[Redaction Chronicles 02.0] Sentinel Five

by James Quinn

  Once they'd completed the read through and placed the files on the coffee table, Masterman heaved himself to his feet with the aid of his cane and began. He looked each of them squarely in the eyes, conveying the seriousness of the situation.

  “This mission is pure and simply a Redaction. Oh, I know the unit doesn't exist anymore, but it's the type of operation I would conduct in the old days. Official or not, it's a Redaction by any other name. We have an opportunity – a rare one – to get to the heart of this organisation and bring it down. You're the best people we have for this job; you are all committed and fully capable. We get an agent inside this Raven's organisation and bring it down from the inside. Once you leave this safe house, you'll be officially cast to the wind. You'll go about your respective drab and mundane lives, not raising a whisper and not giving any clue that we're part of something greater. You will be drunks, criminals, mercenaries, layabouts, and feckless… and that's exactly what I want you to be. I want the powers-that-be to think you're washed up and yesterday's heroes… rundown and gone to seed. The next time you meet, when you'll get together again, will be in the killing zone. Where that is, I can't say… yet. You'll receive the contact, recognise the activation code word – SENTINEL – and then be given the details. I expect you to move fast, within hours, and be on the road to the location. Penn will set you up with your emergency travel papers and enough money to get you accommodated. Once you're on the ground, we'll arrange for your weapons, equipment and transportation. You'll meet with Grant and then you'll be covertly infiltrated into the target's location. I missed anything, Jordie?”

  Penn shook his head and turned to the team. “You do the job, get out and then emergency evacuation protocols are implemented. We get you out, and no one is any the wiser as to what happened. Simple enough?”

  “Easy,” mumbled Crane.

  “Piece of cake, old boy,” laughed Hodges, sipping his tea.

  “It's anything but,” Masterman warned. “But it's the job we have and it's the job we're going to finish. Put it this way – if we don't, no one will. You're all deniable – you don't exist. That's our greatest strength. We are ghosts. So remember why we're here. We're here because the powers-that-be have washed their hands of the whole affair, hoping it will go away if they pay enough money. We're here to stop a maniac from causing the murder of possibly thousands of innocents. We're here because we all of us, owe a debt to the late Sir Richard Crosby.”

  The team talked freely for the next hour, discussing ideas, tactics, and solutions to various problems. It was an open forum, something Masterman encouraged; after all, it was their necks on the line. 'The man on the ground has ultimate control', was something he'd learned from his wartime service. When they'd solved everything they could for the moment and talked themselves out, Masterman turned to Grant and said, ”Jack, be a good chap and help me up; I think we should take a stroll in the garden.” Grant assisted his old commanding officer – a mere touch of the elbow, nothing more – and the pair left through the patio doors leading into the garden.

  * * *

  Crane stood up and watched as the odd pair began their stroll. “So that's the Gorilla, is it? He's a bit of a legend amongst our lads. Been down to the killing house a few times. Knows his stuff.”

  Miko came and stood beside Crane, barely coming up to his shoulder. “Why do they call him 'Gorilla'?” she asked. Her gaze focused sniper-like upon the two men walking in the garden.

  “It's a nickname he picked up from the bad old days in Berlin, or so the Colonel informs me. Nobody really seems to know why he's known as Gorilla, well, except Masterman – and the Colonel isn't one for telling secrets,” Penn said absentmindedly, as he collected together the discarded files.

  “I understand he's an exceptionally good shot,” Miko said.

  “From what I know, he's one of the best Redactors the SIS ever had, good with a shooter at close quarters,” said Lang. The men returned to the table, leaving the small Japanese woman alone, staring out into the garden. Now that she'd seen Gorilla Grant up close, she experienced a sense of excitement and exhilaration knowing that this man, this ape-like killer, would be the one man able to get her close to the murderer of her father.

  * * *

  It had always been their way, to walk and conduct business; the tall British officer and his smaller, stocky subordinate. Sometimes, it had been around the streets of Berlin or London – today it was a splendid, typically English garden. But walk they did, rain, shine or snow.

  “They all have a stake in this. They've all lost someone close to them. Miko her father, Crane and Lang their mates from the Regiment, and Hodges needs a road back to keep him from prison. And you have the insurance of protecting your loved ones for the future,” said Masterman, digging the tip of his walking stick into the manicured lawn.

  “What about you, sir?” asked Grant.

  Masterman shrugged. “I'll have the knowledge that I've finished off the threat to this country by those madmen, and taken the head of the little bastard that crippled me.”

  Grant accepted this and nodded. “So they're my team. The five of us, working for Sentinel on a private Redaction, ready to storm on in there and put a bullet between the eyes of this… Raven, whoever he is.”

  Masterman smiled at the gallows humour. “It's not perfect, not by a long shot, and it's not how we would have done it in Redaction all those years ago is it? But they're resourceful and motivated, and that counts for a lot in this game.”

  Grant knew this to be true and had been on Redactions which offered far less chance of success than this one. He had survived all of them… just.

  “You have everything you need, everything is in place. Just get next to Trench and get under that bastard's skin. You're our Trojan horse. Show them what you can do, how valuable you can be to them, so that they'll want to wheel you out in front of the top man. Show off their pet Gorilla, eh! When that moment happens… we pounce! Just remember, Jack, your cover is your best weapon; you're a cut-throat mercenary, a borderline alcoholic and a whore-monger. Everything that appeals to their base instincts! Be a darkened version of yourself. They'll want you corrupt and dirty, a ruthless killer who cares for no one. Give them your version of Gorilla the mercenary.”

  “You mean just be myself, then?” said Grant, with a touch of humour.

  Masterman laughed out loud, in spite of himself. “Ha! Yes, I suppose so. You alright with that?”

  “I'll give it my best shot,” Grant replied with a hint of sarcasm. The two men shook hands for what may well be the final time. Something they'd done many, many times before. So far that 'last' time hadn't happened yet. “Just keep feeding me information as you get it, anything which can get me inside their head. I don't care where you get it from, Colonel, just as long as it keeps me alive,” said Grant. Then he turned and walked away, heading toward Penn who was waiting in the Jaguar, ready to whisk him off to a London hotel for the night. He would be on the first plane out to Amsterdam the following morning.

  Masterman watched as his old comrade and friend stalked away, the swagger and rolling gait returning to him after years of being in operational retirement. He hoped the Gorilla was back, and he for one, would be glad if he was. No one could shoot or kill like the small, pugnacious Redactor. He would do everything he could to keep the intelligence flowing for him, of course he would. However, he didn't mention his most clandestine of secrets to his tame gunman.

  The other member of the team, one who was known only to Penn and himself – his little dormouse, the outside member of the Sentinel Five team – who was Masterman's spy, hiding away and buried deep inside the Secret Intelligence Service.

  Chapter Six

  AMSTERDAM – OCTOBER 1967

  Gorilla Grant sat in an armchair, facing the dead body of Reierson and admiring his handy work. It had been a long night of waiting before he could finally get at his target. But get to him he had, and now the man was dead.

  Reierson had lived in
a top floor apartment on the Amstelstraat. From the information Masterman had passed to Gorilla, it seemed the Australian killer used the Amstel apartment as his resting-up base between contracts. It was the place where Reierson felt at ease, with its postcard-perfect view of the Blue Bridge below it. Not that Gorilla had seen the Blauwbrug lit up in its finery that evening, because he'd been standing, barely moving, hidden inside the built-in wall cupboard in Reierson's lounge for most of the night. The cupboard held the meter for the electricity supply and seemed to be an ad hoc junk space, complete with ironing board, old work boots and rusty tools. It was small and cramped, but adequate for concealing him right inside the target's living space. He'd been there, peering through the wooden slats which gave him a perfect view of the room's layout, for a little over three hours. He'd been hot and uncomfortable and eager to get on with the job. The .38 revolver had sat heavily in his gloved hand.

  Gaining access to the apartment had been a simple exercise for someone of Gorilla's skills. He'd watched as Reierson left his apartment building just after seven. The man looked like a wrestler, big and powerful. His neck was as thick as a spark-plug and it was appeared to be bursting out from underneath the collar and tie he wore. Reierson was going out for the night and wherever he was going, it looked as if it was for pleasure and not business.

  Reierson's front door was well-secured with an advanced modern lock, something Gorilla would never have been able to pick without spending a good twenty minutes 'attacking' it. It would take too long and leave him too exposed. But at the next apartment along, security was minimal and their door was fitted with a standard mortise. So after ringing the bell and confirming the residents were out, Gorilla set to work with his picks, gaining entry in seconds and he made his way to the apartment window, where he let himself out onto the balcony and hopped across the four-foot gap onto Reierson's balcony. In the dark, no one on the street noticed a figure jumping across and then springing the lock on the balcony French windows before climbing through. Gorilla had quickly reconnoitred the apartment, discovering it was expensively furnished and for a man of Reierson's lifestyle, tastefully decorated. Perhaps he'd hired an interior designer. Obviously being a contract man for the Raven clan paid well. Very well!

  Gorilla had the gist of Reierson before he'd even opened the file Masterman had provided. The man was a street level thug who had made it lucky. Ex-Australian Army, he'd been booted out for being an arse. Some low level underworld work, kneecappings, punishment beatings and the odd debt collection caper. Then he'd finally got enough brain cells together to figure out that he could make more money by using a shooter and offing people on contract. To his credit, he seemed to have had some success, mainly easy targets and fellow criminals to be fair, but he'd evidently done enough right to get him recruited by the Raven and his people.

  After searching the apartment, Gorilla had decided on the least terrible hiding spot; the wall cupboard. Not perfect, but better than standing behind the curtains with his feet sticking out like some kind of fool in a farce. He'd settled himself in, checked his angles to make sure he had a clear view of the room through the slats and then began the long, long wait for his target. Three hours in and he'd been about to abort the hit. Perhaps Reierson had shacked up at someone else's place for the night, or maybe he was drunk in a bar somewhere and wouldn't make it home. Bloody hell, he could have fallen into the canal and be dead on a slab. Hopefully… It would certainly save Gorilla a job.

  Just as he was about to cancel the operation, he heard the distant sound of voices from outside, followed by the scraping of a key in the lock and the door being pushed open. The light from the hallway lit up the dark apartment and two figures entered, one tall, slim and brunette and the other big and heavyset, holding hands. The door was slammed shut and then darkness covered the room once more. What followed was the inevitable fumbling and physicality of lovers. Even in the darkness Gorilla was aware of the couple hastily removing each other's clothes, and the noises of kissing and raw sex grew louder. The man, Reierson, lifted the woman up into his arms and carried her to the lounge before gently placing her in the centre of a deep white rug in front of the fireplace. Reierson flicked a switch and the faux electric fire sprung to life, bathing the room in an erotic red glow. He lay down next to the brunette and began to kiss her body, working his hands roughly across her breasts and thighs. Moments later there was a moan of pleasure as the Australian entered the woman's body. She wrapped her legs around him and the couple began to writhe together in rhythm.

  Gorilla stood in the darkness of the cupboard, half watching, half preparing himself to make a move should Reierson do… anything. But after five minutes of the Australian pumping away at the brunette, Gorilla was satisfied that his target's mind was elsewhere, buried between the woman's long legs at that particular moment in time. The couple's lovemaking grew more vigorous and the decibel level went up a notch; Reierson seemed to be about to reach his crescendo and the brunette was making all the right noises in all the right places to encourage her client. Then there was a final gasp from Reierson… and silence filled the apartment once more.

  What followed were the rudimentary workings of the professional woman as she quickly gathered her clothes and dressed, ready to move on to her next client. Reierson lifted his naked bulk off the rug, walked to the bedroom and returned moments later wearing a hideous silk dressing gown of orange and black, and carrying a wad of cash wrapped in an elastic band. He peeled off several notes and held them out in his meaty fist. The woman quickly took them and stuffed them into her purse. She reached forward and offered him a chaste peck on the cheek; in return, in good Aussie style, he gave her a resounding smack on her backside as she tottered in her heels towards the exit. A slam of the door and she was gone. Now it was just the two men in the apartment. The difference, sunshine, is that you don't know what's about to happen, Gorilla thought.

  Reierson smiled, the smile of a man who was satisfied with his life. He stretched, and Gorilla heard his back and knees click, before made his way to the drinks cabinet and poured himself a large Rémy Martin, no ice. He flicked on the record player, something rock and roll that Gorilla didn't recognize and turned the volume up. It was someone singing about being a wild thing. Reierson sat back in a high chair facing the fire and the rug he'd just made love on. His feet tapped along to the music as he sipped his drink. Gorilla was pleased. The man was relaxed, off guard, and the volume of the music would help to hide what was going to happen next. He did one final mental check: catch to the inside of the cupboard loose, gloves on, gun primed. Check. He gently pushed open the door, took three long steps forward to reach the chair, brought the gun up to the side of Reierson's head and pulled the trigger, just as the drum beat of the song intensified. The boom of the revolver was lost in the maelstrom of music. It had been that simple, that easy and that brutal – and no more than three seconds had elapsed since he'd left the confines of the wall cupboard. Taking a life sometimes took no time at all and Reierson hadn't even been aware of what happened. One moment here, the next gone. Permanently.

  Gorilla sat in an adjacent armchair and waited. He waited for the banging on the door, the wail of police sirens, and the screams of panicked neighbours. When none of that eventuated he knew he was in the clear. He turned to take one last glance at the dead man. The Australian was slumped sideways in the armchair, his head tilted to the left. There was a gaping hole in his right temple, from which blood still slowly pumped. Gorilla would give it another few minutes, then he'd turn down the volume level on the record player and make his escape.

  According to the latest intelligence from Masterman and Penn, their mutual enemy Trench had been spotted in the hot spots of Hong Kong recently, by a friendly source inside Hong Kong Police's Intelligence and Security section. He'd last been seen in the company of the now-deceased Reierson, a known mercenary who was rumoured to have taken part in several contract killings. That alone was enough to flag him to the authorities. It seem
ed that Masterman's unofficial intelligence network reached far and wide, and they now had a clue suggesting Trench had returned to his old stomping ground of Hong Kong. Regardless, thought Gorilla, his work here in Amsterdam was done and the next day he would be in the clear and winging his way to Asia.

  He did one final check of the apartment, confirming for his own peace of mind that he hadn't left any clues or evidence behind. Then he placed the deniable pistol on the floor, underneath Reierson's hand. To the entire world, it would look as if the man had committed suicide and then dropped the pistol onto the floor as his life slipped away. Job done and case closed. Gorilla unlocked the front door and gave the dark shadowed body slumped in the chair a final look. It was the Gorilla's first kill in a long time and it had been oh-so-very simple.

  I'm back, thought Gorilla. I'm back with a vengeance.

  Chapter Seven

  KOWLOON, HONG KONG – OCTOBER 1967

  The Caucasian moved confidently through the sultry heat of the busy market place. It was one of the rougher parts of the city and at that time of night, manual workers, traders and street criminals of all persuasions were making their way home or on to their next illegal enterprise. None of them mattered to the Caucasian, he wasn't threatened by them, wasn't scared that he was the only western man in the warren-like maze of the street market. He had a look about him which said 'This is one fight you're going to lose, if you try to fuck with me.'

  For the past year his name had been Janner. No first name given, just Janner. Occupation: war zone photojournalist. In truth, his name wasn't Janner and he had no experience in the world of photography or journalism, but it provided a plausible enough cover to allow him to get in and out of countries in the region so that he could indulge in his real occupation – contract murder.