by James Quinn
With the job over, the boys drank and danced, fucked and blew their minds with whatever drugs they could score from their dealers. It was a way for them to unwind, let off steam. Unfortunately for them, it also made them distracted, sloppy, and careless and they'd both missed the surveillance placed on them by the two hard-faced men who'd been watching them for the past two days.
So it took the two mercenaries completely by surprise when the door to their apartment overlooking the Scheldt estuary was booted in and two shadows burst in, one moving left into the lounge and the other to the right. Richardson, to his credit, made a fumbled attempt to reach for the .45 pistol hidden underneath the cushions where he'd been sleeping. He never made it.
The sub-machine gun fire ripped apart the naked bodies of the two men and the women who lay strewn across them. Modern munitions are very unforgiving on human flesh and the barrage of 9mm from the MP40's shredded them all in seconds. Blood, tissue and bone mingled with sofa stuffing and shattered glass, giving the room, if only for a few seconds, an almost ethereal quality. Within seconds, the noise had abated and the shadows were gone, as quickly as they'd entered. Their final touch was to lob a couple of M42 grenades into the blood soaked room, just to be sure.
* * *
SINGAPORE – NOVEMBER 1967
“I believe that with the right personnel behind this little operation of yours, you could have quite a lucrative result by the end of the year,” said Milburn. He was on his third gin and tonic, happy and confident that he'd talked this potential 'client' into hiring him. The client was paying for the drinks and lunch, and Milburn was happy to let him.
They were in the Long Bar of the Raffles Hotel, had been since lunch time. They'd met and appraised each other and then settled into a quiet corner of the bar. “Away from prying eyes and ears, what old boy,” said the client. Obviously, discretion was the order of the day, thought Milburn. So they'd chatted casually. The client, a tall, middle-aged gentleman, sporting a scar on his face, a limp and a walking stick, was wearing a summer suit, and a Panama hat and he'd led the conversation. And Milburn, renegade and killer, had lapped it up. Talk of a long term contract, training opportunities, teaching insurgents, maybe a bit of personal throat-slitting on the side. Somewhere in Latin America… somewhere that needed some covert personnel to help out the poor local security forces. The client had dug about in Asia and come across the name of Jasper Milburn, mercenary for hire. The client was the money man; Milburn, he hoped, would be the operational controller on the ground. Several rounds of drinks later and Milburn excused himself to visit the toilet. The client nodded graciously and said ”No problem, old boy, take your time. If you need to pee, you need to pee, what!”
The Raffles really was an exceptional hotel, world famous in fact, Milburn thought. It was beautiful to walk through. So good of the client to cover his expenses flying into Singapore and then buying him lunch and drinks. Maybe if this contract panned out, he could tell those Japanese butchers to bugger off once and for all. They paid well but… they sent shivers down the spine of Jasper Milburn. They were just too ruthless.
The toilets were empty and he found a cubicle at the far end of the row and settled himself down. Too much good food and over-imbibing, especially all those G&T's the client had poured down his neck, had taken a toll on his bladder. And let's face it, he thought, you're in the middle of negotiating a business contract –an illegal and deadly business contract for sure, but a business contract nonetheless. He needed to keep a relatively clear head. Minutes later, he'd finished in the small cubicle, opened the door and was surprised to see the client, Panama hat and all, standing directly outside the lavatory door. Confusion passed across Milburn's face, then fear as the client reached out one deceptively strong hand, covered Milburn's mouth and pushed him back forcefully into the cubicle. Milburn landed hard on the cistern, the wind knocked out of him, but before he had time to react, he became aware of the client's other hand, holding a long thin stiletto knife in a firm grip. The knife moved forward at speed, aimed at Milburn's heart, and plunged in once, twice, three times… the pain sharp and powerful, intense and all-consuming. Milburn stopped counting the number of times the blade entered his body at thirteen. He stopped counting, because he was dead.
The client stood back to admire his handy work. Knifing was always a messy business, but then, Masterman had received plenty of practical experience in killing people with a knife during his wartime operations, silencing sentries on guard duty, mostly. He wiped the stiletto clean on the dead man's suit jacket before slipping it back into the sheath which made up the handle of his walking cane. A small 'click' and it was back in place, to the entire world appearing to be nothing more than an ornamental stick. He kicked Milburn's legs into the toilet cubicle and gently closed the door after him. It would be hours before the body was discovered.
Masterman checked himself in the mirror: no blood, tie straight and hat pulled down to cover his features. On his way out he removed the 'OUT OF ORDER' sign he'd stuck to the door before he'd Redacted Milburn. Within minutes, he'd left the hotel and was being whisked toward the airport in a taxi.
Two hours later, a cleaner discovered the body of a former veteran of the Malaya campaign, brutally stabbed to death. Witnesses remembered the victim talking to a tall Englishman earlier that evening. The tall Englishman had been wearing a Panama hat, suffered a pronounced limp and carried a walking stick… but what happened to him, nobody could say.
International news agencies around the world would later report on these seemingly random acts of violence. The murders would forever remain unsolved and the police knew they had little chance of finding the people responsible. No one connected the separate incidents in any way. Men of violence usually did something to earn such a ruthless end, and in truth, no one really cared.
Chapter Fourteen
WHITEHALL, LONDON – JANUARY 1968
The meeting of the unofficially named 'Berserkers' took place on a wet Friday afternoon in London. Officially, it was known as the Biological Warfare Crisis Management Committee and its regular meeting place during this sensitive period was an obscure room on the upper floor of 70 Whitehall. It had been created as a direct result of the threat from the Raven Organisation.
In attendance, as they had been for the previous meetings during the crisis, were the Prime Minister, his Foreign Secretary, the Home Secretary and the Chief of the Defence Staff. Representing the covert arm of the British Government were the Director Generals of both the Security Service (MI5) and the Government Code and Communications Headquarters (GCHQ) as well as Sir John Hart, a career diplomat who had been given the role of Chief of the Secret Intelligence Service, as well as the Chairman (Acting) of the Joint Intelligence Committee, the official overseer of all the intelligence and security apparatus for Her Majesty's Government. The last member of the committee was a small bird of a man, wearing a tweed suit. His name was Professor Maurice Barking and he was one of the leading biological and germ warfare experts from the Microbiological Research Unit at Porton Down in Wiltshire.
The meeting had been in full flow for twenty minutes, and had been mainly concerned with what new strategy was going to be used to counter this current threat. So far, none of the members of the committee had come up with a tangible solution.
“We need, Prime Minister, to throw an aggressive operation at these killers! We should not be demeaning ourselves by bartering with them!” said C.
“I thought this committee had decided the risk was too great,” replied the Foreign Secretary.
“Especially if the threat is real… and not a… umm… a ploy just to extort money,” cautioned the D-G of the Security Service.
“We have no evidence that this virus is real, our experts say it can't be done,” C threw back in response.
“What about the footage… the boy killing that animal… feasting on it almost!” said the D-G of MI5.
“Could be a fake, designed to elicit a response,” advised the
Prime Minister.
“Or it could be real… and we could be laying ourselves open to a terrorist threat of apocalyptic proportions. After all, these people killed your predecessor over it,” said the Home Secretary dourly, turning to look at the Chief of SIS. The mood in the room changed drastically. No one wanted dead bodies on the streets of London, Birmingham or Liverpool.
“Can I just interject for a moment, Prime Minister?” The voice was calm, soothing to listen to, and yet it held a clear authority. Its owner was Sir Marcus Thorne, the Deputy Chairman of the Joint Intelligence Committee. He was tall, his sandy hair greying at the temples, and his manner was one of respectable seniority. He was a man who was comfortable within the corridors of power. For the purposes of this meeting, he was acting Chairman of the JIC, following the recent heart attack of Sir Bernard Cowley, the official Chairman. It had been Thorne who'd stepped into the breach and helped re-organise SIS, following the sad death of Sir Richard Crosby, the 'old' C.
“Please do, Sir Marcus,” said the Prime Minister.
“Thank you. It seems to me that we have much to lose and not a lot to gain from blundering in with limited intelligence,” said Thorne.
“Sir Marcus, I believe a covert operation is not beyond the realms of possibility,” suggested C.
Thorne looked across at his protégé. In the chaos following the old 'C's' murder, it had been Thorne who'd championed the cause of Sir John Hart, to take over the position as chief spy of Her Majesty's Secret Service. He only hoped his faith hadn't been misplaced. “Really? Do you have, perhaps, some unseen intelligence information that we are not privy to, C? I hope not, because that would go against our working rules. As an old SIS hand myself, I understand the need to keep actionable intelligence limited, but not to this committee, surely.”
“I… um… er … of course not,” floundered C.
“So do you have some new information?” asked the Prime Minister
“Or perhaps a source for that information?” countered Thorne.
Sir John Hart knew instantly that he'd been caught in a trap, a trap he'd had a hand in himself, bloody fool that he was sometimes. His bravado had gotten the better of him and he knew it. “There is the possibility that we may have a useable source on the fringes of this terrorist group. It's still early days, but my officers are currently assessing his reliability.”
“An agent… an agent that SIS has actively recruited?” asked the Prime Minister, sitting up straighter.
“A walk-in agent, Prime Minister… he approached our man in Tokyo, offering information about a group he'd been contracted to,” muttered C.
“So who is he, this source?” asked the Foreign Secretary. He was keen to know if a diplomatic incident was in the offing and how he could avoid it! Bloody spies were always buggering about on his bailiwick.
“Well, no names obviously, Minister. All I can say is that he's connected to the Japanese underworld and he was recently part of a security detail transporting a high value cargo from one part of Japan to another,” said C.
“What was the cargo?”asked the Foreign Secretary
“The details, thus far, are imprecise. But it was shipped in a truck resembling what we would use for moving dangerous substances such as chemicals.”
“The Beserker virus, you think? What they call the Kyonshi, 'the living dead', if my Japanese serves me correctly,” asked Thorne.
“As I say, it's too early to say. All we know is that his security team were only responsible for the security for part of the journey, after that it was handed over to another group. Therefore, I suggest we put together a strike force, led by officers from my service,” said C.
This last comment was directed at the General representing the Chief of the Defence Staff. He was a sturdily built professional soldier, who'd seen action in every theatre of war for the past thirty years. He frowned. He didn't like the way that 'his' men were being cornered into a power play by these civil servants; men who, to the best of his knowledge, had never had to spill blood on a battlefield.
“Would that be possible, General?” asked the Prime Minister. “To put together a unit capable of launching a rapid attack?”
The General knew that when dealing with politicians, it was best to keep the answers vague until they'd made a decision. Many a soldier had died due to an abundance of enthusiasm on behalf of a back room boy. “It is certainly possible, Prime Minister; the Special Forces people up in Hereford for example are more geared towards this type of work… as are the Royal Marines and the Paratroop Regiment. But again, it would depend on the target and the level of intelligence we would be provided with.” The ball is back in your side of the court, sunshine, thought the General, glancing over at C.
“Well let's make this happen, move the ball along,” shouted the Prime Minister. He did so with enthusiasm at having found a positive action they could take; it made him feel as if he was in control of situations that were beyond his borders.
“My officers hope to gain access to this potential source sometime over the next week. Communication in this trade is always slow,” said C, cautiously.
“And I can alert the Commanding Officer at Hereford, get him to come up with some basic plans, get his teams ready,” said the General.
Thorne suddenly had the impression the meeting was being taken over by madmen. It was spiralling out of control and he needed to bring them all back to reality with an explosive bump. “Prime Minister, I do think we need to take a pause, take a step back before we launch into anything too hastily.”
“You have concerns, Sir Marcus?” said the Prime Minister, frowning. He did so hate it when a good plan was frowned upon by his people, even one as talented as Thorne.
Thorne nodded. “There seem to be an awful lot of 'ifs' and 'buts' being bandied about, but nothing concrete, no information of any substance. Until the time comes when SIS can give us something tangible, something definitive, I would urge caution once again. To close down negotiations with these terrorists, or even worse to renege on the terms that we'd already agreed to could prove fatal!”
“Surely you don't agree with paying these terrorists a ransom; they're common criminals,” C rebuked.
“They are common criminals, with a highly lethal and state-of-the-art bio-weapon,” corrected Thorne. This new C was beginning to irritate him. The man was so dense and short-sighted, especially in comparison to his predecessor who had been the epitome of a modern intelligence professional and always saw the bigger picture. “And in my book, that makes them worth listening to. What do you think, Professor? Is it feasible that they would be able to create such a bio-weapon?”
Professor Barking leaned forward and opened the folder sitting in front of him. His spectacles were perched precariously on the end of his nose as he looked over at the acting Chairman of the JIC. “Well, theoretically it's possible, of course it is. But if what they have is real and active, it's unlike anything we've come up with, or even the Germans before us, during the war. And they were the defacto experts in this field.”
“But what is it, Professor? How would they produce it? Where would they produce it?” asked the Prime Minister.
The scientist glanced down at his notes. For the first time in his career, he was unsure of the notes and information he'd amassed over his life. He was heading into uncharted territory. “They would need research and test facilities comparable to what we have at Porton Down; I would say that worldwide, there are only a handful of legitimate locations like that. Then they would need the best minds available, to create and produce whatever it is, not to mention a delivery mechanism of some kind.”
“Like a bomb?” asked the Security Service's Director-General.
Barking shook his head. “Not necessarily. An explosive device would more than likely vaporise the toxin instantly, nullifying it. No, it could more likely be something as simple as an aerosol can or a squirt from a perfume bottle, anything that was small, up close and personal.”
“And what
would be the result of any planned attack, based upon what little we know of this Berseker toxin?” asked Thorne.
Barking shrugged. “Our best estimates are that anywhere from between one hundred to a thousand individuals could be infected by one perfume bottle alone. Within an hour of first contact, it could conceivably infect a small town. I'm not counting the collateral damage in this. The infection will certainly cause numerous deaths, but what about the people the Berserkers' actually kill once they've become infected? That number could rise into the thousands? You've seen how the infected turn violent and murder. Half of London could come under attack. We also need to take into account that if an uninfected person is attacked by an infected one, will that person automatically become infected and 'turn' also? These are all things to consider, and unfortunately, we don't have enough information to confirm either way.”
“And we're sure they have the wherewithal to pull this off, Professor?” asked the Prime Minister.
Professor Barking nodded. “So could they do all that? Yes, quite possibly, definitely in fact. Have they, is the main question though, and that, as of yet, remains to be seen. Until we have a live sample of the bio-agent or a dead host we can study and examine, you might as well say they've invented fairy dust. There's just no proof.”
“So in your opinion, Professor, “said Thorne. “Is it better to play along and pay for the moment, until we have more conclusive proof or information?”
“You're damned if you do and damned if you don't I'm afraid, Sir Marcus. You don't pay and they release the virus, well, at least we'll have plenty of dead hosts to use, to examine the virus and perhaps create an antidote. You do pay, and they still have you over a barrel indefinitely,” explained Barking.