by James Quinn
“The next stage is, they pick the right contractor for the job, or to be more accurate, for their European contractors I pick the right man for the job, “continued Trench. “You're on retainer to us and when I call, you better be by the bloody phone. So the job comes in and your bloody ticket comes up, we give you as much information as you need to get the job done; target bio, surveillance photos, and itinerary. We usually supply the contractor with whatever he needs for the job – travel papers, weapons, expenses, forged documents – you know the drill. If he needs something a bit extra special, well, we can organise that too, to be honest, and then it's all delivered to him in-country. Doesn't matter if its Singapore or Peru, we've got people everywhere who can get equipment in for us covertly.”
Grant raised an eyebrow at that. The Karasu must have paid informants and people on the payroll in several large airlines and shipping companies, not to mention people taking bribes in numerous customs ports.
“The contractor gets himself to the location at the allotted time, and plans the fine details out for himself. Gets near to the target and takes care of business. How does that sound?” concluded Trench.
“It sounds like business as usual to me, not a lot different than how we used to fuck people up when we were working for SIS,” Grant grumbled.
Trench nodded and laughed. “Except the bloody money's better.”
Gorilla followed suit and returned the laugh, playing along. “It sounds like you fell on your feet with this gig, Frank. How many contractors are on the payroll? Any that I'll be working with?”
Trench paused for a moment and Grant thought for one horrifying second that he'd pushed too hard and too soon for information. But then the moment passed and Trench winked at him conspiratorially.
“You'll be working with some of them soon, so it's only right that you know who else is on the team. There was a guy named Reierson, but he bought it recently. Suicide by all accounts, but there you go, it happens. He was good with a shooter, not in your league though. You're his replacement. A couple of mercenaries that worked the Congo, Billy Richardson and Taffy Davies, take care of jobs for us in Africa, they're based out of Antwerp. Ex-Welsh Guards, good soldiers. We've a couple of ex-IRA men who had been a little careless back in paddy land, Declan Sheehan and Seamus Corcoran. They toe the line, good for getting jobs done in America. New York, Chicago, that type of thing.”
“Any intelligence guys?” asked Grant.
Trench nodded. “Yeah, a couple of hitters from Saigon, experts at torture, they were a part of the old security apparatus. Oh, and an old former copper on the intelligence staff from Malaya, still does the odd job for us. Name of Jasper Milburn. You know any of them?”
Gorilla shook his head. He didn't know any of them by reputation, but he was bloody well mentally logging their names, so that he could pass the information back to Penn and Masterman. “What about the Japanese contingent? Surely Hokku and his superiors must have indigenous personnel?”
But it was here that Trench clammed up. Grant sensed they'd entered forbidden territory, an area that Trench was hesitant to enter. “Well now, Jack, I'm sure they do, but it's not within my employment contract to start asking damned impertinent questions from a well-funded and organised bunch of killers. There's a demarcation line; I deal with the European contractors and the top man, the Raven, deals exclusively with his Japanese throat slitters.”
“Sorry, Frank,” Grant said apologetically. “I didn't mean to pry. Just like to know who everyone is and where my line ends?”
Trench shrugged as if it was a question he'd thought long and hard about himself. “They hire out killers to the wealthy and powerful, Jack old boy, doesn't matter if they're English, Japanese or from the planet Mars, it's what they do! They pay us and pay us well to do dangerous and illegal jobs, and if we're clever we do said jobs, take their fucking money and pray to God that we don't get caught. Frankly, I'd prefer a lifetime in jail over having to deal with some of the Raven's Japanese killers… those boyos don't follow the rules and don't know when to stop.”
Chapter Eleven
THE PAGODA, JAPAN – OCTOBER 1967
The Raven sat as still as a stone in the darkness of his pagoda. The pagoda was his sanctuary, the place where he was strongest and most secure. It was the place where he could train and test himself in the killing arts. It was the domain of the Karasu-Tengu and his followers.
He felt the heat engulf him, the humidity encasing him. He still didn't move. His eyes were closed and his breathing was calm. But inside, his hard muscles and tendons were fixed, ready to spring at a moment's notice. He shifted subtly in his crossed leg position, barely more than a whisper against the wooden floor, as his arms reached up to fix the black hood of his Shinobi Shozoko, the traditional clothing of his assassins, into place. The hardness of his face was lost in the blackness of the mask, only one soulless eye peered out. The other he had lost many years ago in combat, and all that remained of it now was a milky white orb.
Lying resplendent on the floor in front of him was his Ninjato, his favoured sword which had been forged by one of the most revered sword makers in Japan. It was a shorter version of the Samurai's Katana, no more than nineteen inches in length along the blade and perfect for close-quarter assassination work. The handle was bound tightly with cord and the scabbard, normally shiny and lacquered, was dulled with oil in case it should reflect light and give away his position of stealth. The first time he'd used it was when he was a boy, after he'd completed several years of training in the art of the sword by his late uncle, a legendary clan Shinobi. The last time he'd used it was three months ago, when he taken the Englishman's head in the forest in England.
He grasped the handle confidently and silently pulled the sword from the scabbard. The blade was coated black, again to avoid reflecting any light. He silently rose to his feet and at the same time moved the Ninjato into a stealth position behind his back, tip down but ready to slash and thrust at a moment's notice. He stood motionless, waiting for the targets to come for him. They were not skilled warriors, but instead hired thugs from a nearby village who had been paid to test him. He knew they would never leave his pagoda alive. Not many did. They were merely targets to be cut down. He could hear them breathing, rasping in some cases, with fear. They would come for him soon and he would be ready. They would come, swords and knives at the ready and try to kill him, the Karasu, the Raven…
* * *
Yoshida Nakata had been born fifty-five years earlier in the province of Iga, Japan and his family lineage had been that of the Iga Clan. He'd been taught from a young age the skills and traditions of Shinobi, the honourable mercenary art of stealth and assassination. His father, and his father before him, going back six generations, had been employed as professional spies and assassins and had even survived the 'purge' by the Samurai warlord Oda Nobunanga, before fleeing to the mountains and rising again into a once more secret society. Secrets and stealth had been a fundamental part of the life and career of Nakata. He'd taken his first contract at the age of twenty, when he'd been given the task of assassinating the heir to a Yakuza family by the clan leader, his uncle. The young man himself had done nothing wrong, he was only sixteen, but the killing had been commissioned by a business rival as a warning, a threat, to the boy's father. Nakata had risen steadily within his clan after that first task, soon becoming a senior lieutenant and one of their most versatile assassins.
But Yoshida Nakata held a secret close to his heart, something which would see him killed by both his friends and enemies alike. He was a spy. He'd allowed himself to be recruited as an agent of the British Secret Intelligence Service in the 1930's. His recruiter and case officer had been working as a shipping manager for one of the British firms in Tokyo. The recruiter was a young man known to Nakata only by his cover name of 'White'. How they'd met was unusual, even by espionage standards.
Nakata had been captured during an aborted assassination contract, and was imprisoned by the targe
t's hired thugs. He'd misjudged the level of security greatly and he'd quickly been detained and tortured. His weapon – a blowgun with poisoned darts – had swiftly been removed and Nakata had been hung upside down, blindfolded and beaten. He was aware of his torturers standing around him. He could smell them; their eagerness, their bloodlust. He knew that once they'd had their fun, the target would give the order for him to be executed. The leader of the group had stepped forward, ready to slaughter the failed assassin. Nakata had steeled himself, ready to accept his fate… then from somewhere behind him, in the distance, he heard a voice asking “Gentlemen, what is going on?” That question was followed by five popping sounds, low calibre gunshots he'd guessed, and then the noise of heavy bodies slumping onto the stone floor. Nakata remained motionless, hanging upside down and completely vulnerable. He was sure the unknown killer was going to finish him off, too. He heard slow footsteps clacking across the floor, drawing ever closer until finally, they stopped before him. He sensed the killer kneeling beside him, and he heard the man's breathing, mere inches from his face. He was surprised when the killer spoke, his accent English. “Are you injured? Can you walk?”
Yoshida Nakata had responded simply. “I can walk.” In truth, he had no idea if his response was accurate; the punishing beating he'd taken could have done no end of damage, but he was desperate.
“Hang on, old boy, while I lower you down,” said the Englishman, before cranking the lever holding the rope. His body had gently dropped to the floor and the rest was a disjointed blur. The Englishman wrapped one arm around him and held a semi-automatic pistol out in front of him with the other, ready to gun down any more threats. After that, Nakata must have passed out, because the next thing he remembered was being propped up in the back seat of a car and being driven at high speed out of the city and into the provinces. “Where are you taking me?” he'd asked, pain wracking his entire body. He'd turned and examined the Englishman's features through one badly swollen eye. He was young, handsome, confident, and smartly dressed.
“A little safe house we have set aside, we'll patch you up, eventually get word to your people where they can find you,” his English rescuer said. “Don't worry about that now; we'll have plenty of time to talk over the next few days.” The Englishman turned his attention to the man driving the car. “Hurry up, Ferguson! Put your foot down, this poor chap is bleeding all over the back seat!”
Several days later, with his wounds cleaned and bandaged by an ancient Japanese nurse, Yoshida Nakata woke up in a private room to find the young Englishman sitting at his bedside. In daylight, he looked even more youthful and handsome, but the eyes, the cold blue eyes held the stare of someone used to making harsh decisions. It was a stare that was instantly recognizable to Yoshida Nakata.
“You look better, fighting fit in fact. That training of yours has obviously paid off. Although the doctor who looked you over thinks you've lost the sight in one eye. They did rather go to town on you with the beating, I'm afraid” the man said smoothly.
Nakata stared at him, remaining non-committal and trying to read the man sitting beside him. The Englishman nodded, as if understanding his guest's reluctance to speak. “I'd like to offer you some work, separate to your clan activities; a private contract between you and me. How does that sound?”
“Work? I'm a small business trader from…” Nakata blustered.
“You are Yoshida Nakata, assassin of repute and a senior member of one of the last Shinobi clans remaining in Japan. You are a hired killer, an assassin who works on contract. The man you attempted to assassinate several nights ago was an underworld criminal known for his ruthless grip on the vice trade. Shame you mucked it up.”
Nakata frowned, accepting that this Englishman, whoever he was, obviously knew enough about Nakata's background that there was no point in further denial. “I was too eager to complete the contract. I was foolish enough to think that my planning was exceptional. I was wrong.”
“We all make mistakes, old boy, even the best of us,” said the Englishman.
“But that does not mean I work for just anyone. The clan has strict rules and obligations.” Nakata knew the consequences of breaching the clan's code. Execution.
The Englishman nodded. “Ahh… yes… I see. But there is the little matter of a life debt, I mean, I did rescue you from being butchered… those thugs were about an inch away from slitting your throat when I walked in and took them out. You see, I didn't just wander in there by accident, Yoshida, oh, dear me, no. I've had my eye on you for quite some time and I like what I see. I think we could work together quite well. My name is White. Alex White. I work for the rather nefarious bunch of creeps that make up the British Secret Service. I'm one of their lower ranking spy's, to put it bluntly. But I recognise a good potential agent when I see one, and I see that in you, Nakata-San.”
* * *
What followed was a fruitful and busy few years for the British Intelligence officer and his Japanese agent. After some initial suspicion, the pair soon settled into the everyday relationship of a Case Officer and his agent. Nothing was beyond White's imagination when it came to intelligence operations, and nothing was beyond Nakata's skill when it came to operating against the enemy; espionage, burglary, infiltration and even the odd lethal removal of enemy agents. They were a perfect pairing.
Regardless of his unusual recruitment, Nakata had been a willing participant in the whole process. He'd used the skills of his forefathers on many occasions, to assist the British Service in their quest for information about the war machine of Japan, or to eliminate enemy agents of various persuasions who had come into conflict with SIS. As a mercenary for hire, he could reconcile it completely and the thought of being judged a traitor had never entered his mind. His clan owed no direct allegiance to the Emperor or his minions, and considered them disposable within the context of the lineage of Japan. They were paid mercenaries, hired out to the highest bidder and the fact that the paymaster was effectively a foreign power made no difference whatsoever. Yoshida Nakata was a ruthless intelligence agent and assassin and didn't care either way.
In 1940, with the gears of war grinding onwards, Nakata had been a perfect recruit for intelligence and security work. Encouraged by his SIS case officer, he'd served in the Kempeitai, his country's intelligence and security police. After his initial year-long training in espionage, firearms, lock-picking and code breaking at the Kempeitai's special training school in Tokyo, Nakata had quickly risen to the rank of Captain. His first operational responsibility had been co-ordinating and recruiting Japanese chemists and scientists to be a part of the Kempeitai's Unit 731, a covert chemical and biological research facility in Japanese-controlled North East China. He'd seen first hand the atrocities which had been committed; had taken part in some himself. The torture, the rape, the vivisection, the chemical and weapons testing on human subjects; all meant to advance the Japanese military's weapons capabilities.
One of the personnel under Captain Nakata's command was a young, studious-looking chemist called Okawa Reizo. His job was to test virulent bacteria strains on the unwitting Chinese prisoners and see if the strains could be replicated and made more flexible in how they attacked their subjects. One day, Reizo requested to see his senior commander, Captain Nakata. The young chemist entered Nakata's office, bowed formally and presented the Captain with a sealed folder. Nakata glared at this strange young man. He was thin and pasty-looking and he certainly didn't inspire confidence in one such as Yoshida Nakata. “What is this?” he asked.
“Captain, it is a file I've been preparing for you alone. It is all my own work, research that I've been completing in my own time while in the laboratory,” Reizo said nervously.
Nakata eyed him coldly. “I ask again. What is this?”
The young chemist swallowed hard. “Captain… forgive me… part of my daytime duties are to test the resilience of certain bacteria and viruses. To see how they react against one another.”
Nakata nodded in
understanding. In truth, he had no idea what this idiot was talking about, these scientists spoke in a language all of their own. But he knew that to appear ignorant of what the men under his command were talking about could be viewed as a sign of weakness. And Yoshida Nakata was not weak and would never be seen that way.
Reizo continued. “I was trialling a number of different serums, some biological and some chemical, over many weeks. Most of them were failures, Captain, in fact all of them were. All except for one. One of the test subjects has shown promise.”
“A human test subject?”
Reizo nodded. “A Chinese woman. She did not die, well, not immediately. In fact, for over twenty-four hours, she seemed to thrive on the virus serum I'd injected into her. The results were limited, but showed real potential.”
Nakata sat forward and stared hard at the chemist. “Explain to me what you mean. What was so special about this particular serum?”
Reizo brightened and straightened his back, his confidence returning. “My Captain, it was a mixture, a cocktail if you like. I had isolated a strain of rabies and combined it with a number of other chemical compounds; drugs, in simple terms.”
“What types of drugs?”
Reizo rattled off a number of names which Nakata had no knowledge of or any idea of what they did. Again, he simply nodded, feigning understanding. “And what was the result?”
The young chemist grinned. “It made the subject both violent, and unaware of her surroundings. The subject was a frail elderly Chinese woman… she weighed almost nothing. I injected her and within thirty minutes, she seemed to enter an almost a trance-like state; this was followed by a brief outburst of violence against the guards who had been goading her. She wrestled one guard to the ground and started beating him. She knocked him unconscious with her bare hands!”
