Sentinel Five (The Redaction Chronicles Book 2) (3 page)

“That's insane! Innocent people would be slaughtered. Soldiers and secret police are one thing, but bio-weapons are indiscriminate about who they target,” said Grant.

Masterman nodded. “What we do know, is that it's still far from perfected as a weapon. The initial dose only lasts for up to thirty minutes and while it turns the subject violent, it dissipates quickly, providing the coup-plotters with only a short opportunity to take over. The fact that the virus doesn't work properly means the man who currently has control of it has decided to alter what it is to be used for. Military coup operations are out, so it seems, and bio-terrorism is in.”

“And the film? Where did that come from?” asked Grant.

“A package was hand delivered to our Embassy in Lisbon containing the film and a note with a demand for five million pounds sterling, paid into an account in Switzerland. We received it the day after we discovered that C had been murdered.”

“And if the five million wasn't paid?”

Masterman held up his hands. “Then the implied threat was that this bio-toxin, or whatever it is, would be released into a civilian crowd in British-held territories. The powers-that-be thought about it for all of an hour before they decided to pay up, bloody quick-smart!”

“What! I thought we don't work with terrorists?” said Grant.

“Ah, well yes, under normal circumstances that would be the perceived wisdom. But these aren't normal circumstances; I don't think any government in the world has ever had to deal with a threat like this before. Imagine if that was released in Oxford Street in London, or Princes Street in Edinburgh, or any of a dozen other soft targets. It would be catastrophic. So an arrangement was made to pay through deniable channels, as it were. Some friends in the banking industry made the arrangements and we simply reimbursed them.”

“So what changed? They've been paid; surely that's the end of it?”

Masterman shook his head. “It seems the only good blackmailer is a dead one. We've heard rumblings that they're coming back for a second bite of the cherry. From what I understand, another communiqué has been received by the Prime Minister's office with demands for more money. It has to stop… and soon. The money is a way of buying us time until we can find and kill this maniac and his mob. Unfortunately, SIS won't commit to fighting back and with Redaction gone, they're impotent to say the least. That's where we come in.”

Masterman handed Grant a piece of paper, containing a drawing of an evil looking, heavily-plumed blackbird, cradling an Oriental sword. Its beak was open wide as if to devour and the sword was held high as if to threaten.
No, not a blackbird,
thought Grant. The
Karasu-Tengu
. The Raven. A mythical Japanese demon, part-goblin and part-raven, which was a master in the art of single combat whether unarmed or with a sword.

Masterman continued. “Our people put the word out everywhere for information. We listened, we eavesdropped, and we spied. We got bits back… not a lot, just enough to help us make a start. The
Karasu-Tengu
himself was a mere rumour, a spectacle of bluff and deception. He was never seen and only whispered about on the streets where murder and damnation were the currency of life. He was known to disappear and reappear at will – quite often on different continents at the same time. He was a ghost to keep the street criminals afraid and tempered. Cross the Raven, and you will lose your head. It was a macabre version of a tale of power, ruthlessness and cunning. But who was the man in shadows? Who had made him the leader of the group which had taken the art of murder and assassins for hire to the next level? The evidence, at least initially, had been fragmented and incomplete. Myth, rumour and disinformation had corrupted the true facts about the leader and his origins. Then as reputations grow, the facts had been superimposed upon both the man and his deeds. The Raven and his assassins had killed across continents and had spread their wings to other criminal and terrorist groups. They were facilitators, able to infiltrate themselves into any situation. They could go where others could not and they could do what others could not do.”

“So who is he? This Raven?” asked Grant.

Masterman frowned at that, as if not having a straight answer to a question troubled him. “Details of his true identity are sketchy at the moment, although I have someone working on it as we speak. Hopefully, they'll be able to shed further light on this man's identity soon. All we do know is that the Allies were involved with him in some way operationally during his time in Asia in the 1930's, but seeing as SIS and the OSS were involved with lots of agents during that period, it's proving to be a bit of a needle in a haystack. We'll get there in the end.”

“So how do you get to him?” asked Grant, his mind already slipping back into operational mode and trying to work out the next play in the game.

“We've identified a small window of opportunity,” said Masterman.

Grant inclined his head. “How small?”

“It seems C had identified a contract killer who was rumoured to be on retainer to the Raven organisation, an Australian mercenary by the name of Reierson. It seems he's one of their top gunmen. We've finally managed to track him down – if someone were to remove him, permanently –there would be a vacant position in the Raven's hit-team. What's more, it would be a role for an expert gunman. It would be our way in.”

Grant began to nod in understanding; he could see where the Colonel was going with this –Masterman was after an infiltration agent. It was a dangerous position to be in within any covert operation.

“You eliminate Reierson and then we orchestrate getting you close to Trench. He'll bring you into their fold, an old comrade and all that,” purred Masterman. “I need a man on the inside, Jack – a good man, someone who doesn't mind getting his hands dirty and playing rough with the enemy, someone to get close to the hierarchy of this organisation and get them to lower their guard, even momentarily.”

“And then what? How far in do you want me to go?”

“All the way. All the way until we have the Raven where we want him, discover what he plans to do next and then you and the team can rip his bloody head off, once and for all.”

“Can I just ask you one small question, Colonel?” Grant's voice was deliberately low and calm when he made the request.

“Of course.”

“What the bloody hell has any of this got to do with me!” Grant snapped, in his usual cold and cruel manner.

Jack's outburst gave Masterman pause and it took him a moment or two before he recovered. He fixed Grant with his hardest officer's glare and spoke calmly. “Because you're lost Jack… or at least, you believe yourself to be. What you really need is a chance, an opportunity to get back into this war. You've had your sabbatical over the past year, stuck out here in the wilderness. Now it's time for you to come back and repay a debt of honour. Plus, we'll pay you for your time of course, we're not asking you to risk your life for free, there's coin in it for you at the end of the contract. My backers are men of means, shall we say.”

Masterman fixed Grant with a glare from his one good eye and jabbed the point of the commando dagger down into the wood of the table. He thought back to all those months ago, on the day when he had been released from hospital. He'd called a meeting to be held at a private room in White's Gentleman's Club. In attendance were various members of the banking profession, a former Prime Minister, several recently-retired Generals and a handful of business leaders. Seven of them in all, all loyal to the late 'C' and all of them no longer affiliated with the present government or the intelligence agencies. Masterman had turned up, half doped up on drugs just to keep the pain at bay, and set out his thesis and plan. It had taken him a good three hours to convince them of what was needed, but eventually he'd triumphed. It was the kind of speech he'd given in the past when he sent young soldiers out to die on the battlefield. By the end of the day, he had resources and funding in place to go ahead with his unofficial mission.

Grant shook his head. “They'll never buy it, I've been out of it too long; I'm washed up, part of the old generation. A younger crowd will have risen up the ranks. Killers these days are ten a penny.”

“That's exactly why they'll 'buy it', said Masterman. “You were something of a legend within the intelligence networks. If we can convince them that you're just as bitter and twisted as they are, as Trench is with the Secret Service, then they'll snap you up just as soon as look at you. A gunman of your reputation and skill willing to work for the highest bidder, a mercenary with a grudge. Gravy for them.”

Grant considered it, working out the possibilities and risks. There was a big reward at the end of it, but the chance of discovery, torture and death… well, that had always been there, in all the jobs he'd done. In the end it was Masterman who broke his chain of thought. “Be a good chap and push me outside, let's get a bit of fresh air. It's as stuffy as hell in here. Do you know, I think the rain has eased off slightly?”

* * *

The sniper was watching carefully, and she saw them clearly through the telescopic scope of the rifle. The Colonel in the wheelchair and the gunman who pushed him out of the main door of the mansion and onto the drive. She was located on the hillside which towered over the mansion, concealed in the moss and the purple-tinged heather of the mountains. Today was another practice day for her. Finding a hide, laying up, staying hidden, and taking a shot every now and then. Practice. The rain had started at dawn and now, three hours later, she was soaked. But she didn't move, hadn't moved for an hour or more, except to occasionally stretch her fingers, keeping the blood circulating despite the cold. She moved her right eye closer to the scope of the rifle and studied the small, bearded man with the dirty blonde hair in detail. So this was the legendary Redactor who was famed for his skill at close quarter shooting. She thought he looked more like a vagrant. A killer, no. A manual labourer, certainly. The man was both ragged and dishevelled.

If the vagrant who had once been a legend had tried to harm the Colonel in any way, she would have taken him out. The shot from this distance would have been no problem. It was well within her range and skill level and the rifle she'd been training with was more than capable of doing the job. It was a British-made Parker Hale Model 82. The Colonel had told her it was currently being trialled by several specialist units in the British Army. She'd been exhilarated when he presented her with the case containing the rifle, scope and ammunition. She'd removed it carefully, with almost reverence. In her opinion, it was well balanced, easy to use and above all else, accurate. It was a prestigious weapon and she coveted it greatly.

The next day, after familiarising herself with the weapon in the great hall of the castle, she'd walked out into the wilderness carrying the rifle in its case and several large turnips she'd found in the pantry. She'd walked a mile away from the house before setting the large vegetables on a small hillock, then she had climbed to the top of the great mountain overlooking Inverailort and the Loch. She'd unpacked the weapon, wiped it down and carefully loaded the magazine with four of the standard 7.62mm rounds. Finally, she'd flicked open the two legs that rested either side of the rifle's frame and settled down onto the ground, prone, sheltering against the harsh wind and fog. She had rested for five minutes, calming herself, slowing her breathing. It was a skill she'd taught herself over many years. Then, when she was ready, she moved the bolt action handle smoothly backwards and then pushed it forward, chambering a bullet.

The effective range of the M82 was around the eight hundred feet mark. The sniper judged that her targets – the turnips – were easily inside that distance, probably no more than six hundred feet. For both the sniper and the rifle, this was child's play. Through the magnified scope she saw the targets disintegrate with each squeeze of the trigger, watching them explode. One minute they were there and the next, gone. It was like a magician's disappearing trick and she was happy. She'd found her zero and she hoped that she'd be allowed to carry and use the M82 against the monsters she'd been recruited to hunt and kill. It was a good weapon. The following day, the Colonel arranged for her to spend the day with a deer stalker and professional hunter from one of the big estates further up the Scottish coastline, and she'd overheard what the hunter and marksman had to say about her when he reported to the Colonel regarding her efforts.

“Well, Colonel, that wee lassie can shoot as well as any man I've ever seen. She has both the eye for it and the patience to wait for her quarry to move into the kill zone. She took down one of our biggest stags, a bugger we've been keen to cull for months!”

It had been the endorsement the Colonel was apparently looking for because he'd named her the first member of the team he was forming.
In many ways,
thought the sniper,
the Colonel reminded her of her own father
.

She placed her eye back at the scope and stared down at the forecourt of the house. She saw the vagrant turn and stand in front of the Colonel's wheelchair. Saw them speak for a minute or two, and then saw the nods of understanding from both parties. The Colonel heaved his frame up from the wheelchair, until he towered over the smaller man. They shook hands, as if sealing a deal, and then the vagrant turned and trudged back through the muddy grass to the cars, where Penn was waiting.

She turned the scope of the rifle so she could follow the Land Rover along the private road and out of sight. She wondered if the man known as Gorilla would be back, if he'd decided to be a part of their mission, or if he was returning to his life of obscurity.

Twelve hours later, Jack Grant sat on a cold and lonely train station waiting for the final train of the day. The train would take him from Edinburgh Waverly Station southwards ever nearer to the heart of the British capital, and from there to the private safe house Masterman had arranged for him in Wiltshire.

Following his reunion with Masterman, Grant had stepped back into the Land Rover and driven in a daze all the way back to Arisaig. The miles had passed in a blur, had gone too quickly, if he was honest. He'd experienced many doubts and indulged in multiple arguments with his own mind during that journey. Should he climb on board for what was probably the craziest of secret operations? After all, they had no official licence on this. A private enterprise for revenge? Crazy! He should just go back to his sister's house and forget all about his old life, it would be the easiest thing to do.

But there was something of the risk taker in Jack Grant, always had been. It was what made him such a good Redactor in his day; the ability to face down the usually overwhelming odds. Yes, he could go back and tend to the house, work a fishing boat, look after his kin, perhaps even find a woman and settle down to a habitable existence. But Grant knew it would be a lie. He wasn't that man. He knew that here in Scotland, locked away in self-imposed exile, he was merely treading water, waiting for the next opportunity to arrive. He also knew he was a selfish arsehole to leave his kin, just because he'd been flattered into it by an old soldier. He'd been protected by Sir Richard Crosby, and he knew that Masterman had fathered that protection. He'd known that even before he left the Service, a security blanket had been put in place to protect his family and it had continued, long after he'd resigned in a fit of pique. Masterman had bent every rule in the book and called in all kinds of obscure favours, in order to keep his best Redactor hidden away from enemies.

But it was more than just a level of debt that Grant wanted to repay. In truth, Jack wanted back into his old life; the comradeship of a team, the sensation of a cold, hard gun gripped in his hand, the thrill of hunting a man down, the release he'd experienced as the hunter closing in for the kill. Seeing as he was having a moment of clarity and self-awareness, he admitted to himself that he also wanted to see if the Gorilla was still alive and kicking, hidden away in a deep part of his psyche, waiting to be reborn. By the time he'd reached the last mile of his journey, Grant had made his decision. His mind was a whirlwind, working out the details of the operation, and how he would break the news to the family. Whether it was the right decision, only time would tell.

He'd arrived back just as darkness set in and he'd stood in the kitchen and told everyone, as they'd sat at the kitchen table, eating their evening meal. He'd blurted it out, with no finesse or tact. He was leaving, going away on a job, would be gone for a few months… the details he couldn't remember, it had just been words he'd spouted. Vague platitudes, something about an old debt… but he knew he'd been trying to justify his actions. He'd looked down at their faces to be greeted with scorn, fear and rage.

Hughie had glared at him, clenching and unclenching his fat fists. His sister had roared and cursed at him. But it had been the reaction from the girl which had hit him the hardest. She'd simply fled the kitchen and stomped up to her bedroom. He'd left her alone, taken the brunt of the abuse from his sister and Hughie for ten minutes, before calmly making his way up the twelve stairs to the girl's bedroom door. She'd locked it and he could hear her crying, softly. He had tried in his ham-fisted way to calm and reassure her. She'd ignored him and eventually, he'd admitted defeat.

Grant had quickly scribbled a letter and sealed it inside an envelope, before handing it to his sister. “Make sure she gets it; don't hide it, May. It's important,” he'd said, his rucksack in his hand, standing on the front step to the house moments before the door slammed, leaving him standing there in the rain. He'd suffered the shame of his actions, turning his back on his kin at the drop of a hat and walking away, back into the maelstrom of his old life. And all because someone had pushed the right buttons and asked him; asked him to be of use again, asked him to use his old skills again, and he'd agreed so easily. He'd folded like a cheap suit. Masterman was that good as a recruiter – of course he was – and it was why the man had been so successful in their secret wars.

Jack had turned and walked away to the Land Rover, looking back once more at the top bedroom window. He saw the face of the girl with the black hair. He threw his rucksack in the back of the vehicle and when he turned around to wave to her for a final time… he paused. She'd gone. He climbed in, started the engine and for the first time in many a year Jack Grant headed south across the English border.