by James Quinn
Here he was the 'Ace-Detective' of the British Secret Service, hunter of spies and traitors, and he'd been confounded by a word he'd never heard before.
He had his answer the very next day, from Commander Rix, the SIS Naval Liaison. “Sorry we took our time on that one. We're all at sixes and sevens in the move over to Century from Broadway. Anyway, the 'Thamilia' is a French-registered vessel, a thirty-two-footer, no less. The owner is one Albert Verhoeven. The information came from my French navy contact. Well, you know the French are now in the counter-gun running business, stopping arms from Europe making their way to North Africa. It seems Verhoeven had been flagged as a possible gunrunner at some point over the past few years, but the French couldn't catch him in the act.”
So a boat was the method of entry; the question was, where was it now? He'd put in a priority request to the French Desk, who in turn put in an order for the same Hawkeye team that had been so successful in Marseilles to take a trip down to the Cherbourg region and do some devilling about in the harbors and fishing ports, to see if they could track down the Thamilia.
The agents spread out across the area, operating under the cover of French holidaymakers exploring the coastal region and perhaps looking to hire a boat for a day or two of coastal exploration. For nearly a week, Toby heard nothing, and then a surprise phone call to his desk had spurred him into action. Not only had the Hawkeye agents managed to track down where the boat was moored, but they'd also been able to capture a few grainy, black and white photographs.
Johnson, the Hawkeye team leader, had phoned the Burrowers' office and relayed the information directly to Toby. “It's currently, as of this morning, moored in a small fishing village called Barfleur, which is about twenty-seven kilometers east of Cherbourg,” said the dour surveillance expert.
“And it hasn't moved?” asked Toby.
“Not according to our man on the ground there. He's booked into a little hotel overlooking the harbor and he's got constant surveillance on it. There's been some coming and going over the past day or so, moving some type of equipment on board. Then yesterday, the skipper had a visit from a couple of hard cases. They went inside for a pow-wow, stayed an hour or so and then buggered off.”
Toby's excitement was almost palpable. “If it moves, I need to know about it. We may only have a few hours to stop it.”
The call finally came early on the Saturday morning. It was Roger who took it – it was his shift – but he immediately relayed it to Toby at home. “It's bloody well on the move. It's been kitted out with some kind of equipment, we have to assume relating to the hit, and it has four men on board; the Captain and the three hitters.”
“Why three?” asked Toby, crunching down on a piece of toast. It had been a rare chance for a family breakfast together. That is, until the telephone rang.
“Who knows, maybe after Marseilles they're being overcautious,” suggested Roger.
“What's their expected ETA in Falmouth?”
Toby heard the ruffling of papers from the other end of the line and then Roger said, “Best estimate if the conditions stay fair, they can make about eight knots in eight hours, twelve hours slowest. I've just checked the weather report and there's a bit of rough weather due in down there over the next day or so. I reckon they'll be there late tomorrow night. Obviously they're working to a deadline, or they'd just reschedule.”
“Alright Rog', well done. I'm coming back into the office after I've notified Redaction. Have everything ready for me on my desk.” Toby and his team had gone forward, gone backward and gone every which way. He had been sure it was Cornwall and the target was Scorpius and the intelligence had borne him out. Satisfied, he picked up the telephone and dialed the direct line for Masterman and got a “Yes?” almost at once.
“Sir, it's Toby Burrows. I think I have something.” Toby briefed Masterman on the details of the material from Marseilles. Cornwall, the boat, the timeframe of the hit and the harbor they would sail from.
“Clever move on their part, that,” said Masterman. “Going for the more abstract target, rather than one already in their neck of the woods. Even now, they're trying to wrong foot any potential trackers.”
“I agree. The secret to good counter-intelligence work is to see a pattern within the madness, and by attacking the targets randomly, rather than geographically, it's making it harder for anyone to track them.”
“Well, let's hope these fellows have a successful trip across the channel, then,” said Masterman.
“Excuse me for speaking out of turn, Colonel, but couldn't we just send the Royal Navy to intercept them once they enter British waters? Cut them off?”
Masterman thought about whether to answer and then decided to give the young desk officer the full facts. He was, after all, responsible for tracing the boat and the targets. “Yes, we could Toby. Most certainly, we could. But you see, the rules of the game have changed slightly, it's suddenly become much more complex.”
“So what are we going to do?”
“Why, that's simple. We're going to let them come to us. I'll need to get Gorilla back here on the first available flight.”
Toby was about to say something to challenge his superior officer, something about calling in Special Branch to pick them up when they landed, but then thought better of it. As he listened down the telephone line, he was sure he heard a touch of pleasure in Masterman's voice. It was the sound of the huntsman starting to sniff out his quarry for the first time and sending the dogs in for the kill.
* * *
An hour earlier, The Thamilia had eased out of the small, crook-shaped harbor of Barfleur and gently ambled out to sea. Inside relaxing, David Gioradze and his two sub-contractors were playing poker for loose coins. It was to be a long journey, at least ten hours. The Captain, Verhoeven, had been told to take his time. No rushing to get there, just let the boat putter along at a gentle cruising speed. Gioradze wanted to hit the Cornish coast somewhere late on the Saturday night, the later the better.
Darkness was going to be their friend.
He gently moved the canvas bag at his feet and told one of the French sub-contractors to put it in the storage hold ready for arrival in English waters. Better to have things out of sight, just in case they happened to be boarded by either the French or British Royal Navy. After all, the bag contained their tools for this particular job; three fully loaded Israeli-made Uzi 9mm's with folding stocks.
The Israeli weapon had been chosen on purpose. Gioradze did like to have the very best weapons for his contracts, which in this case, was something short and powerful with a rapid rate of fire. The hope was that when the British authorities finally arrived on the scene and found the Uzis, they would assume that some Israeli hit-team had finally managed to track down another aging Nazi and handed out justice. Gioradze knew that if nothing else, it would buy them a little time to carry out the rest of the contracts on their list. While the British police were looking in one direction, they would be moving off in another. It was brilliantly planned. Something that Marquez excelled at.
Since the incident in Marseilles, they had moved quickly to keep the momentum going at the pace of the hits. Marquez had headed to the safe-house in Auvers sur-Oise while he'd made his way down the country to place the finishing touches on the 'Engineer' hit.
He looked at his hand of cards – a pair. Shit! Better to fold, he thought, and threw the cards down onto the table. The Frenchman across the table from him laughed, revealing a gold tooth, and swept the cards and the coins into a big meaty hand. “Not your day, eh David?” he said.
Gioradze shrugged. It was only a game of cards, fuck it; as long as it wasn't an omen for the coming night's events he would be fine. Yes, he would be fine.
Chapter Ten
As he stepped into the arrivals lounge of London Airport, Jack Grant was greeted by an army of faces and bodies jostling for position to be the first to spot their loved ones, families, business colleagues.
They were all a blur and th
rough the exhaustion of recent events, not to mention the excursions to a host of European countries over the past few weeks, he was aware that his concentration levels were ebbing. He also recognized that he was starting to burn out, which for a man in his profession could be a dangerous flaw.
He started to lag behind the rest of his fellow passengers, hoping to buy himself some time, so as to spot someone he knew. Nothing, at least not visible, so with no other option, he decided to make his way outside and stand proudly in front of the terminal. In truth, he wasn't sure who would be waiting for him, some nameless staffer from headquarters who had been roped in to do an 'airport run' probably, so he was pleasantly surprised to feel a hand on his shoulder and see the familiar face of Masterman. Christ, the man could move like a big cat when he had to, thought Grant. Then he saw Masterman's serious expression and knew instantly there wasn't going to be a happy, welcome home party for him.
“You look like hell,” said Masterman.
“Thanks. It comes from being awake for the past few days,” said Grant, the tiredness evident in his voice.
“Rough, was it?”
“I've had worse. Had better also.” If he had, he couldn't for the life of him remember when that was.
“Well, let's get you to the car, shall we? I've a flask of coffee to perk you up.” Masterman's car, a sporty MK1 Triumph Spitfire in black, was parked at the farthest end of the small car park, facing a concrete wall.
The rain was tapping against the windscreen. I've traded a wet, cold, miserable Paris for a wet, cold, miserable London, thought Grant.
“What do you think of the car? It's new,” asked Masterman as he settled into the driver's seat.
Grant nodded. “Very nice. Shift does it?”
“It pulls a little around the corners, but on the straight it's like a rocket. Elsa thinks it's far too young for me. She's probably right.”
Elsa was Masterman's wife. Their marriage was one of the great romances of the Service's history. They had met in Cairo during the war and were completely devoted to each other. Legend has it she once faced down an Arab extremist in Palestine, who had broken into the house one night. She had been armed with a revolver, him with a knife. Really, it had been no contest and the fledgling terrorist had scarpered with his testicles still attached to the rest of him.
Masterman was pouring steaming hot black coffee from the flask into two metal cups. Grant accepted his, wrapping both hands around the cup, sniffed the aroma and then took an appreciative sip.
“How are the intelligence reports from the Burrower's going down?” asked Masterman.
“Well. Very well, in fact; for a young bloke he certainly knows his business. Tell him whatever he's doing to keep on doing it. At this rate, we'll have this team closed down in no time,” said Grant.
Masterman raised an eyebrow at that. He knew from years past that praise from Grant was something of a rarity. “So you approve of the reports then? Clear, concise, accurate?”
“They seem to be.”
“Good, because I've got another one for you. It's an urgent one, in fact.”
“How urgent?”
“Like now urgent. That's why we've brought you back. We tracked them down again. You leave as soon as we've finished our little chat and you've had a look over this.” Masterman pulled an envelope from the side pocket of the driver's door and handed it over.
Grant rubbed his eyes to draw away the tiredness and began to look through the briefing file. He skimmed it as usual, taking in the relevant points: Agent Scorpius, Cornwall, a boat called The Thamilia leaving from Barfleur, the window of opportunity over the next day to lure the killers into a trap; in fact, everything that was needed to complete the next phase of the operation.
“The bulk of the clues came from the intelligence you and Trench grabbed in Marseilles. It led us right to Scorpius as the next target,” said Masterman.
Grant took another glance at the sheets and stuffed them into the glove compartment. “And there we were, thinking it was going to be Paris for the next hit.”
Masterman nodded. “That's what they had all thought, except for young master Burrows. He had the foresight to think differently, which was confirmed by the movement of the vessel leaving Barfleur.”
“What about weapons? I've none,” said Grant. He had left his '39 back in the safe cache in the apartment in Paris. Following the shooting in the hotel, the Redaction team had evacuated the Marseilles base and quickly gone their separate ways. Grant and Nicole back to Paris and Trench separately to who knew where.
The standard procedure for overseas weapons carry was that Redaction agents didn't take firearms on commercial airline flights. This was partly for security reasons, but more practically so that the agents cover wasn't blown. Why would a businessman working for a firm of accountants have a revolver? Instead, weapons were sourced in country from contacts or delivered through the Embassy's diplomatic bag to the agent's dead drop. It wasn't a perfect system, but it worked.
“Don't worry. There's something useful secured in the boot for you. Not your normal tool of the trade, but the best I could get at short notice from the tool shed. There's a change of clothes also – oh, and I thought this might come in handy, on the off chance that you get the opportunity to have a quiet word with one of the targets.” Masterman handed over a small, leather bound case similar to the type used as a gentleman's grooming bag, one that would normally hold scissors and nail clippers, comb and sewing kit.
“What is it?” asked Grant, unsure of just what the hell he was holding.
“We'll call it a modern version of the thumbscrews, shall we? Ironically, it's one of the test kits which has been given to us by the CIA; apparently, they rate these methods rather highly,” said Masterman unconvincingly.
Grant unzipped the bag and took in its contents. Three syringes, a cannula, and an antiseptic cleaning kit. He quickly zipped it up again with disgust.
Masterman noted the other man's displeasure. “I know what you're thinking, Jack. I'm of the same mindset as you; it's not my thing either. I find it rather distasteful. But if it gives us the edge in this hunt, then use it.”
Grant wiped away the condensation from the passenger side window and peered out at the grey airport terminal. He knew the case officers back at SIS hated the thought of using chemical interrogation methods. It went against their code. In truth, Grant was of a similar mind and found the idea abhorrent. But this was a unique situation and the one thing he didn't have was the luxury of time, time to slowly coerce a man in a skillful interrogation session, easing the information out in a calm and subtle way.
“Ideally, we'd like to haul these killers in and let the interrogation mob wear them down. Unfortunately, time is against us and this seems to be the most humane way of resolving the problem. Besides, it's an order, so get it done,” said Masterman.
Grant placed the kit on top of the envelope and looked directly at Masterman, resigned to his orders. “Understood. So we let them come into the bay, luring them into a trap. What happens if the coastguard or police launches take an unhealthy interest in what they're doing?”
Masterman dismissed it as a minor issue. “Don't concern yourself with that. Just concentrate on getting the job done. SIS, as you know, has considerable influence in various quarters. We've had a quiet word with the local forces and coastguard. They've been told to look the other way and not to interfere with a boat called The Thamilia. It's officially down as a training exercise. They'll keep their noses out until we say so.”
Grant could imagine the phone calls as Masterman pulled strings and called in favors. A request to SIS's Naval liaison officer, who would then call his opposite number in Naval Intelligence, who would then pass it directly to the Admiralty, who would then call the coastguard and so on and so forth.
SIS always made sure that the rules didn't apply to them. Masterman was setting the scene for a great big bear trap for the hit-team, and he didn't care who he had to manipulate to get w
hat he wanted.
“What's the news on the American angle? Are we still playing against them?” asked Grant.
“For the moment, although I have orders to bring them into the fold soon. I'll wait until it's confirmed that you've removed the threat to Scorpius first, don't want to drop you in it, do I. But I think it's time that this stupid American enterprise was brought to a swift conclusion,” said Masterman.
Grant looked doubtful. He knew that the Americans always insisted on having their own way. It seemed to be a national trait and he couldn't imagine some over-ambitious CIA operations officer taking any notice of Masterman, or anyone else.
“Think about it Jack, half of this hit-team will have been destroyed and if our intelligence is correct, there will only be one man left to carry out the remainder of the job. It would be impossible for him to continue effectively,” said Masterman.
Grant had to admit that with the American operation out in the open and only one contractor left, then the odds of its continued success were diminishing with each new 'hit'. That was, unless the remaining contractor was something special or just damned lucky.
Masterman made a move to get out of the car. “I think a quiet word in the ear of the right person might let the Americans know that they've had their little piece of folly well and truly blown sky high. I'll leave you here and grab a taxi back to the office. Oh, and one more thing, please don't crash. I haven't run her in properly yet.”
* * *
He set off in the dead of night. The streets of London, once busy and bustling were now deserted except for the occasional bus, lorry and police patrol car and he, for one of the few times in his life, enjoyed the solitude of driving on the streets of the nation's capital.