by James Quinn
The other newspaper cutting covered the death of a junior British diplomat, Julian Cowan, who had been found murdered in Hamburg. The British Embassy was vehemently denying claims that Mr. Cowan had been the victim in a homosexual sex game murder. Both articles had barely caused a ripple, relegated to pages nine and ten in the newspapers.
Mr. Knight smiled to himself, feeling very satisfied. He picked up his lighter and set both pieces of paper on fire, dropping them onto his empty plate. Seconds later, there was nothing left but ash. He thought for a few more moments and then made his way to the bedside telephone and placed a call to his bank in Switzerland. He gave the order for the first block of funds to be transferred over to his 'contractor's' bank account in Luxembourg.
Chapter Five
With Operation MACE now officially sanctioned by the hierarchy at Broadway, the resources of SIS swung into action. Masterman put in an urgent request to the Registry. Find me the link, he told them. Find me the name, the clue or what have you, but get it to me by yesterday!
The intelligence analysts began the long search through the archaic files of the service. What they were looking for even they weren't sure, but Masterman was an experienced hunter of men and knew that even the most careful of killers, especially those who were paid to do it for a living, always left a clue or a residue of information somewhere. It was almost impossible not to.
He gave the archivists a list of what they knew. Professional killers, European, definitely in the Dominican Republic in 1961, CIA linked definitely. Dominican Republic in 1961 equaled the assassination of President Trujillo, something the CIA was rumored to be heavily involved in. The clerks turned their attention directly to the SIS Caribbean Desk for that year.
At first there was nothing and Masterman and his unit had to settle for the silence of the telephone and the moribund action of the telex. Masterman – never one to relax – had ignored the silence and set about working out an operational plan. The intelligence would turn up, he knew sooner or later and when it did, he wanted to have a strategy in place so that he could act. Look further; look deeper, he urged them before going back to his desk in Pimlico and his planning.
And then like a radio signal breaking through static, the information slowly started to filter through… an old report from the SIS station in the Dominican Republic… a fragment, nothing more… report from a junior officer… bar room gossip, nothing more… two men and a known CIA operative… it could be nothing… really.
But to Masterman it was the break he needed. An eye witness; what's more, an eye witness who was assigned to the SIS Station. He sat at his desk in Pimlico, lifted the phone, and made a direct call through to 'Personnel' at Broadway.
“Hello Colin, it's Masterman over at Pimlico. I wondered if you could do me a little favor.”
* * *
The girl rolled off of Jack Grant, body glistening with sweat from the exertions of the past hour, turned onto her front and stretched a hand over to the bedside table, reaching for her cigarettes.
Her breath was still shallow, panting, and her face was flushed with the aftermath of their lovemaking. He lazily stroked the small of her naked back, tracing his finger along the curvature of her spine. He took in the thick black hair which cascaded over her shoulders, her coffee colored skin and long, full figure. “So who's next?” he asked.
The girl laughed as she reached for her watch. It was 9.35 in the morning. “Why, you want me to hang around? Isn't an hour long enough for you… or is it that you're jealous, Jack,” she teased.
He raised an eyebrow at that. Jealous? Never! Well, almost never. He had seen the girl – Coco, that was her working name – he had seen Coco four times over recent months. He always used the same discreet 'Escort Service' from Soho which provided high-class girls for discerning gentlemen. Her accent fluctuated between Jamaican, or possibly Cuban, and East End Cockney, giving it an unusually pleasant lilt.
His employment protocols dictated that she should be checked out by the snoopers at the Security Service and that, if nothing else, their assignations should be at a separate location from his home address. But screw that, thought Grant, he liked his home comforts. He found her good company; and they had a similar style of love-making – active and intense! She didn't ask too much of him or he of her, and yet he always had this moment of sadness when she was due to leave. Was it guilt, or just the craving for another human being to be with?
“We all have to do things we don't like from time to time,” he said.
“Even you?” she asked.
“Even me.”
“What does an accountant have to do that they don't really want to?”
“Tax forms, love, tax forms. They're a bloody nightmare,” he said, the beginnings of a smile on his lips.
“Hardly the same thing, Jack. Besides, why aren't you at work on a Tuesday morning, it's a bit early to be hiring me.”
“It's never too early for you, Coco.”
A light giggle followed as she rushed to put on her underwear and find her dress. He knew her day job was working at a coffee bar somewhere, the escort work was just a sideline, but she wouldn't tell him where and if he was being honest with himself it would cause more problems if he did know. Better to keep their relationship purely carnal.
She ran her fingers through her hair, straightening out any kinks. “Well, whatever you decide to do, have a lovely day doing it. I've got to go. Will you call soon?”
“No…” he groaned. She laughed at that, knowing full well that he would, the next time he wanted a roll between the sheets. She knew she was that good.
He heard the door slam as she scuttled off to work and he lay there enjoying the sanctuary of an empty bed, stretching, staring at the ceiling and rubbing a hand over the fresh growth of stubble on his chin. Christ, he was bored already; time to get up and move. Day off or not, he hated lying in any later than he had to.
Grant had been on enforced leave for the past month and it was starting to grate on him. Enforced leave was sometimes necessary for agents, who had a tendency to become fatigued on operations and after the length of his last job in Asia, which had run on for several months, he'd been told to take some time off. Do normal things; take a holiday, fishing, perhaps, a bit of mountain climbing. I hear the lakes are nice this time of year – anything, but forget about the office and being operational for a month or two.
But that was not Jack Grant. Not by a long mile.
So he drank, screwed attractive and available women and occasionally took himself to the Flamingo Club in Soho. In truth, he was no lover of jazz, but the company in the club itself – hookers, gangsters, pimps and hop heads – he felt an affinity with. They lived a secret life and asked nothing of their fellow party goers, which suited Grant just fine.
But for him, copious amounts of alcohol and sex equaled one thing; that he was getting bored and he had too much free time on his hands. It was purgatory and he needed to get back to work and quickly, if only for the sake of his liver. He'd spent too many mornings throwing up, after the haze of the previous night's session, and he knew that if the office found out he'd be flogged and put on the static list, destined to push paperwork for time immemorial.
His ability with a firearm and his skills as a tracker of men were his greatest assets and vital to his role in the service, but even the Secret Service had limits as to how much leeway they would offer to one of their best men. So, he hid his excesses from the Service while he was on leave, as best he could. He knew the only one he couldn't hide it from, was himself. He hated himself for his laziness.
The loud peal of the telephone on his bedside table roused him from his gloom. He grabbed the receiver and barked. “Yes!” Coco's leaving had gotten to him, despite his protestations. He heard the click of the security line being activated and he knew instantly. It was Masterman.
“It's me and I think you mean, hello sir!”
“Sorry, I was… in the middle of something,” he muttered.
“Well, get your clothes on, I've got a little errand for you, something to stop you from being bored.”
“Too late. I've been bored for the past fortnight.”
“Yes, well, we've a new recruit being seconded to our unit and I'd like you to give them the once over, meet them, greet them and then give me your assessment of how it went.”
“Okay, anything to get out of the flat. When and where?”
“Around twelve-thirty. The American Bar at the Savoy, no less,” replied Masterman smoothly.
That caught Grant by surprise. “Very nice. Not normally in my league, that place, I normally get the transport cafe and the ex-squaddie who thinks he can cut it with the big boys.”
“What can I say? It's your lucky day and besides, the Mirabelle would be just too flashy. Just keep the bill down and don't go wild with the wine list, or it's coming out of your pay packet. Get receipts for everything,” said Masterman.
“Okay, fair enough. So who is it who gets the five-star treatment?”
“Oh, just someone we think has value for an upcoming operation. Give them the hairy eyeball, Jack, don't let them have an easy ride, try to trip them up and see if you can unnerve them. We don't want any wilting daisies in our mob.”
“Recognition code?” asked Grant, his mind instantly switching back into operational mode.
“The usual one we use for the greenhorns,” said Masterman. “They've been told to spot the most likely-looking spy in the place and make contact.”
Was that a hint of devilment in Masterman's tone, thought Grant. “Okay. And then?”
“And then send them on their merry way and report directly to me later today. The usual place, the usual time.”
“I'll get onto it now,” said Grant, already reaching for the bundle of clothes laying by the foot of his bed.
“Oh, and Jack…”
“Yes, sir.”
“Make sure you have a decent shower to get that young lady's perfume off you; I understand that Chanel No. 5 does tend to linger.”
“Sir ?”
“Yes, Jack.”
“You are a bastar—” A click sounded as the phone went dead in Grant's hand.
* * *
Jack Grant, over the years of his career in espionage, had met all manner of agents, traitors and targets in numerous diverse locations. Some he had been trying to recruit. Some had been nothing more than disposable informants and some had been targets who he knew would not survive the meeting. Back alleys, souks, cafe's, cars and even once on a Baltic fishing trawler.
But he was sure – no, he was certain – that none of them, past or present, would ever match the sheer grandeur of his current 'rendezvous' location where he was to meet the as-yet unidentified field agent, namely that of the exclusive Savoy Hotel in London.
Whoever the prospective addition to the Redaction Unit was, they must certainly be special to carry this type of weight, he reasoned. Perhaps a professor or an academic who was accustomed to such elegant surroundings, rather than the working men's pubs that most of the Redaction operatives were used to.
Maybe it was even one of the new breed of Special Forces troopers who Masterman was keen to get his hands on. They were from his old wartime regiment after all, and despite Grant's initial skepticism that they were merely army grunts and therefore not used to operating in an undercover role, he had trained with several of them at their base in Wales and found them to be tough, efficient operators. He had even made a few quid off them in wagers when he'd been talked into running through a CQB pistol shooting session in their killing house. It had been like taking sweets off a nipper.
He just hoped it wasn't some limp-wristed fop, fresh out of academia or it would be a quick interview.
He was absently pondering all this as he strolled leisurely along the Strand on that chilly morning, when he noticed the woman heading directly for him. It was going to be a race to see who could make it to the ornate entrance of the Savoy first.
She was attractive and fashionably dressed in a stylish winter coat of sunburnt orange, one that accentuated her slim figure. Wearing dark sunglasses to keep out the harsh winter sun, a demure headscarf covered long auburn hair, and all the while, she held her head firmly jutted downwards against the cold. The winter disguise meant that her age was both undetermined and mysterious.
As they both headed for the doors, it was almost inevitable that they were going to collide – they were on a direct course, and it was only when the woman stumbled that Grant reached out to stop her falling flat on her face. He was greeted with an “Oh excusez-moi, monsieur, je Suis tellement désolé,” as he lifted her upright, feeling the delicate weight of her against him. He began to smile in her direction, trying to make eye contact, but she was already gone, her head once more stuck in her phrase book and heading into the hotel itself and up the staircase straight ahead. He watched her go. It was a literal brief, but beautiful, encounter.
He shook off his daydreaming. The weeks of nothingness had dulled his senses, but he was operational now and he negotiated the revolving doors to the Savoy, nodding to the Commissioner as he did so. He sauntered through the foyer, past the elegant reception and headed up the stairs on his left towards the American Bar. If, the Savoy staff that day had been asked later to describe the visitor who had passed them just after noon, the majority of them would have struggled to even remember him. He had that kind of skill – he could disappear like a ghost.
The more alert members of the hotel's staff might have, between them, remembered a small, stocky man… maybe. Short white blond hair that hinted at his northern European ancestry. A good quality, single breasted suit in a somber grey and a conservatively discreet tie to match… possibly. Of the man's features, any answers would have been even vaguer. Few would remember the whole man. He was, to all intents and purposes, a social ghost.
The American Bar was famous throughout the world as being one of the most exclusive watering holes for the discerning traveler. He was greeted by the Maître d', a small-boned man in black tie and white waiter's jacket, and shown to a table at the far end of the room, seated by the rear corner window with his back to a main wall. He liked that, partly because of his training – it was easier to spot a threat and fight if need be – but more importantly, because he liked to watch the passersby hurrying through the streets of London. He wondered if there was something of the voyeur about him; an observer rather than being the observed.
The bar itself was elegantly furnished with bottle after bottle of world-renowned brand names and the light from the high chandeliers reflected onto the glass and chrome giving it an ethereal feel. The Bar Manager, Joe Gilmore, stood in perfect command of his fiefdom; in the corner, the piano player was musically discreet, keeping the volume to a minimum so as not to disrupt the conversations of the handful of guests who were dotted about the booths and tables.
He noticed that one of the waitresses was complaining, in whispered tones, that her boyfriend wanted to take her to the 'flicks' to see one of those awful spy-movies which had become so popular. “I mean really, does he think I'm interested in seeing a supposedly secret agent shooting people, and cavorting with young girls half his age on a beach somewhere? Really…”
Noticing the new customer, she detached herself from her complaining and hurried across to him. He ordered a whisky, an eighteen-year-old Speyside with water on the side. When it arrived, he took a sip, enjoying its warmth and sat back to immerse himself in his surroundings and to ponder on the nature of his life, his trade and how, even in his most delusional moments, he would never class himself as your typical looking Intelligence Officer. He was certainly nothing like the 'secret agents' from the current spate of popular fiction that he loathed.
He had, over the past few years since joining the Service, fast gained a reputation for getting difficult jobs done. Too 'rough-edged' and without the proper pedigree from the correct universities or military regiments for the mainstream of intelligence work, it didn't take
long for his recruiters to move him sideways, into a unit that would appreciate his unique talents and temperament. He was a ball hammer to the rest of the Service's subtler ice picks.
And why Gorilla? Where did that title come from?
Some thought the title came from the disdain career intelligence officials had for people they thought of as working at the 'coalface'. A laborer, a knuckle dragger, a rock crusher, an ape to do the heavy lifting. Someone to come in and do the manual, dirty work, the jobs they deemed beneath themselves, but which was far more suited to some 'oik' from the army.
The choosing of his cryptonym – Gorilla – had in fact been a testament to his maverick attitude and disdain for the snobbery of the rest of the elite of his Service. One of the 'perks' of being assigned to the Redaction Unit was that officers were allowed to choose their own cryptonyms. It was a small, but important, concession for what was seen as the elite among the intelligence service.
One thing he'd noticed early on was that there were a lot of standard choices for codenames amongst his colleagues over the years. Lots of Greek Gods and mythological heroes – Apollo's, Achilles, Centurion and the like – which was all very bombastic and reeked a little of over-compensating in his opinion. Grant was determined not to fall into that trap.
He wanted a cryptonym that was unique to him and unobtrusive in the general scheme of things. Of course, in the great bureaucracy that was a secret government service he was given a rather bland code number – 2308 – which would forever be used on official communiqués. However, things had taken a fateful turn when some wag in Personnel had discovered that Grant's nickname during his time in the army had been 'Gorilla' and had scrawled it onto the buff folder that held his life story.
It had been a great joke and had caused much merriment among the rank and file. When he'd showed them what he could do, his reputation within 'Redaction' had grown quickly, and the sniggers and jibes had stopped and the name had, unofficially, stuck.