by James Quinn
Masterman smiled, the scars on his face wrinkling maniacally like a cruel pirate. “This is private enterprise, Jack old boy. This is deniable all the way. SIS doesn't even know we exist. They think we're all retired, disabled, injured or drunk. This is about a debt of honour. This is about pure and bloody revenge.”
* * *
“Be a good chap Jordie and put the movie on,” said Masterman. Penn flicked the switch on a hidden movie projector, bringing it to life. A white light lit up the opposite wall and the inevitable number countdown began. The film started. It was dark and grainy, but clear in its detail. The footage had obviously been taken from behind a two-way mirror. What it showed was a small cell, no bigger than a standard prison cell. Except this cell had a small aperture built into one wall, which allowed something the size of a small suitcase to be pushed through in one direction. In the other corner of the cell was a young boy, no more than ten or twelve years of age. He looked like an Asian street kid, who had been imprisoned for some petty crime. His clothes were tattered and hung off his thin frame. He was huddled on the floor, his knees drawn up to his chest.
Grant looked more closely at the footage and noticed that in the bottom corner of the room, there were ventilation grills. Some kind of smoke or mist was being filtered through them and into the cell. Not in great plumes, but enough to make the small space cloudy for a few moments at a time. The boy barely seemed to notice, his head was down as if he was trying to block out his fate. While Grant watched, he began to twitch, almost imperceptibly at first, a flinch of a shoulder, a snap of his head, the shudder of a foot then an arm.
Grant turned to Masterman, a look of confusion on his face. Masterman, as if he guessed what the other man was thinking, merely pointed a finger at the footage and said, “Keep watching.”
Grant turned back to the film and saw that the boy was now bent forward on his hands and knees. His whole body was shaking and convulsing, and it seemed to be… stretching, almost as if his bone structure was extending swiftly, visibly increasing the young boy's size. Without warning, the boy launched himself head first at the two-way mirror, and a large crack appeared where his skull impacted on the safety glass. Blood poured down his face from a gash on his forehead, but still the boy drove himself forward, banging against the glass with his fists, knees and feet. The glass was actually vibrating, from the level of punishment it was taking. Still trying to process what he was seeing, Grant was stunned when the small door in the corner of the room was lifted and, rather bizarrely, a goat was pushed into the cell before the door quickly snapped shut behind it. The boy didn't seem to notice the animal at first; still too busy using the mirror as target practice. It was only when the terrified animal bleated that the crazed boy stopped and turned. In a sharp movement he twisted his body around, leaping across the cell and onto the animal.
God he was fast, thought Grant. He'd spied the goat and moved across the room in a blur of movement.
Grant forced himself to watch the events unfolding. It wasn't pleasant and it wasn't easy, but force himself he did. The boy ripped at the small goat with his bare hands, manipulating it and pulling it down onto the floor before he set his mouth against the animal's throat. The boy's teeth found their target and when he bit deeply into the goat's neck, the blood flew. What followed was a cacophony of flying fur, snapping bones and an explosion of blood as the animal was ripped to pieces within seconds. There was a short cut away and the next scene revealed a guard wearing a gas mask entering the cell. He strode up to the boy, who was still pummelling the remains of the goat with his bloodied hands, and quickly shot the boy in the head with a pistol.
The scene abruptly cut away and the cell was replaced by a darkened room, possibly an office. A figure sat in shadow behind a desk, only the merest glint of light revealing him in silhouette. A single, well-manicured hand could be seen, the fingers drumming calmly on the desk. The rest of the body remained completely still, and when the figure spoke, his voice was deep and chilling. “I am the Raven, the gatherer of death, the demon of nightmares. I am here and I am nowhere. I will strike at the hearts of your children and take great revelry in the slaughter of your warriors. My legacy will be your torment for generations to come and you will learn to kneel before me, or face the wrath of my Kyonshi! The Karasu-Tengu will have his feast.” The screen went blank as the spool of film wound off and the room was once more shrouded in blackness, the silence thick when Jordie switched of the projector.
“What the hell was that? Is that the bio-weapon at work?” Grant asked, his face stamped with a mixture of anger and disgust.
“We call it Beserker,” said Masterman. “That's the codename we've given it. They call it Kyonshi, which is Japanese for living dead. We believe it's some kind of next-generation drug. It's far beyond anything we currently have. C's notes suggest that the weapon's initial purpose may have been targeted towards revolutionary-coup operations in third world countries; Vietnam, Bolivia and Cuba to name but a few. The toxin would be released in a confined space – say an office, or a high street – where it would interact with the local populace. The infected would begin to physically attack and kill their fellow citizens. As you can imagine, based on what you've seen in the film, it would cause widespread chaos and anarchy. Effectively, the country's own population would be fighting against itself.”
“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 my
thical 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 ca
se 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.
