old team mates were wiped out by agents from this organisation. Following C's assassination and my shooting in Australia, the powers-that-be decided we'd outlived our usefulness and we should be scattered to the winds.”
Grant stared at his for
mer leader in shock. Redaction – gone? The elite of SIS destroyed? These men had been the action arm of the British Secret Service! How could all of them have been… murdered? “What about the Service? What state is that in?”
“It's a cabal,” growled Masterman. “The lunatics have taken over the asylum, the Service is being stripped to its core and the politicians are in charge and they're making a right balls-up of it. At this rate, the Russians won't have to penetrate SIS – they'll be able to read all our secrets in the newspaper.”
“Who's in charge? Who is the new 'C'?” Grant asked. He was finding it hard to absorb all the radical changes which had apparently taken place in his old Service.
“Some career diplomat, a bit of a fop in my opinion. Sir John Hart.” Masterman shrugged, his expression softening slightly. “He's not a bad man, comes from a good family by all accounts. But he's out of his depth, and hasn't a clue how bone-to-bone intelligence operations really work. He's leaning a lot on Thorne's arm and in effect, he's taking his orders from him.”
Grant's brow furrowed. The name sounded familiar, but he couldn't quite place it. Masterman helped him out. “Sir Marcus Thorne, former member of the Service way back in the bad old days, now Deputy Chairman of the Joint Intelligence Committee. He stepped in when the crisis began, helped negotiate with these… these terrorists. Hs advice has been invaluable. He's been put in charge of re-aligning the old SIS departments, and bringing new people up, to take over from the old guard.”
A kingmaker, thought Grant. Someone able to wield enough power to nudge the pieces on the chess board to wherever he wanted them. The hierarchy of the intelligence world always threw up such men; power hungry, ambitious, ruthless and willing to decimate a Secret Service to achieve their aims.
“So what is all this then?” said Grant, waving a hand at their secret meeting. “If Redaction is blown, what exactly is going on with all this?”