by James Quinn
“But what if the press gets wind of the news that we're dealing with terrorists – or worse, that we were kowtowing to them and paying them off,” murmured the Foreign Secretary.
“It would be a gamble, especially with an election coming up,” said the Home Secretary.
The Prime Minster sat back in his chair, inspecting the ceiling above him, lost in thought. He knew he needed to make a decision and soon. His government's life might depend upon it, not to mention his own political career. “Umm… I think we need to appear strong. We've already made one payment and these butchers have come back for more. This has to end. Sir John, please do everything in SIS's power to find and interrogate this source, offer him whatever you think is reasonable to make him talk. The time for us being on the back foot is over. Today, we close the negotiating links with the Raven and his murderers. General, organise a military quick reaction strike force to act on SIS's actionable intelligence. The next time I want to hear about this Raven, is when he's dead on a slab.”
“Prime Minister, I think you're making a mistake, we should…” Thorne began, attempting one last time to let wiser heads prevail. But the Prime Minister was adamant. There could be no backing down from his decision.
“Your objections are duly noted, Sir Marcus, but I've made my decision. Thank you, gentlemen. This meeting is adjourned,” said the Prime Minister. The members of the committee stood to leave, gathering up their papers and starting to head back to their respective departments. On the way out, Thorne saw the Prime Minister give C an encouraging pat on the back, a headmaster praising a school prefect for good work. Sir Marcus Thorne shook his head at the wonderment of the world he lived in, a world where a man of power would risk the lives of the people of his nation for a political advantage, and where a lethal toxin could be released onto the streets of the capital and they had no way of stopping the bloodshed and violence which would follow. Thorne just hoped it would be a decision the Prime Minister wouldn't live to regret. But he was afraid he knew better
* * *
The Raven's response to the closing of the communication channels was both swift and violent, as befitted a man of his reputation and cunning.
The actions of the British Prime Minister and his minions was both naive and stupid. They were behaving like children playing outside of their safe environment, foolish and ignorant about the repercussions of their actions. The Raven would temper them, teach them and finally, he would have them submit and bowing down before him.
He called his killers to heel and gave the order to unleash death. A week later, several seemingly unconnected incidents took place in different parts of the globe. The first was the bombing of a BOAC passenger airliner travelling from London Airport to St. Helier, Jersey in the Channel Islands. The flight 767 attack was later judged by counter-terrorism experts to be one of the first cases of air terrorism in the post-war era. The flight came down fifteen minutes after take-off, with wreckage being strewn far and wide along the coast of Dover. There were no survivors.
Several days later, the body of a baggage handler who'd worked at London airport was found stabbed to death in his flat in Bermondsey. His uniform and security identification were missing. They too were later found, discarded in a dustbin a mile away from the airport, the bomber having dumped them during his escape.
That same day in Panama City, several well-dressed young men carrying concealed automatic rifles entered the Global Tower Bank on the Via Espana. The bank was part-British owned and up until recently, one of its senior directors had been the British Prime Minister. The gunmen entered around mid-morning, the busiest part of the day, when the customers were lined up waiting for individual tellers to serve them. The killers stood in a small, tight circle in the centre of the room and opened fire. Bullets penetrated both glass and flesh. When the gunmen's magazines were emptied, they each took out a handgun and set about executing any wounded survivors before they casually walked out of the bank to several waiting escape vehicles. The whole hit had taken no more than three minutes. Police would be baffled as to why no money had been stolen during the attack.
A day later in Tokyo, several bodies were fished out of the Sumida River. They were all men in their early thirties and all had connections to several organisations within the Japanese underworld. Most recently, the victims had worked together as part of a security detail to transport a high-value shipment across land from Tokyo to an undisclosed location. The men had been rounded up and all had their throats slit. It was assumed that one of them had been an informant for the police, or a rival gang, perhaps an intelligence service – who knew? The fact that all the men were executed only confirmed the killers were both thorough and cautious. After all, why take the risk that you'd killed the wrong man? Better to kill all involved to make absolutely sure.
At the end of this week of violence, a letter was hand delivered to the British Embassy in Berlin. It was addressed personally to the SIS Head of Station. On the paper were several short handwritten lines:
Flight 767 – 150 people
Panama – 35 people
Kyonshi Virus – Estimated: 400,000 people
Remuneration Price is now doubled.
There was no signature on the letter, only a small sketch, drawn in black ink. It was a picture of a Raven.
Book Two: Redaction
Chapter One
HONG KONG – JANUARY 1968
Jack Grant had been taking it easy in his hotel suite when Trench burst in. Their rooms had almost become ad hoc offices for both of them over the past few months, and Grant was quickly tiring of being kept on the hook waiting for something to happen. At times, the paranoia of the undercover man would kick in and he would expect a bullet in the back of the head, or a knife between his ribs when he was asleep. So far, that hadn’t happened and assuming that no news was good news, he would settle back into a routine of constant boredom. His only contact was Trench and even he was only there sporadically, usually jetting off at a moment’s notice to deal with some unspecified piece of ‘business’ before returning unannounced. Just like now.
“Got a job for you,” Trench said. “A chance to lose your virginity, so to speak.”
Grant put down the glass containing his second whisky of the night and took a deep breath. This was it... the entry point to the operation. Trench laid it out for him in stark detail; solo job, two targets, Brazil, all resources in place, private contract all the way from the top of the clan – from the Raven himself.
“So who are they?” asked Grant. “People in our trade. Killers?”
Trench shook his head. “Not even close. This is a private gig from the Raven himself. You have nothing to worry about, they are academics, scientists. They won’t put up a fight.”
“Killing scientists Frank, really?”
Trench shrugged. “The big man thinks they’ve outlived their usefulness and need to be removed. This has something to do with the Ravens special project. Don’t ask any more Jack, it won’t do you any good. In fact it would be very bad for your health.”
Grant was wise enough not to press the matter. But the slip up by Trench about secret projects and scientists set his alarm bells ringing. Had he perhaps stumbled onto the fringes of the Berserker operation? Was the Raven starting to cover his tracks regarding people involved with the Kyonshi?After that, things moved quickly. Trench had briefed him and then provided a false passport and some cash for expenses and told him he would be leaving in a few days’ time. Everything had been arranged – all he had to do was turn up and pull the trigger.
“And then get your arse back here and collect your spending money,” purred Trench.
At the first opportunity, Gorilla Grant made contact with Penn and was ordered to get himself to an emergency meeting. Twenty-four hours later, Grant, Masterman and Penn were crammed into a small bedroom at a hotel near Kai Tak Airport. Masterman was seated on the bed, leaning heavily on his walking stick, while his two senior operations men stood tensely, checking at
the window for any signs of surveillance. The Sentinel controllers had only an hour with their agent before he needed to catch his flight, and from that moment on, he would be out of their control until he returned. If he returned, thought Penn, correcting himself. They did the house-keeping first; contact numbers, safety procedures, times, dates, and last of all, emergency fall back plans. When everyone was up to speed, Masterman ran through Gorilla’s forthcoming mission, giving his agent his orders regarding the Redactions. For Gorilla, it was something he’d heard the boss talk through many times in the past. Masterman’s doctrine was to interrogate the targets first, if possible and then eliminate them.
“What about the justification of it all?” asked Penn, as ever the conscience of the Sentinel team. “I mean, we’re effectively taking out several non-combatants, even if they are connected to this Berserker virus.” Ideas were thrown about including snatching the targets off the street, incapacitating them somehow – anything and everything was considered. But the team knew that if the Raven clan were to accept Gorilla into their ranks, he would have to cross the line, and crossing the line meant killing the targets. There could be no half measures, it was all or nothing.
“They’ll want to know you’re serious. They won’t let you get any closer unless you have blood on your hands and even then, it’s only a maybe. The more you do for them, the deeper in you’ll be and the more they’ll own you,” reasoned Masterman. “But if you don’t want to go ahead with it, then now’s the time to let us know.”
“There’s no shame in it, Jack. It’s a big step. If you’re not positive about this, we can get you on a plane today and you can be gone,” added Penn.
But Gorilla Grant was a soldier, a specialised kind of soldier, but a soldier nonetheless. He wasn’t above getting his hands dirty when the need arose and the idea of aborting the mission rather than committing himself to murder elicited a short response from the little gunman; “They’re just as guilty as that maniac who took the Chief’s head. Fuck ‘em. Putting a bullet between their eyes is doing the world a favour.”
And with that, the deal was done. Masterman and Penn, both experienced case officers, knew better than to try to convince Gorilla otherwise once he’d made his mind up. Grant picked up his bag, hefted it in his hand and made for the door. He left without looking back. The time for talking was over; the time for action was only just beginning. The next thing was the flight out of town to his new destination: Brazil.
“Will he be alright?” asked Penn.
Masterman looked at his agent-runner and shrugged. “He’s beyond our reach for a while, we have to let him go and let him find his own strength, especially if we want him to survive this.”
“And will he?”
“Gorilla always has before; it’s what makes him the best.”
Chapter Two
The BOAC flight from Hong Kong to Brazil (with an overnight stopover in Paris) landed safely almost twenty-four hours later at Galeão International Airport. On it were one hundred and thirteen passengers and one Redactor, recently out of retirement. The flight had been a nightmare. Long, uncomfortable and he'd been sitting next to a middle aged woman who snored constantly for the first part of the journey. He hadn't expected first class tickets, but anything would have been better than being stuck here in the cheap seats. He'd removed his tie and undone the top button of his shirt, which was sticking to his skin in the muggy conditions. Christ, even the air conditioning wasn't working properly, for the entire flight it had been intermittent at best.
Once the aircraft rolled to a stop at Galeão and the passengers had escaped their tubular prison cell, they all hurried down the stairs onto the tarmac and into the main terminal. Gorilla noted the number of armed soldiers scattered about, before remembering the airport also housed a contingent of the Brazilian Air force. He went through the usual eyeballing at the Customs desk, and for those few brief moments he wondered if the false passport Hokku and his people had supplied would pass the scrutiny of the pan-faced officer on duty. The security man looked down at the passport, then at the bearded face of Gorilla, then back to the passport… there was a brief tense hiatus and then he reached for the official stamp which would provide entry for this passenger. A resounding 'thump' onto the page of the passport with the stamp and Gorilla was in. Either the passport really was that good, or the Raven's people had paid enough money to the right people to grease the wheels.
The taxi he managed to flag down outside the main concourse was driven by what must have been the oldest taxi driver in existence. The man was from a bygone age, dressed in a three-piece dark suit, chauffeurs' peaked cap and an exquisitely clipped handle-bar moustache. Gorilla imagined he'd once been the driver of a wealthy family and had since fallen on hard times. But regardless of his age and formal dress, the taxi driver handled both the Mercedes and the traffic well and didn't ask too many questions. “Where to? Your first time in Brazil? You here long?”
That was the depth of his conversation and Gorilla was thankful of it, earning the driver a good tip. His destination was the Hotel Grande, located way off the main strip of Copacabana Beach and judging by its exterior of rotting window frames and faded grey walls, it was grand in name only. The aging taxi driver hefted Gorilla's small suitcase from the trunk of the car and left him to climb the steps to the main reception. The interior proved to be no better than the exterior. Gorilla thought he could practically hear the cockroaches crawling behind the thin walls. A sullen concierge in last week's shirt took his name, checked his reservation and handed him a room key. “You want a woman?” asked the concierge, seizing the opportunity to try and make a little extra cash from a tourist.
“No. Any messages for me?” asked Gorilla, already at the end of his short fuse after the long and uncomfortable flight. There was always the temptation to put his fist through the faces of people who got his back up and annoyed him. It took an effort to rein in his anger.
The concierge shrugged as if he couldn't care less. “A man left something for you. It is in your room. Everything is paid for.”
Gorilla made his way up the bare wooden staircase to his allocated room on the third floor and unlocked the door. The room was at least clean and serviceable, with a stunning view of the plain concrete wall which made up the side of the building next door. He checked the closet and the bathroom, just to make sure there were no nasty surprises lurking, ready to perform a double cross and knife him to death. Once he was satisfied, he turned his attention to the 'something' that had been left for him. The Raven clan and Trench were good to their word. Lying underneath his bed was a chequered valise, sealed with a small padlock. It was the type of suitcase a travelling salesman might lug around with him from meeting to meeting, trying to sell subscriptions for encyclopaedias'.
Before he'd left Hong Kong, Gorilla had been given a small key by Trench and told to keep it safe. Obviously, it fitted this padlock. He took out the key, inserted it into the small lock and turned. The clasp made a 'clunk' sound as it snapped apart and he flipped open the lid of the case. Inside, buried half way down in a variety of clothes and towels were the items Gorilla had been expecting. His tools for this job; a Beretta M1934 that had been around when Methuselah was a kid, a box of cheap 9mm Italian ammunition, and an inside the waistband holster made of poor quality vinyl. All together it was a piss poor effort from his paymasters wanting an overseas hit against two targets! There wasn't even any oil or cleaning kit for the gun! At the bottom of the case was a large, sealed envelope. Gorilla knew this would be his briefing pack, containing all the intelligence on his targets. Photographs, addresses, itinerary, surveillance logs; everything he would need. He ripped open the seal, glanced casually at the contents and then tossed them back into the case. He would read it in full later. It was still mid-afternoon and the sun was blazing in through the window; in the distance he could hear the sound of the ocean. Despite the heat, the noise and the killing he would be undertaking over the next twenty-four hours, he recognise
d that his body was shutting down and he needed to rest. He closed the blinds, stripped naked and lay down on the bed. Within minutes, he was asleep.
Chapter Three
The next morning, Gorilla was due to meet his driver outside the small post office on the Rua Tonelero which was ten minutes' walk from his hotel. He was dressed in light coloured slacks and a jacket, a white short sleeved shirt and a pair of wraparound sunglasses. The shirt was untucked and covered his belt area. It also covered the Beretta, tucked inside the waistband holster in the appendix carry position to the right of his belt buckle. He'd checked himself in the mirror before leaving his hotel room, twisting in different angles to see if there were any signs of the gun. Satisfied that it was as good as it was going to be, he exited the room and made his way out onto the street. It took him less than ten minutes to make his way along the beachfront and into the side streets to reach his meeting point. There were only a few people lingering about and no obvious signs of surveillance. The Brazilian security services weren't noted for subtlety, or for being invisible. Gorilla thought he'd be able to pick them out instantly, but there was nothing that was setting off alarm bells to his trained eye.
The car was a black, dust-laden Volkswagen Beetle, one of hundreds that toured the streets of Rio on a regular basis. It was exactly where it was meant to be, parked half on and half off the pavement on the street corner. That was a good sign. At least his driver was professional enough to be punctual. He knocked on the roof with his knuckles as per his instructions and almost instantly the passenger door flew open, followed by a female voice that said “Get in.” Surprised, he bent down to clamber past the front seat and into the rear. The front seat flipped back up into position and the passenger door was pulled shut by one brown, slender arm.