by James Quinn
* * *
The rain had eased as Masterman and Grant walked back towards Westminster Bridge, headed for the Embankment. Pretty girls in short dresses were walking home with their fiancés, men in bowler hats had finished their day in the corridors of power, and buses took workers home to enjoy the weekend.
“So what's our license like for this?” Grant asked.
“The same as normal. You can have whatever you need; within reason, of course,” replied Masterman. “Do whatever you need to get the job done. We'll back you to the hilt, with the caveat that if you get cornered, you better fucking shoot your way out or you're on your own.”
“Thanks.”
“Look, Jack, it's a difficult job. That's why it was given to you. I've got enough to worry about with the Vice-Chief on my back like a randy monkey. He's chasing me for every little detail on this, and I'm trying to keep him at bay for as long as I can. The man suddenly thinks he's a field agent.”
Grant knew that Masterman despised Barton, as much as Barton despised the Head of the Redaction Unit. They came from two opposite ends of the spectrum; Barton was the man of backroom deals and meetings, Masterman was the man of action.
“And there's no chance that we can't up the manpower? I mean there's only two of us, and we've got a hell of a lot of ground to cover,” said Grant.
“I know what you're saying, Jack, but the Redaction Unit is stretched as it is. Trench is in the Middle East working a job there, Spence is still tied up in that training program in Hong Kong and the rest are on assorted operations in the less inviting parts of the world. Aside from the European surveillance teams from the various stations, you're on your own.”
Grant frowned. He'd known the answer before Masterman spelled it out, but he had to ask. “Alright,” he said.
“Besides,” continued Masterman as they approached the steps leading to the lower levels of the embankment. “One team is more mobile – faster, quicker, and you're not beholden to anyone else. I learned that in the War. Get in, hit them, get out. You're more than capable of accomplishing the goal. So what do you want to do next?”
Grant turned to face him. “I need to get down to the tool shed and see what I can scavenge for this job.”
The 'tool shed' referred to the Service's resources and technical section, which held all the necessary pieces of equipment an agent might need in the field – everything from disguises to surveillance devices and weapons, and while Broadway had an excellent range of kit buried deep in its cellars, the Redaction Unit had its own bespoke operation located in Battersea.
“Scavenge nothing,” said Masterman. “This has the green light from the top floor; take whatever you need and if they give you any trouble, refer them straight to me.”
Chapter Eight
Marquez and Gioradze met at the bar in Orly airport. It had been several weeks since they had last seen each other and in the intervening time they'd both separately been planning for the next phase of the operation. Each looked healthy and fit and to the casual observer, they could have been taken for two travelling sales representatives, wearing business suits, winter coats and carrying briefcases.
Their strategy had worked perfectly. Take out the less noticeable Russian agents first; in this case a junior diplomat of no regard, a banker with no profile and a businessman hardly anyone was aware of, so that they could move relatively unhindered against the most prominent targets.
Over the past few weeks neither had returned to their home addresses, instead preferring to stay in out of the way hotels. With the survivor's inbred instinct, they had decided not to take the risk of an enemy picking up their scent and following the trail back to their 'other' lives. The two men sat at a quiet corner table and watched planes take off and land with military precision.
“No problems in Hamburg. I read the news report,” Gioradze said.
“No, it was simple; a slight wound to my hand during the kill, but it's healing well.” Marquez flexed his hand, remembering how the garrote had accidently cut into his skin during the murder. “And you, no problems?”
Gioradze took a sip of his beer and shook his head. “It went like a dream. A good clean kill, the only hiccup was a witness who spotted me. Nothing to worry about, I wore a disguise and he only saw me for a brief moment.”
Marquez nodded, satisfied. The trick was to reduce the risk as much as possible, whilst recognizing that this happened during all jobs and was inevitable.
“What about the money? Any news?” asked Gioradze.
“The payments for the first three contracts have been paid in full. When I spoke to him, the American was very happy,” said Marquez.
Gioradze relaxed. Now that the money for the first contracts had been paid, he felt as though he could concentrate on the next part of the job. “What time is your flight to Marseilles?”
“In an hour. Yours?”
“I've got the evening flight, which means I get to hang around the bar and talk bullshit for three hours with all the other stiffs in suits,” complained Gioradze.
As standard procedure, they would travel separately, just in case of unexpected eventualities such as a stop and search, or an arrest whilst passing through customs. That way, at least one of them would be free to carry out the remainder of the contracts.
“And the German?” asked Marquez.
“He will meet us in Marseilles, as agreed,” Gioradze confirmed.
“Are we sure we can trust him?”
“He did okay for us in Zurich with driving the truck. Besides, we always knew we'd need an extra pair of hands. He'll be fine; leave him to me.”
Marquez downed the rest of his drink, still unconvinced.
“And even if he isn't, he won't be surviving the full term of the operation anyway. That was the agreement, wasn't it?” said Gioradze.
“Loose ends,” smiled Marquez.
“Exactly, loose ends,” Gioradze reassured his partner.
Marquez made his way to the flight gate without ceremony. An hour later and travelling on a Dutch passport in the name of Vincent Joosen, he boarded the Air France flight which would take him south to Marseilles.
* * *
Kronos Engineering Ltd was located on a quiet industrial estate in Battersea. It was enclosed by a ten-foot-high perimeter fence topped with barbed wire, which could only be accessed through a manned security gate where dark eyes peered at unannounced visitors from the watchman's hut. With no appointment or clearance came no access and you would be gently discouraged from making further enquiries.
Kronos itself took up a large warehouse space comprising metal workshops, storage facilities, a draughtsman's office, canteen, garage and four delivery vans. To the casual observer, it was the same as any engineering workshop anywhere in the country. That was until you scratched the surface of the company – and then it was something very different indeed.
“Arnie's expecting you. The kettle is on,” said the blousy-looking girl at the front desk, before handing Grant a chit authorizing him access to the secure area. Grant moved past the opening in the counter and made his way along the short corridor to an office which had 'FOREMAN' etched into the glass door.
A brief knock and Grant let himself in. The office was a monument to clutter; a cup full of stale tea bags was next to a set of receipts stuck onto a pending spike, and boxes of unpacked assorted mysteries made up a mini Berlin Wall across one side of the small office.
Grant was sure there was a desk in there somewhere, but underneath the avalanche of documents, files and outdated newspapers, he couldn't make out where it began or how big it was.
The man who sat behind the desk was a human version of the room. Dirty and unkempt, with a pencil behind his ear and overall pockets bulging with screwdrivers and spanners, but with the natural joie de vivre of a big man living a happy life. Various types of grime and oil permeated most sections of his skin most days of the week. He was sitting at his desk with the component parts of a dismantled semi-automatic pisto
l in front of him, a cloth in one hand and a can of gun oil in the other. When the door opened he looked up and beamed. “Well, Jack Grant, as I live and breathe. How you doing, you old bugger?” came the booming voice.
“Fine, thanks Arnie, just fine,” said Grant, smiling in spite of himself.
“I heard you had been confined to barracks on the boss's orders. Needed some time off, I heard. Fancy a cuppa? The kettle's just boiled.” The tea was Arnold Schwartz's usual fair, builder's tea; strong and sweet and thick enough to stand your teaspoon up in it. It came in the most enormous mug Grant had seen and he doubted he would ever finish it. They settled down in the rickety desk chairs.
“So how's life in the tool shed?” asked Grant, trying to make out the type of pistol on the desk. A Colt, he thought. An old one.
Schwartz shrugged. “Oh, you know they keep my boys busy. It's been better since the Colonel took over the tough guys, better funding. He's certainly fought for our corner, resources-wise. I remember in the old days; they'd expect us to take on the whole Cold War on a budget that the head office boys would use to buy lunch at their posh clubs. Shocking, I call it.”
Grant smiled. Since Masterman had been appointed Head of Redaction, he had used his influence among the politicians, the War Office and the Treasury to gain a bigger slice of the secret operations' financial pie. His proposal was simple and cost effective; give Redaction the means to do what needs to be done and we can make it happen for you. Don't, and you get the level of operation that you pay for.
“'Course some of the lads still want some daft bloody things. Pens that can fire bullets or even guns with knives attached! I mean, what's the use in that; bloody comical if you ask me,” said Schwartz, shaking his head at the shocking state of affairs he had to put up with.
Grant knew that Arnie Schwartz could take any every day, innocuous item and turn it into a lethal weapon, whether it was a knife, firearm or bludgeon. It was his trademark skill.
“So what can I do for you this fine morning, Jack?”
Grant took a slug of his tea and grimaced. “The usual. Off on a jaunt to Europe tomorrow, not sure for how long, so it'll be best to have a bit of everything.”
Schwartz pondered the request. “Okay, I've got a couple of new directional mikes that you might find useful, very handy for static surveillance work. You just point and listen. How's that sound, if you'll pardon my pun?”
“Good. I'll need some standard gear as well; a couple of listening units and recorders, covert cameras, binoculars… just in case.”
“Okay. Anything else?”
“Just my shooter. The usual one, the '39,” said Grant.
“Ha, ha… now you're talking!”
And with that, Arnie Schwartz jumped to his feet, snatching up a large ring of keys in the process and seemingly transformed himself into an ad hoc tour guide of his little fiefdom. The pair made their way along the corridor, down a set of steps to a large steel door. A guard sat in front of it, reading that day's Guardian, barring the way to anyone unfortunate enough to make it this far. “You haven't seen the place since we had it tarted up, have you Jack? This is Arthur, give him your chit. Finished that crossword yet, young man?”
Arthur seemed not to hear, but instead simply inspected Grant's chit, stored it in his boiler suit pocket and opened up the door to the armory. They moved down another corridor of grey walls and poorly lit rooms, the only sounds their footsteps on the stone floor and the occasional report of a weapon being fired behind closed doors. “That's Trevor and Stan test firing a new American assault rifle, state of the art, so the Yanks tell me. Still only a prototype at the minute though,” explained Arnie.
Eventually they reached the far end of the corridor and Arnie opened up the last steel door with a key from his set. “We've put in a new range, new targets on remote control bobbers. It's all very high-tech. We even have a makeshift close quarter battle house now with moveable walls. All soundproofed of course, don't want to upset the locals do we?”
Grant looked over the Redaction Unit's armory. The room was lined with storage racks containing a variety of unopened crates stenciled with 'ASSAULT RIFLES' and 'ASSORTED PISTOLS”' across their sides. At the far end of the room stood a large metal security cabinet the size of a grown man. Another key from Arnie's keychain was used and it clanked open to reveal a treasure trove of small arms; pistols, revolvers, magazines and ammunition.
Grant stood off to one side as the armorer delved into the depths of the cabinet, muttering and complaining as he rummaged through its contents of deniable handguns; Beretta's, Colt's, Browning's, Walther's. “Ah, here we go,” he said as he removed a small metal case and brought it over to the display table. “Now no one's touched it, as per your instructions. It's been cleaned and oiled so it's ready to go.”
Grant flicked open the case to reveal his weapon of choice, a 9mm Smith & Wesson Model 39 semi-automatic pistol. Similar in design to the 1911 Colt, it was however, a small framed and more compact weapon that suited Grant's shooting style perfectly. He had received the weapon from an American agent when he'd been working in Berlin many years ago. Grant had saved the American's life on an almost suicidal operation and had been given the weapon as a token of gratitude.
He had loved the '39 ever since and had given instructions that he was donating the weapon to the Redaction Unit's armory, on the clear understanding that only he and he alone was allowed to use it operationally. The only other person who was allowed to handle it was Arnie Schwartz and the first thing that Arnie had recommended had been the addition of a “bloody decent noise suppressor.”
Redactors operated in a world of covert killing and stealth operations, and as such, this was reflected in an agent's weaponry. Silenced pistols, garrotes, knives, even unarmed killing skills such as neck breaks and strangulation were all part of the Redactors' armory. Grant's personal skill was in close range firearms work and the man who could make it happen for him silently, was Arnie Schwartz.
Arnie had taken the pistol to the Kronos workshop, and replaced the standard issue barrel with one that was an inch longer so that it extended beyond the front of the slide.
The end of the barrel was then threaded on the extended portion to accept the silencer and with the suppressor attached, it increased the weapon's length to just shy of twelve inches. It had been Grant's weapon of choice for operations now for the past five years. It was both his calling card and his good luck totem.
He picked it up; removed the magazine and pulled back the slide to check that it was empty. Satisfied, he placed the gun carefully on the table before turning his attention to the rest of the contents of the case. A spare magazine, bespoke suppressor, covert-style holster, spare magazine pouch and a small cleaning kit; everything he would need for this job. “Ammunition?” he asked.
“How much do you want?” said Schwartz.
“Can you sort me out with four for now? If I need any more I'll put in an overseas request,” said Grant. Four boxes, at twenty-five rounds in a box should be more than enough for this operation; still it was always handy to have more than you needed rather than not enough. After all, he wasn't planning on engaging in skillful close combat with these contractors, he wanted to take them out as quickly as possible. “Oh, almost forgot, I'll need a personal protection weapon for my team mate on this. Nothing too complicated, small caliber, small gun.”
Arnie pulled a contemptuous face. He was always an advocate of large caliber, so anyone that went for the little pop guns clearly didn't know what they were doing and instantly earned his contempt. “Small caliber, not complicated! What, you think this is a bloody toy shop! Who is he, another one of those Nancy-boys from Broadway that you're babysitting?”
Grant laughed, which seemed to make the armorer even more annoyed. “Actually, he's a she and it's more as a precaution, in case she bumps into some rough types.”
Arnie shook his head, at near boiling point now. “Don't know what's going on in Head Office these days, sen
ding the fairer sex off on these missions. Bloody ridiculous! In my day the girls were happy to stay at home with the kids – now I know I'm old fashioned, but it worked. Take my Maggie; we've been married nearly 30 years and—”
Grant thought it better to kill the flow of the conversation and interrupt before Arnie turned his attention to a diatribe on the negatives of women's rights and equality in the workplace. “Arnie I'm on the clock here. So what have you got for my partner? What would you say would be ideal for her?”
Schwartz knew when he was being told to shut up, even if it was done nicely. Plus, Grant was a friend. He thought for a moment. “I've recently acquired a very nice Walther PPK-L. It's small, lightweight, 7.65mm so it will hurt whoever a bullet hits on the way down. That fella in the movies is using a similar one at the moment. Not one I'd recommend to you lads, but it will do as a lady's gun.”
Grant nodded with approval. He had no idea how much firearms training Nicole had, but he guessed not much, so he needed something that wouldn't scare the living daylights out of her if she had to use it for real. “Okay, good. Could you box it all up for me and ship it over to Pimlico?”
Arnie Schwartz nodded and reached for his clipboard. “Leave it with me, I'll get on to it straight away. Sign this just to confirm it all. Got to keep the paperwork in place for Head Office, haven't we now.”
That very afternoon Arnie would box, bag and load everything into a large, commercially available suitcase which would then be transferred in a 'KRONOS ENGINEERING' van over to Pimlico. From there it would be sealed and packed as part of the Diplomatic Baggage, with its recipient officially being the British Embassy in Paris or more accurately, the SIS Station Head there.
“I've got a spare box of 9mm here. Do you fancy a quick practice, just to keep your eye in?” teased Arnie, stowing away the clipboard and waggling the box of ammunition in front of Grant.
Grant looked over at the big man and smiled. “Why not?” he said.