by James Quinn
When it was opened and the numbers were decoded, it sent a shockwave of excitement through the team. They were ready, primed and keen to get into the action on an operation which had, thus far, been slow going. But all that changed when the coded message turned up at their ad hoc base in Hong Kong, an apartment they'd rented for several weeks, through a front company that Penn had access to. They had names; they had targets, now they could launch into action.
“We've hit a goldmine! And Gorilla went in behind enemy lines to get it!” cheered Penn, ever the loyal agent runner. “We've got the names of several black operators, already on various criminal wanted lists!”
“And once we have names, we can soon find out locations,” added Masterman, thinking of his unofficial source inside SIS. His little dormouse who had access to the secret liaison files of SIS, the Security Service and by default, numerous friendly intelligence and enforcement agencies across the world. His little dormouse would be able to track down the locations of these people and then it would be game over for them.
“We take out the Irishmen, the mercenaries and that old bruiser from Malaya,” Masterman had decreed.
“But what about the rest of them, boss?” asked Penn. “Don't we get to take a pot shot at them, too?”
But Masterman had firmly put his foot down on this option. “We target our own traitors and rogue operators only; the others can be left alone… for now.”
After deliberating on the pros and cons of this for several minutes, Penn had quickly seen the wisdom of Masterman's train of thought. Taking out a few home grown mercenaries would certainly reduce the amount of opposition they would have to deal with later on, when things reached an inevitable climax. And to completely eliminate a whole team of the Raven's people would put Grant at even more risk as the possible leak inside the organisation. They knew Trench wasn't stupid and they'd guessed correctly that his suspicious mind would initially go to his new boy, Gorilla, as the source of the leak. But with only some of the contractors dead, the Sentinel team hoped Trench would have some reservations, some doubts about his conclusions. Maybe the contractors were just in the wrong places at the wrong time; maybe they'd been killed by rivals of the Raven as a warning. Maybe it was to do with each killer's own private 'contracts'? Whatever the doubt was, Masterman hoped it would buy Gorilla a bit more time to discover the Raven's location and track him to his lair. The next step was to give the names to his little dormouse, see what she could discover and then… wait.
Finally, with the fresh information incorporated into their operational planning, Masterman gave the order to Penn to issue the alerts. “Get the rest of the team back here, Jordie, bring my boys and girls home. Send them the code word. Let's get them into the game and earning their money. It's time to get them armed!”
* * *
MANCHESTER, ENGLAND
It was nearly time to down tools. Tommy Crane stood up and stretched, hearing his back click ominously. He'd been at it for the past eight hours, back-breaking work in the cold and wet. General labourer, moving rubbish, lifting bricks, digging foundations. It was the best he could get at short notice; cash in hand, off the foreman's books and no questions asked. He'd told them he was ex-army and needed a bit of work. They hadn't bothered asking what regiment, and he doubted they'd have known what he was talking about anyway, even if he'd mention Special Forces – nobody in civvie life knew the Hereford boys existed.
He took off the work gloves he'd been using for the past hour of digging and tucked them into his overalls. The rest of the lads on this shift at the housing development site were mostly tradesmen; bricklayers, carpenters, plasterers, sparks, plumbers. Crane and the few of his fellow labourers where on the bottom of the pile – the shit shovellers, the lackey's capable of lifting wood and bags of cement.
He trudged through the muddy track that would be someone's front lawn in six months' time. He was halfway to the site toilet, ready to wait in the queue in the pissin rain when he heard his name being called from the foreman's Portakabin across the width of the building site.
“Crane! Phone call for yeh!” The huge foreman's harsh Ulster bark cut through the air, catching everyone's attention in the vicinity.
Crane changed direction and headed towards the Portakabin. When he entered the office, his boss grumbled. “I've better things to do than to be your messenger, Crane. Personal calls aren't allowed on site, so make it quick and get back to work.” The Irishman stomped out of the office and into the rain.
Crane picked up the phone and spoke. “This is Tommy Crane.”
He recognised the voice at once; it was Jordie Penn. “This is Sentinel Funeral Directors of Lympstone,” Penn said down the line. “I'm so sorry to bother you at work, Mr. Crane. Sadly, your great Aunt has passed away and we wondered if you could arrange to travel to Lympstone and take care of the burial arrangements, at your earliest convenience.”
The call was disconnected abruptly and Crane settled the receiver back into the cradle. He was glad to get the call – no more working on a building site for a while. He'd received the SENTINEL activation code. He was back in play.
* * *
CROYDON, LONDON
“And don't come back, you bloody drunkard!”
Andy Lang landed in the gutter, the stench of stale beer, fags and fresh blood from his cut lip in his nostrils. The landlord, a big bruiser brought in by the Brewery to sort out 'trouble' in one of the pubs in the South London area, had personally done the dirty work and ejected him. He'd been thrown out of the 'Crown and Roses' for making a nuisance of himself twice over the past month. Tonight, he'd knocked a tray load of beer flying, started a fight, and his crowning glory had been grabbing the arse of the landlady and giving it a none-too-gentle squeeze. The inevitable shouting and punches had followed… before he'd left the boozer horizontally and landed in the street.
He rolled over in the gutter; his head swimming from the amount of alcohol he'd consumed, as well as the punch he'd just received. His once-new suit, which he'd bought for himself when he signed out of the army, was covered in blood, piss and rain. He was a mess. Not the first time, probably not the last. He staggered to his feet and the cold night air hit him like a sharp slap. He breathed in and exhaled, letting the night's events wash over him. From inside the pub, he could hear the sound of laughter and drinking.
His lodgings where along the Croydon High Street, a flat above a launderette. It was nothing startling, just two rooms and a toilet. Barely worth the money he paid for it out of his severance pay from the army, but it would do him fine… for now. For the past month he'd lived a life of boredom and inactivity, which for someone with his background and experiences was a hard road to travel. He'd hunted terrorist in jungles and on mountains, he was one of the elite of the British army, and now here he was… a drunk, a layabout and a troublemaker. It was killing him.
But it was the best cover story he'd ever had.
Why had he thrown away, or at least made it look as if he had thrown away, a promising career in his country's elite forces? Why was he taking part in what was to all intents and purposes, an illegal operation without the direct knowledge of his own government?
It was simple. He'd lost several of his brothers-in-arms to this Raven and his terror organisation. Taffy Jones and Dave Shackley had been part of the bodyguard team protecting Colonel Masterman, in the aborted agent handover on the docks in Australia. Both Taff and Dave had saved his neck more than once on operations with the Regiment. He was doing this for probably the same reason that his pal Tommy Crane was; he felt he owed them.
He trudged home, feeling low and dejected. When he finally made it to the front door, he was violently ill, puked his guts up all over the pavement. Taking in a deep breath, he let the cold air fill his lungs. God, that felt better. He fumbled the key from his pocket and went through the rigmarole of trying to aim the key at the lock. On the sixth attempt, he got it and let himself into the damp hallway.
A leaflet for a local
nightclub had been pushed under the front door. Nothing remarkable, a place he wouldn't be seen dead in – full of ponces with long hair and weird clothes. But it was only when he turned the leaflet over and saw the words 'Sentinel Promotions' written in the top right hand corner that he knew tonight would be his last drinking session for a while.
* * *
GOLDERS GREEN, LONDON
Mori Goldman stared down at the heavy stones in his hand and knew he could get twice as much as what he was going to pay for them. On this deal, he would make a huge profit.
Not that Hodges would know how much – oh sure, he would know they were worth something – just not exactly how much in the internal workings of the London diamond trade. Hodges was, after all, just a thief.
Mori Goldman had used Bill Hodges several times over the years, as a courier to smuggle diamonds of dubious reputation to his contacts in Europe. He knew the ex-soldier – something top secret in the jungle wars, apparently – was tough and resourceful. He also knew Hodges was a thief in his black heart, through and through. But they'd formed a mutual trading agreement based not on trust, per se, but more realistically, on mutual greed. It was a case of better the devil you know.
Mori stared down at the diamond necklace Hodges had liberated from somewhere. “I'll give you three hundred, best I can do at the moment,” he said
He saw Hodges' face darken; anger spreading across it.
“Piss off, Mori. Don't even try to play me for a fool. That's at least five hundred quid's worth of swag lying there in your sweaty little mitts,” countered Hodges. The swag had been liberated from a safe at an exclusive address in Mayfair, some Arab who was a flunky to one of the royal families out there. It had been a piece of cake – watch until the owners went away, back door entrance and then a bit of 'jelly' to take care of the safe. Bingo! And when Bill Hodges had a nice little tickle from his thievery, he always brought the booty to Mori Goldman's little jewellery shop in Golders Green. Mori was, after all, one of the best 'fences' in the business. He could move stuff quickly, had the right contacts, and knew enough to be discreet.
“Alright, seeing as it's you Bill, four hundred. Any more than that and I'm cutting my own throat,” said Goldman, running a finger across his throat.
Hodges let the moment hang, let Mori Goldman swing in the wind for a few seconds more and then nodded in agreement. Moments later, the deal was done with a handshake.
“Oh, by the way… I almost forgot. A message turned up for you last week.”
Hodges looked up from counting his cash payment. Mori Goldman was one of several 'faces' who was happy, for a small fee, to take in unofficial messages for Bill Hodges, professional criminal. The fat diamond merchant rummaged in his desk drawer and pulled out a postcard with scenes of Margate on the front, handing it across. Hodges took in the scene on the front of a bawdy strongman at a local fair before turning it over. Aside from the address of Mori Goldman's little shop, it bore only a few more words. It was signed 'Mr. Sentinel'.
The game is on, thought Hodges. Tonight, he would rip open the emergency pack hidden inside the mattress in his bedsit and recover the false passport and cash. Soon he would be back to his old life, and back to the action.
* * *
PARIS, FRANCE.
“And over to the left, we have the Arc de Triomphe, which is one of the most famous landmarks in Paris. It honours those who fought and died for France in the French Revolution and the Napoleonic wars…”
Miko had her tour group following her like a bunch of lost puppies. They clung to her every word and over the course of the past half a day, she had educated, informed, and amused them with her well-rehearsed patter. She was their leader for the day. They had travelled along the Seine in the coach, up past the Eiffel Tower, enjoyed a long visit to the Louvre, and spent considerable time gazing at the Sacré-Cœur. It was the same old routine, same old dialogue, same old route for Miko Arato, tour guide to wealthy Japanese tourists.
Later that day, when the coach had dropped off her party at their hotel, Miko took a cab to her own hotel, a little place on the Rue Lecluse where she always stayed when she was on the Paris tour guide job. She collected her room key from Reception and was just about to head towards the lift when she heard the receptionist call out. “Excusez-moi , mademoiselle , vous avez un message.”
Miko turned and smiled sweetly as the middle aged lady dashed around the counter and handed her an envelope. Miko's hand trembled as she took it. She knew what it was instantly, could somehow sense the gravity of the information this envelope concealed. She thanked the receptionist and hurriedly made her way up to her room on the third floor. Letting herself in, she checked around the room closed the curtains and flicked on the bedside lamp. She took a long breath and gently slit open the envelope with one manicured fingernail. Inside she found a single piece of paper with a single word written in the centre. It said simply, 'Senchineru', which in English, translated into Sentinel.
* * *
They flew in separately to Hong Kong, all using false documentation and all arriving from countries outside of their homelands. Though Miko was not taking part in the 'Redactions' on the mercenaries – she had, after all, only vowed to go after the killers of her father and had no interest in the elimination of British traitors – it was felt by all concerned that for team cohesion she should be in on all parts of the operational planning.
“We're going to take these buggers down,” said Penn at the safe house. “One at a time, like chopping down trees in a forest.”
“Think of it as a warm up for the big target,” warned Masterman, leaning heavily on his cane.
“So, who fancies what?” asked Penn.
The team had all swapped glances, seeing who would jump first.
“I'll take the Micks,” said Hodges. “I've a couple of ideas on how to deal with them.”
Penn nodded in acceptance.
“Me and Tommy will take the mercenaries,” said Lang. “Only seems right, Brits taking on other Brits don't it?”
Masterman nodded with pride at the two members of his old Regiment. “I agree lads, something I whole heartedly approve of. We take care of our own – good and bad! Which is why I'll be taking a little trip to Singapore, to take care of that slimy bastard Milburn. Something I'm greatly looking forward to, I might add.”
* * *
MADRID – NOVEMBER 1967
The two Irishmen, Declan Sheehan and Seamus Corcoran left their apartment building on the Calle de Caracas and walked to their car, a new Fiat. They were up for a night out, a few beers, talk through their options and decide whether to stay in Madrid or move location. They'd spent the day hunting around for work and so far, they'd drawn a blank. There was a possibility of some 'heavy hitter' work for a Madrid-based illegal arms dealer… taking out business rivals, warning off the opposition, but nothing concrete at the minute. The arms dealer had remained non-committal, but promised to give the former Irish terrorists a call if anything pressing came up.
They knew they would always have the contract work from the Japanese organisation they were employed by, but for men like these, there always seemed to be a 'grass is always greener on the other side' mentality. They'd actually been toying with the prospect of breaking free from the Raven group for the past few months. The work paid well, but was strictly limited… maybe twice a year, if they were lucky and requiring the odd trip to America. They both agreed they needed something of their own, work they could pick and choose from. Not that they were ungrateful, after hot footing it out of Ireland with Special Branch on their tails, and being wanted men for terrorist offences against the Crown, Sheehan and Corcoran had been bloody lucky to be contracted to the Japanese killers.
“Seamus, do us a favour,” said the tall, red-headed Sheehan, tossing the other man the car keys. “You drive; my head is banging after listening to that fecking Spaniard all afternoon. I need a drink.”
The black-haired and black-hearted 'Derry gunman, Corcoran, ca
ught the keys one-handed, opened the door to the little Fiat and settled himself into the driver's seat. He reached across and flicked up the passenger door lock, letting Sheehan settle into his seat before he spoke. “Where are we bloody well going for a drink then?” asked Corcoran.
“Not Franco's! That piss he serves, I wouldn't feed it to the Proddy's! No, we'll go to that place over on—”
Sheehan never got to finish his sentence, because in that same split-second, Corcoran shoved the key into the ignition and turned it with a forceful motion, something he'd done numerous times before. The turning of the key set off a chain reaction, sparking an electrical current down through the vehicle and into the detonator buried deep inside blocks of plastic explosive which had been secured to the underside of the vehicle in the wheel arches.
The blast lifted the vehicle fifteen feet into the air, nose first, and then ripped apart the undercarriage, along with the two human beings inside. By the time the remains of the vehicle landed, it had exploded into a fireball. Of the two Irishmen inside, there was very little left to positively identify the bodies.
* * *
ANTWERP – NOVEMBER 1967
The party had been good, bloody good. Beer, hookers and pills. It had been a wild night alright. Richardson and Davies, ex-Welsh Guards, former good soldiers were spent, both physically and financially. But that was okay… there was always new work and new money coming in for them.
They'd started partying early the previous day, celebrating the completion of a contract in Sierra Leone for the Raven organisation. The Japanese group were their most prestigious employers, always ready with the big contracts and the most dangerous jobs. Not that Richardson and Davies were scared of a little danger. No, far from it. They were professional soldiers who'd made the shift to the mercenary trade quite easily. They'd worked all over Africa, bits of South America and lots of Asia before being recruited into the private assassins-for-hire business the Raven oversaw.
