A Game for Assassins (The Redaction Chronicles Book 1) (17 page)

He took a sip of the Speyside and leaned forward. “We operate independently from the mainstream of SIS operations, although we always have full access to their resources, which annoys the hell out of them, I'm glad to say. We redact, we edit, we delete, and we cut.”

“Redact what? Delete what?” she asked, looking confused.

“Whatever is required of us. Rogue agents, traitors, and extremists all fall within our remit. We take the fight back to the enemy and hit him when he's not expecting it. Then we melt back into the underground and disappear. That's what Redaction is.”

“It doesn't seem very British. A bit below the belt, not cricket or playing by the rules,” she said.

Grant pulled a grin. “That's what makes the Redaction Unit so effective. The majority of other intelligence services have no idea that SIS has this capability or that the unit actually exists. They think that good old fashioned MI-6 is all monocle-wearing gentlemen spies who work to the rules of fair play and honor.”

Of course, she thought, when he presented it like that, it made perfect sense. Who would suspect the good old Brits of running a secret team that handled the rough stuff? The Americans, certainly, the French well you only had to look at the papers to see the things they were doing in Algeria, but the British. Never!

Grant's face grew serious and his manner stiff. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“If it was a choice between you and the enemy, could you kill in cold blood?”

She paused; the directness of the question momentarily throwing her. Could she do that extreme act? She wondered what her father would say to this man and if he'd ever had to shoot a man down in cold blood during the War. Unsure of herself, she decided to err on the side of caution and answer honestly. “The truth is Jack; I have no idea. Could I do it – certainly. But would I? I guess until it happens, no one knows for sure. I'm sorry, that's not the expected answer, but I think it's best to tell the truth.”

He raised an eyebrow. The answer seemed to make his mind up for him. “Do you always tell the truth?” he said.

“Only about the important things,” she answered. “Do you have any idea what they want me for?”

“No. I haven't been briefed on that, at least not yet, but can I be honest with
you
and give you some friendly advice?”

She nodded and waited for him to speak.

“You're not cut out for Redaction, either physically or mentally.”

She looked at him wide eyed, mouth agog.

“I'm sorry if that sounds harsh Nicole. You're a nice person and chances are you lack the cunning that one of our operators needs to infiltrate an enemy's rank and kill him. I think it's better this way; I might have just saved your life.”

It was then that it happened. She fleetingly transformed from a beautiful woman into a snarling Medusa as she hit him with a steely-eyed stare that pierced into his skull. Their eyes locked and then it was gone, but the cold stare remained, albeit more subdued. She seemed to have decided on her plan of attack. He drained his glass and made a motion for the bill.

“So that's it?” she said.

He nodded. “I'm going to inform my boss that you should remain in your present position and that in my opinion, you don't have enough field experience for our unit.”

The waitress arrived with a silver saucer containing a discreetly folded bill. He opened it, raised an eyebrow at the amount and then she saw him reach inside his jacket pocket, noted the confused look, and watched him as his hand transferred to the other side pocket, then trouser pockets, before he began the whole process again, patting himself down. Nicole thought that it really was quite amusing to watch, made even more so because the waitress was now raising her eyebrows at her customer's evident discomfort before she discreetly made herself scarce. Enough was enough, time to put him out of his misery.
Here goes,
she thought. “Do you like Maida Vale? Not too quiet for you?”

Now he was checking under the table, his face growing red. “Huh?”

“And the Grant name. Does that give a clue to some Scottish Heritage? Do I detect a slight Celtic twang hidden beneath your South London accent? It's buried, but it's definitely there.”

“How do you know my—”

“What about the girl in the picture? She's very pretty, who is she? Wife, girlfriend, sister? It seems to have been taken in Germany. That's the Brandenburg Gate in the background isn't it?”

He glared at Nicole. She was holding up a bruised and battered black wallet between her thumb and forefinger.
His
black wallet! She removed several notes before tossing it onto the table dismissively.

“Waitress,” she called.

The girl reappeared, “Yes, ma'am.”

Nicole handed her the notes on the silver saucer. “Keep the change, thank you.”

Grant, fuming, gathered up his wallet and checked through the contents. Satisfied, he placed it back in his inside pocket. He sat back in his chair and considered the young woman in front of him. “It was when you fell wasn't it? When I caught you at the front of the hotel?”

“Of course it was. It's something I've always been very good at; nimble fingers you see. I was a natural on the burglary course for new intakes. But then again I'd had a good teacher – I'm not my father's daughter for nothing,” said Nicole coolly.

Her eyes remained locked on his face. Was there a begrudging sense of respect behind the man's glower? She leaned forward to make her point, and when another lock of hair fell forward across her face she brusquely brushed it away. “You see, I knew you'd take one look at me and dismiss me straight away. Pretty face, but only useful for answering the phone or for filling a senior officer's bed on a cold Friday night. Well, I can put your mind at rest – that's not me. Never has been and never will be. And if you want cunning and streetwise, I'm pretty sure I could run deceptive rings around you any day of the week.”

“Because you think you're a field agent?”

“No, because I'm a woman.” She thought she may have gone too far, made too much of a point and dented his pride. So she was surprised and not a little pleased when he beamed a wonderful glowing smile at her.
He should smile more often,
she thought.
He has such a good smile.

“Well, Miss Nicole. I think we should maybe have another drink and begin again. What do you think? I'll start; my good friends call me Gorilla.”

* * *

They spoke for another thirty minutes until the conversation had come to a natural conclusion. In truth the little stunt she had pulled had told him far more about her than a whole series of interviews ever could. Grant busied himself swirling his whisky in his glass, Nicole pretended to find the fellow drinkers in the bar interesting. Luckily, none of them had seemed to notice the tension. Either that or they were all too polite to say anything.

“So what about you,” she asked, determined to break the hiatus. “What makes you suitable for the Redaction Unit?”

He thought about it for a moment before he answered. “I have a certain set of skills that are always useful to the top people in this business and unfortunately or not, there's always someone willing to use it.”

“And the work name 'Gorilla' where did that come from?” she asked innocently enough.

He took a sip of his Speyside. “That was from years ago. A nickname that stuck.”

Nicole looked confused by his irritatingly obtuse answers. Damn him, he could be so frustrating. He smiled, sensing her impatience with him. “Sorry, Miss Nicole, I don't do war stories. You'll have to look elsewhere.”

* * *

An hour later, Jack Grant was making his way to his meeting with Masterman. It was their usual meeting place in any type of weather – rain, snow, sleet or baking sun – it mattered not.

Restaurants and pubs were out due to either the noise, or the risk of being overheard by third parties, and there was no chance that Grant or any of the remaining team from his unit would be allowed within a mile of head office. In the Redaction Unit, everything was kept at arm's length, deniable, out of sight and out of mind until they were needed.

It was on the south side of Westminster Bridge, at the base of the steps that led onto Albert Embankment where Grant would meet with his boss. Big Ben glared down at them, stoically, from across the river.

Stephen Masterman, retired Colonel of Special Forces and now Head of the Redaction Unit for the British Secret Service, stood with his hands pushed deep into his trench coat. It had been several weeks since Grant had seen him last. He was tall, broad, blond and uncompromising, but was not without humor and affection for those he commanded. As an officer, it was easy to see why men would follow him into battle and help him storm the gates of hell if he so commanded. Jack Grant had been his shadow in some very dangerous situations on more than one occasion.

“Well, you certainly caught a tan in Vientiane. Got some color in your cheeks, at least,” said Masterman.

“You're joking, aren't you? I spent the first few weeks peeling off burnt skin! I looked like a bloody lobster.”

Masterman laughed. “Well, regardless of your ruddy complexion, I have been asked to pass on to you, congratulations and give you a pat on the back for a job well done. The Chief was very impressed.”

“Was he impressed enough for a pay-rise?” chanced Grant.

A wry grin from the taller man. “Unfortunately not, but I do have something else for you, something of great importance. A job has come up.”

“Okay. Sounds good,” said Grant, eager to hear more.

“Let's walk.” They walked at Masterman's pace, with Grant, as usual, keeping up regardless of his size. The rain had come in from the West replacing the frosty start to the day and both men ducked their heads so as to keep the worst of it from their faces. Their conversation only halted when 'civilians', as Masterman insisted on calling the general public, came too near. “How're your language skills these days?” enquired Masterman.

“Fine, a little rusty, but nothing a quick brush up wouldn't fix.”

“Some French, bit of Spanish; that's right isn't it. German? Used it much recently?”

A pause from Grant, then, “No. Not recently. Probably the last time was Berlin.”

The word hung like a shroud over the duo. Berlin was their mutual scab, one they liked to pick at in each other's company. It hurt, but they couldn't resist the urge to keep inflicting pain upon each other with its memory. “Ah,” said Masterman. “Berlin… So what did you think of the girl?”

“What girl?”

Masterman snuck a hostile glance at his smaller companion. “Which one do you think? Your contact at the Savoy; did it go according to plan?”

Grant shrugged. “She seemed to know what she was talking about. Let's put it this way, she didn't make any fatal blunders. She kept it discreet which is always a good sign.”

“But you liked her?”

“Are you trying to set me up on a date or something? She looks like she's still at school,” growled Grant.

The big man stopped dead in his tracks, turned and barred Grant's way so that he couldn't continue with his march along the Embankment. The Palace of Westminster was framed in the background of Masterman's bulk. “Surely that's the point of people in our trade Jack; I mean you're a case in point, aren't you. A wolf in sheep's clothing. Don't let that shy office worker act fool you, she's a tough nut. Has to be to even get a foot in the door in our grimy little organization… and I heard that she's not too shabby at lifting a wallet, either.”

“Very funny. So what's the operation, and why the need to bring regular officers in?”

They were on the move again, at a quicker pace this time. Masterman, as was his way, would often start out wide in his descriptions before coming into the fine detail at the end. “It's something a bit unusual. We have information that the CIA has put together an operation to eliminate a Soviet intelligence network spread across Europe. When I say eliminate, I mean eliminate in the most lethal sense, not just arresting them and giving them a smack on the wrist.”

“So the Yanks want blood. What's that to us? Let them get on with it.”

“Ah, well, these things do have a tendency to get rather complicated very fast, especially when the CIA get their dander up and start clomping around in hobnail boots. It seems the Americans want to give the Russians a taste of their own medicine.”

Grant smiled. “And how do you know about that, sir?”

The steely eyed glare from Masterman flashed again, and then softened. He and Grant went back a long way; they'd shared too many bad times to try to pull the wool over each other's eyes. If in doubt, keep it vague. “Oh, you know the usual, gossip at the monthly Intelligence liaison meetings – the powwows we call them – but with some signals intercepts and the like for a bit of flavor.”

Grant wasn't fooled for a moment. The CIA wasn't in the habit of giving away a little gem of intelligence like that, even to one of their closest allies. That could only have come from a human source. Their pace had steadied again and Grant was sure they were getting close to the nub. “Okay, so I'll ask again, what's that to us? The Americans want to start blotting out Soviet agents, of whatever description; doesn't that benefit us in the long run?”

They had turned onto Lambeth Bridge, their pace increasing, and they pushed against the cross winds that were blasting off the Thames.

Masterman turned his head sideways and shouted down at the little man against the noise of the gale. “Well, that's the problem Jack. Things aren't always what they seem. They're not the Russians' agents – never have been in truth. They're
our
agents, double agents in point of fact. They cast out a net, see what the Soviets and their ilk are interested in; we provide them with sanitized intelligence and use them to pass it on, spread disinformation and get them to perform sleight of hand tricks to keep the Russians guessing.”

“And how did the Yankees get the names of these doubles? What is there; a leak on our side?”

Masterman shrugged. “Who knows? The Agency has been playing its cards close to its chest over recent months and has been cutting our service out of the loop. I don't think they've forgiven us for Philby yet. What we do know for sure, is that this time the Agency is going for assassination rather than incarceration. They're not using Agency staffers, but apparently contract agents who they've used before. Mercenaries. They're sending a message, pure and simple, straight into the heart of the KGB.”