by James Quinn
“I don't feel much like drinking to be honest, Frank,” Gorilla snarled. “So you better tell me fast what your proposal involves or—”
“A job!” barked Trench, fearful that Grant was about to rip the blade across his throat from ear-to-ear. “I bigged you up to the powers-that-be and they want you to come on board. There's a vacancy. Starting salary of five thousand dollars a month, plus a bonus for special jobs and all expenses paid. They want you – us – to attend a meeting in Vientiane in a day or two.”
“To meet who?”
“Their number two guy, name of Hokku. He's a bit of a crusher, but he holds the purse strings.”
“Who's number one? I don't want to be dealing with a second in command.”
Trench shook his head. “Don't go there, Jack, it's a road you might not come back from… arghhh!” Gorilla had moved the razor closer to Trench's throat again and another spot of blood appeared. Trench spoke faster. “The top guy is known only as the Karasu – the Raven. I've only met him once, briefly, he wanted to give me a look over to see what he'd bought when he'd hired me. He likes to meet the new talent. He's a shadow, very rarely seen.”
Gorilla moved the razor away from Trench's neck and sat up, pushing Trench's head back onto the bed. “So, Vientiane? Okay, sounds good. What happens next?”
Trench sat up and looked his new colleague up and down. “How's about we get you some bloody decent clothes, and spruce you up a bit. I'll book you a room here and we can at least try to drag you back into civilisation.”
* * *
Jack Grant studied himself in the mirror. After a decent shower and with his face cleaned up after his recent fights, he looked more like his old self. Trench had been good to his word and arranged a room on one of the lower floors. Not quite as grand as Trench's suite, but anything was better than the fleapit he'd been forced to stay in as part of his cover story since landing in Hong Kong. That evening, there had been two visitors to his room. The first was an elderly Chinese man who came to measure him for a new suit. The man had expertly taken his measurements, stood back, inspected Grant's body shape and then left without saying a word. Grant had no doubt that within a matter of hours, there would be a new, made-to-measure suit being delivered to his hotel room.
The second visitor had arrived not long after the tailor departed and Jack had been on the verge of crawling into bed. In truth, he was exhausted after the previous day's events and all he wanted was to get some sleep. So when a light knock sounded on his hotel room door, Grant assumed it was his new suit being delivered. What he didn't expect was the woman who stood on the other side of the doorway when he flung the door open. She was tall for a Chinese woman, elegant certainly, and dressed in a coral, above the knee Cheongsam. Her hair had been professionally styled, twisted up off her neck, and her smile fluttered between coy and seductive. Grant recognized her by type, if not by reputation – high class hooker.
“Good evening. My name is Willow,” she said. Her voice was soft, cultured and playful.
Grant thought the name suited her perfectly. She was both graceful and charming. He shook his head, knowing where the conversation would lead and not wanting to get there too easily. “Sorry, I think you have the wrong room, I—”
She ignored him, pushed open the door, took two genteel steps forward and then closed it behind her. “I am a friend of Mr. Janner. He said that I should make you comfortable this evening. Everything is taken care of.”
Jack knew what Trench was up to: bringing his new employee into line, wooing him, showing him the good life, making him loyal with luxurious hotels, clothes and women. Trench was nothing, if not predictable. It had been a little over a year since Grant had been with a woman. A late night dance at the local church hall had turned into a one night stand with a young widow from one of the nearby villages. It had been a release and nothing more, and he'd never seen the woman again. A night with this girl would have the same level of meaning, sexual certainly; fun definitely, but with no more emotion than he would experience when he killed a man he'd never met before. If it meant he could get close to Trench's employers, however…
The girl took a step forward, so that they were touching, her lips gently brushing his. “I am at your disposal,” she whispered softly.
Grant returned the kiss passionately, bringing her closer to him by wrapping his arms around her back. Her body stiffened momentarily, and then she relaxed in his arms as the kiss became mutual. In that moment Jack Grant wasn't sure who had sold themselves for a greater price – her for the money, or him for his soul.
* * *
Later that night, once the girl had left, Grant rose in the darkness and quickly dressed. For what he was about to do, he had to hope luck was on his side. The rules were that once he'd made contact and been taken under their wing, he was to report in quickly. To simply phone his contact from his own personal hotel telephone was too risky, just in case Trench was monitoring his calls. So Grant decided to do the next best thing and use the phone in another, empty, hotel room on the next floor down.
Finding the right room was the hardest thing, it was really down to pure blind luck that the first hotel room he investigated happened to be vacant. The door and the locks were laughable, he could have tripped them in his sleep and he was inside within seconds. The room had a similar layout to his own and he quickly made his way over to the bedside phone, picked up the handset and dialled '9' to get an outside line. He heard the click as the line was accepted and then calmly dialled the contact number which would connect him to his case officer, Jordie Penn. He listened intently into the earpiece, heard the electronic burr and was rewarded with a sleepy voice.
“Yes,” said Penn.
Gorilla went through the procedures. “It's 2308. I've made contact. So far so good. I'm not inside yet, but I'm getting there. I'm staying at the Mandarin, courtesy of my new employers. I'm off to Vientiane tomorrow morning. I'll contact you as soon as I can. Stay by the phone.” He put the receiver down carefully. The whole conversation had taken less than fifteen seconds. Contact with the team had been made.
* * *
The next morning, Jordie Penn was on the surveillance watch. Seated in the foyer of the Mandarin, reading that day's edition of The Times, he looked like a respectable businessman waiting to meet with an important client. His appearance had been altered by the addition of a glued on moustache and a pair of horn rimmed spectacles. Penn thought the disguise made him look like an older version of Clark Gable. Outwardly he was calm, relaxed and in control, but under the surface, his heart was racing like a train. Penn hated this part of any operation, that desolate feeling you have knowing your agent will be going out into the 'wilds', far beyond the reach of his case officer. Penn had been an agent-runner for most of his adult life, and still the feeling of dread didn't abate when your agent was off the leash and running free. It didn't matter if it was Berlin, shoving agents off to get them over the wall, or running sources inside terrorist cells as he'd done in Cyprus during the campaign there; for the agent runner, it was akin to a mother giving up one of her children. It was bloody hard. But it was why Masterman had specifically recruited him to this private operation; not only was Jordie Penn a decent case officer, he was also a loyal Englishman and decent human being.
He sat forward and picked up his tea cup, took a quick sip, made a brief scan of the foyer but there was nothing to be seen yet. In his time Penn had sat and waited at checkpoints, inside freezing cold vans in the dead of night, and in steamy cafes waiting for his agents to come back from a mission. They'd been terrified and desperate men, ready to sell out their country for either financial or ideological reasons… but they were still his agents and despite his manipulation of them, he cared for and fretted over them.
But Grant was a different kettle of fish. He was a tough man, capable and with hidden resources; a born operator. But then they all started off like that, until they found themselves deep inside the enemy's camp and the job started to get to th
em. It didn't take long for an undercover agent to lose his equilibrium and get confused about which way was up. Those who survived came back haunted, those who were consumed by the deception of the trade usually ended up taking their own lives or being caught, tortured and executed.
He checked his watch – 10.30am – and it was as he was considering ordering yet another bloody green tea, when he caught sight of a movement over to his right. The elevator doors opened and out bundled a busboy, carrying two small suitcases. The busboy was closely followed by the two men Penn had been waiting to see for the past hour. Trench led the way with Grant close on his heels. Both men were dressed in new suits, well-groomed and had the look of people who were about to meet someone higher up the food chain. They reached the main doors of the hotel and Trench peeled off a bank note and passed it to the grateful busboy. As if by magic, a hotel car pulled up and the busboy loaded in the suitcases. Trench turned and called to his partner. Grant took one final look around the foyer of the hotel, but his face didn't betray that he'd spotted the ever-resourceful Penn seated at one of the tables, reading his paper and drinking his tea.
Penn, to his credit, just carried on browsing through the latest international news from his paper. He paid no attention to the two Englishmen as they climbed into the car and drove off. But then, he really didn't have to. Penn was satisfied. His agent was in play.
Chapter Ten
VIENTIANE, LAOS – OCTOBER 1967
Despite its hotchpotch mix of Corsican opium smugglers, professional gamblers, warlords, militia, arms dealers and CIA spooks, Vientiane had a much more relaxed atmosphere than Hong Kong, Gorilla mused to himself. It was a city where 'people watching' was the norm and an unwritten code of rules governed the many disparate personalities from spilling over into violence. It was a city where Asian good manners were played out in a colonial French setting, and it seemed to work perfectly.
Gorilla and Trench walked through the busy side streets on their way to the meeting. They'd stopped in for a quick beer at the bar of the Constellation Hotel an hour earlier, partly because they were early and partly to get the pulse of early evening Vientiane. The patois mix of Chinese, Laotian, French and English permeated the air babble-like. They'd been in Vientiane for less than five hours and would be leaving again later that night by plane, for who knew where. It was a whistle-stop visit, leaving the two Englishmen with only enough time for their private meeting with Taru Hokku, the underboss of the Karasu-Tengu organisation. The meeting took place at the Tan Dao Vien Restaurant, which was noted for its excellent Chinese menu and convivial atmosphere.
Hokku had the face of a salaryman or an accountant – bespectacled, sombre and preened – combined with the body of a heavyweight Sumo wrestler jammed into a business suit. Grant also suspected he'd caught a hint of a tattoo from beneath the man's shirt cuffs. It was some kind of ideograph, possibly denoting his underworld connections and affiliations, Yakuza or something similar. 'A crusher who holds the purse strings' Trench had said of him and Grant thought that description was perfect. Trench introduced Hokku to Grant, the large Japanese bowing from the waist in respect, and with the formalities out of the way, the three men sat down in a private booth at the back of the restaurant. Trench called the waiter over and ordered Russian vodka and a platter of Dim Sum for everyone. Grant turned his attention to a dark-suited man sitting nearby, nursing a glass of water. Bodyguard, he thought.
“Mr. Janner speaks very highly of you Mr. Grant – or would you prefer I call you Gorilla?” said Hokku, his voice surprisingly delicate for a man so immense.
“Only my close friends and enemies call me Gorilla,” said Grant. “And as of this moment you're neither of those.”
Hokku accepted Grant's answer in good grace and continued. “I understand that you both worked together for many years, for the British.”
Grant nodded. “Indeed, Frank… er, Mr. Janner and I have covered each other's backs several times.”
“And I understand that you left your previous work for the British government under somewhat of a cloud,” said Hokku, not even sounding remotely apologetic for being so cutting with his guest. Business was business and an employee was an employee.
Grant frowned. “I was involved in an operation, an operation that went wrong. Someone I cared for was killed and the British wouldn't let me go after the person responsible.”
“So what did you do?”
“I quit and then went after the man anyway.”
“What happened to him? This man?”
“I hunted him down and killed him,” said Grant simply.
“You are that good?” asked Hokku, seeming surprised by the candour of Grant's answer.
Grant nodded. “I'm the best. “
“The best with a pistol, at least, Mr. Hokku. Grant was something of a legend within the intelligence community, his reputation as a Redactor was second to none,” Trench added.
“So if you're asking me If I have any loyalty to the bloody British government then the answer is no. Any loyalty I did have died with me one night in Rome when my partner was murdered. These days I'm an army of one,” replied Grant sternly.
The answer seemed to satisfy Hokku and make his mind up for him. “You know our business Mr. Grant. Mr. Janner has educated you on our work?”
Before Grant had a chance to answer Trench interrupted. “I've made Jack aware that the work we carry out is for a long-standing and noble organisation, one that takes its business very seriously.”
Hokku nodded, as if this was an acceptable way to begin negotiations. “My patron and I do indeed come from a long lineage stretching back generations. However, we recognise that our business, if it is to survive, must adapt and change in the modern world. Our traditions are still sacred to us, but over recent years we have decided to recruit some of the top people in the world to work with us. People like Mr. Janner here and hopefully, your good self.”
Grant liked this man's self-control and manner, typical Japanese, but he was under no illusion that he was dealing with a hard core killer, despite his polite manner and respectable veneer.
“Our organisation deals with difficult problems every day. We work for only the most powerful and influential individuals. We solve problems, or on occasion, create problems for certain governments and corporations. But above all else, we have a reputation for being discreet,” continued Hokku.
Grant could easily imagine the problems the Raven clan dealt with; a coup in a banana republic, stealing corporate secrets, terrorism and assassination. Grant knew the range of services the Raven could provide, but he decided to play it dumb, as if he didn't fully understand what was being offered to him. “Are we talking mercenaries? If so, that's not really my area of expertise. I was a soldier once, but mainly in the secret wars. Not front line infantry.”
Trench smiled. “Not quite Jack. Think of it as a bit more wide-reaching and subtle than that. Similar to what we used to do in the old firm, except that we'll be operating for a private enterprise.”
“Would you have a problem with that, Mr. Grant?” Hokku asked politely.
“At the rate of payment that Mr. Janner told me about? No, I don't have a problem with any of that. I faced far worse odds when I worked for SIS and the army. When do we start?” said Grant
Hokku smiled. “All in good time. We have many operations happening all over the world, our contractors are expected to be on stand-by for whenever a job that suits their particular skill set is arranged. I suggest that you and Janner return to Hong Kong. We will make interim arrangements for you.”
* * *
Grant and Trench took their cue, stood and shook hands with the giant Japanese man and left. Hokku followed their progress with his eyes and when he was sure they'd cleared the restaurant, he motioned for his bodyguard to follow them. He wanted to be sure that this 'Gorilla' wasn't playing a very subtle game. Once he was certain of the bona fides of the man, he would brief his employer personally… but until that time, this toug
h-looking Englishman had a question mark hanging over his head
* * *
Later that day at Vientiane airport, the two former Redactors conversation turned to the minutiae of their trade, to bring Grant up to speed with how the contractors working for the Raven clan were expected to operate. They were sitting in the lounge, biding their time waiting for their delayed flight, so being men of experience they knew to keep the conversation quiet and to the point.
“Frank.”
“Yes, Jack.”
“What the fuck have you gotten me into? What are they – Yakuza?”
Trench laughed out loud at Grant's openness and honesty about his concerns. Then he set out to educate his latest recruit. “Not exactly. It's complicated. As I understand it, they're a clan which was once affiliated to the Japanese underworld, but that was many years ago. In recent years, they've transcended that and moved into operations in South America, Europe and parts of Africa. Their Japanese name is the Karasu-Tengu Clan, which is traditional and old school. Karasu means Raven, so we keep it simple and just call it the Raven organisation. Want to know how it works?”
Grant nodded, keen to let Trench settle in to his subject matter and perhaps let some useful snippet of information slip.
“So the big man accepts a job from a client – who knows who, maybe an industrialist, maybe a politician who wants to remove a rival, whatever – the Karasu hierarchy set the rules and the terms. With me so far?” asked Trench.
Gorilla shrugged, he knew how a contract was picked up and administered. He'd been around this business long enough, but he thought it best to stay silent and have Trench give it to him verbatim.