A Game for Assassins (The Redaction Chronicles Book 1) (29 page)

The Hawkeye team arrived in Marseilles less than two days after Grant's initial communiqué to Broadway. There was no fanfare, no notifying of local SIS, and the only time they would meet their man on the ground, who went by the cryptonym Gorilla, was when they had finished their surveillance operation and had something to report.

A base was set up on the outskirts of the city, vehicles were hired, equipment was unpacked and a routine was organized. They were self-reliant and very much left to their own devices as they were used to. All were ordinary, spoke fluent French and were experts at blending into their environment. The men and women of Hawkeye set up a static position in a hotel adjacent to the Hotel Azure, camper vans were parked opposite it and roving teams of Hawkeye operatives walked the route in relays when a suspected ID on a subject was needed. All had covert cameras, binoculars and superb eyesight for observing their targets.

The team had also considered a surreptitious entry to the penthouses, but after a brief reconnaissance they decided it was wiser not to try. It was too heavily guarded and not worth the risk. Instead, they had to settle for a discreet listening device planted on the underside of the concierge's desk by a lost delivery man asking for directions and the usual long range photographs of people leaving and entering the building.

On the third day, they believed they'd struck gold. One of the Hawkeye footmen snapped their two targets together, leaving the rear of the building from the penthouse exterior staircase. There was no time for a clear camera shot, but the description given by the Hawkeye team member gave them the best evidence that the targets were there and on the ground.

With confirmation of the targets in place, the team turned the rest of their attention to the layout of the building. If Redaction were involved, it usually meant that violence was going to be initiated at some point, something that was anathema to Hawkeye operators, and as such, they would need the most accurate information about the layout and security of the building. By the end of the job, the Hawkeye team had gathered a mountain of diagrams, plans, photo ID's and possible entry points for the Redaction fire-team.

At their base, the Hawkeye team leader looked over what his people had managed to achieve in the short space of five days and nodded. “Good, considering what he had to deal. I think I better meet with this Gorilla, then,” he said.

* * *

The leader of the Hawkeye team arrived just after dusk had settled. He was a dour Yorkshire man in his thirties, called Johnson. They had agreed to meet in one of the evening bars, not far from the harbor.

“So, my boys and girls had a field day with this one. A nice easy job by comparison to some of the ones we get, normally we get to freeze our balls off trailing Russians in Norway or some such thing, so a lovely trip to the south of France made my team's week,” he said.

Gorilla liked him immediately. He sensed that they would have both preferred to discuss this over a pint of bitter in their local pub. But then, Gorilla always did have an affinity for people who worked the front line of operations like himself.

“I don't know what you've got in mind, but what you're looking at taking down is basically a knocking shop on the go there. A lot of tough-looking punters make use of it; gangsters no doubt and from what my boys have shown me, they're mostly packing some sort of weapons,” said Johnson pretending to like the glass of
vin rouge
he was sipping from unenthusiastically. “But that's not all,” he continued. “Security is quite tight. A lot of muscle on play, again, probably packing weapons, there to make sure the place isn't raided by the local vice squad. The people you're after seem to have control of the top floor, the penthouse level.”

Johnson passed across a photo of a tall, slim, dark-haired man standing on the penthouse balcony, smoking. The picture was fuzzy, as if it had been taken from a distance by a long range camera. “It's effectively four floors up and is serviced by a VIP lift and the main staircase. Obviously, we haven't been able to get up that far, but we can assume there's a decent level of security on the top floor.”

Gorilla nodded and took the thick envelope that Johnson passed across. His reading matter for the next day.

“Can I give my tuppence worth?” said Johnson.

Gorilla nodded. “If you think it will help, sure.”

“I don't know what you're hoping to do in there, and I don't want to. Redactors and Hawks are a bit like 'never the twain shall meet' in that respect, aren't they? But what I will tell you for free is that there will be no happy ending going in there on your own. It will be a bloody blood bath old mate, a bloody blood bath. Is there more of you?”

Gorilla shook his head. “No, it's just me and the girl at the moment. We're on our own.”

Johnson raised an eyebrow, shrugged and took a gulp of his red wine. He winced. “Well then… Jesus, this stuff's rough on the palate… maybe it's better that you live to fight for another day rather than going on a suicide mission.”

* * *

He had enjoyed the stroll back from the Old Port. The night was cool and the stickiness of the day's heat had disappeared. He'd turned the corner to the apartment building and glanced up at their windows.

What he saw had him taking a sharp intake of breath. A figure passed by in silhouette – a man. Gorilla moved into the nearest doorway to conceal himself and continued to watch. Moments later, the figure moved back again as if he was pacing in the lounge.

They've found us,
he thought.
The hit-team has somehow tracked us back to base. How? Was there a leak in SIS? A leak in the local police?

He made his way to the front door of the apartment and entered. He took the stairs as quietly and as quickly as he could. When he reached their apartment door, he removed the '39 from the holster on his hip, quickly attached the silencer and flicked off the safety. He let the weapon rest in his right hand. Then he slowly turned the handle and burst in at full speed.
Fuck subtlety,
he thought.
There's a time and a place for being covert, but tonight isn't it.

He moved along the wall, weapon raised and ready to shoot down the intruder. Nothing was disrupted and he could see no signs of a struggle. He moved along the hall to the living room and pushed open the main double doors and there stood Nicole, her arms crossed firmly over her chest and scowling like a wife ready to spray down vitriol on an errant husband.

“Where is he, are you alright?” he garbled, his mind whirling, trying to figure out where the intruder was. He scanned left and right.

“Jack, I'm fine,” was all she managed to say before she was interrupted by a voice emanating from the bathroom.

“You still toting that bloody Smith & Wesson from years ago?”

Gorilla would recognize that voice anywhere. It was like cut glass; harsh and brittle with an unashamed touch of arrogance and disdain. “Trench,” was all Gorilla could feebly manage before the immaculate figure emerged from the bathroom, drying his hands on a towel.

“Indeed it is. Just scraping a bit of the muck off from my recent travels, I hope you don't mind. The girl said it was alright.”

Ah, that was why Nicole looked furious,
thought Gorilla as he lowered the '39. Trench had a reputation for not sparing the rod with the 'fairer sex' as he called them. Most women couldn't stand to be in Trench's company for five minutes, let alone a whole evening.

Gorilla looked over at Nicole again. She had one eyebrow cocked, and a cold look in her eye which said 'He's your friend – you deal with him!”'

Great,
he thought,
I've just been promoted to peacemaker between a misogynist and a feminist.

“Don't look so confused,” said Trench. “I'm your little gift from Masterman, here to lend a hand. So, what's the job, old boy?”

Frank Trench, the Iago of the Redaction Unit. Always plotting, always scheming, and always looking for the next high profile operation, the next promotion or the next advancement up the career ladder at SIS.

Grant's desk at Pimlico was situated opposite Trench's and he knew that the man had, in his opinion, delusions of grandeur. Trench was medium height and build with a military moustache and aged somewhere in his mid-forties. He was always dressed in well-cut suits from Saville Row and spoke with the sort of clipped accent beloved of British Army officers of a certain class.

But Grant knew it was bullshit. The man was nothing more than a spiv. Trench was no officer, had, in fact, not risen above the rank of Lance Corporal during his time with the Royal Engineers, first in Europe and latterly in Palestine. Trench had spent the postwar years hunting down terrorists in the Middle East after volunteering for one of the 'special units' which had been formed to curb the spread of Zionist terror gangs. He had a reputation for always getting his man and bringing him back; dead or alive. It was this ruthlessness which had made him perfect for the newly-formed Redaction Unit in the late 1950's.

Grant had found Trench was an acquired taste; people either tolerated him, or loathed him. There was no middle ground, and no one in recent memory could be said to be friends with the man. Yet despite all of his personality failings, he was considered to be a first class operator and was one of the legends of the Redaction Unit's covert war. He got the job done.

Grant settled Trench in to the apartment and it was decided that Nicole would keep her room and the two men would share. Then he set about bringing his colleague up to speed on recent events; the killing of the German and of the surveillance intelligence acquired by the Hawkeye team.

“So these chaps are holed up there, then,” said Trench. He was lazing in the lounge, his feet draped carelessly over the arm of a chair and puffing on a cigarillo.

Grant nodded as he casually looked out through the window and onto the darkened street. “It seems that way. They don't come out unless they absolutely need to, even more so since their German friend disappeared on them.”

Trench considered their options. “So if they're not coming out, we'll have to go in.” He was fiddling with a piece of tobacco stuck in his teeth. He moved it around his gums before grabbing it between his fingers and flicking it onto the carpet.

Nicole frowned furiously and set off to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. In her opinion, they had suddenly become a repertory company of spies. Of Trench, well, to say she detested him was a bit strong. Disliked certainly, trusted not at all and with all things being equal she didn't think there was much difference between him and the man she'd shot in the alley. In her own mind, she thought that the devil had come to stay.

She returned five minutes later, playing the little housekeeper with coffee pot and cups, to find both men stood over the dining table, making notes on a piece of paper; a rough sketch of a building lay at its center.

“If we play it right, we can make it look like a rival gang hit on the hotel, rather than a targeted Redaction on the hit-team. It wouldn't take much, a bit of shouting in French, threats to the Guerinis, that sort of thing,” said Grant.

“It sounds feasible. Crash and bash, or stealth?” asked Trench.

“Stealth as much as we can, we want to catch these killers unawares. If they're as professional as we think they are, we want to take them on our terms and not theirs. Ideally, I'd like another few people on our team, but we'll just have to make do among us. Did you bring any tools with you?”

Trench stood and straightened his back, causing it to give a loud click. “I've brought a very nice piece with me that will be more than suitable for this operation. Silenced. Good for the covert approach. Bolt action, I'm afraid, but nothing we can't work with.”

Grant nodded. “And are you up for this? Are you ready after your last job?” he asked.

Trench waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, Libya was such a bore. No challenge really. Besides, you know me old boy, always happy to be in at a kill. When do we go?”

“Tomorrow night.”

* * *

Nicole awoke early the next morning to find that Grant had already left the apartment. A note he'd left for her said that he was going to give the target location one last scout, in case of any last minute changes or problems. Nicole thought it was just a way of giving himself a bit of space, away from the confines of the apartment.

Trench was sitting at the dining table in his shirt sleeves. The curtains had been drawn and he was cleaning the component parts of a rifle, which had obviously been concealed in what she thought was the kind of bag her father used for carrying his fishing rods. Evidently, it contained something much more lethal. Trench had the parts laid out carefully on the table before him. The magazine and the bolt had been removed and he was working some type of oil into the breech with an old rag that had definitely seen better days.

The weapon was a .45 caliber De Lisle Carbine, a stubby-looking rifle that had been built during the war for the sabotage service as an assassination weapon. The De Lisle was said to be the quietest carbine available, a testimony to the bulbous end of the rifle, which on a traditional weapon would consist of the barrel, but on this weapon, housed the integral silencer as a one-piece unit. It also had a folding stock and pistol grip to make it easier to conceal underneath a long coat and it was ideal for using at close quarters.

Trench had been using it on his last job with good results, and rather than hand it back to the local SIS Station, he'd chosen to bring it with him. Far behind him on the North African plains, lay a missing Libyan intelligence chief with a single bullet hole to his head, courtesy of Frank Trench and the De Lisle. He loaded the bolt back into its housing, working it a few times to ensure its smoothness, brought the weapon up to his shoulder and pulled the trigger. It gave a satisfying, dry fire
click
.

“It suits you,” said Nicole.

“Does it indeed,” said Trench, keeping one eye looking down the iron sights.

“Are you any good with it?”

He laughed. “Bloody awful, actually. But on a good day, if the wind is blowing in the right direction I can just about hit a barn door, maybe even kill a chap if I'm lucky.”

“And is Jack… I mean Gorilla… is he any good?”

“Ah yes, well, Grant is a bit of a special case,” said Trench smoothly, his tongue firmly in his cheek.

“In what way?”

Trench placed the weapon carefully down onto the table. He turned to look at her. “Grant is born for this kind of work. He's a natural. In fact, he's the best I've ever seen with a pistol. He's almost superhuman when it comes to close quarter shooting. He's got a few dead-eyes to his credit.”

Nicole thought back to the conversations she'd had with Masterman and the gossip around SIS. They spoke of Gorilla's shooting skills with an almost reverence. “What
is
a dead-eye?”

Trench laughed. “Hasn't he brought you up to speed on our terminology? What
have
you two been doing all this while? A dead-eye is what we, unofficially, call our targets. Sort of a sick joke, I suppose. Once a Redaction contract has been formalized, the dead-eye is a corpse that just hasn't lain down.”

She shuddered, remembering the fight in Marseilles. The violence, the blood. “It just seems so cold.”

“Bloody hell, girl, it is cold. It's meant to be. Stone cold killers, that's us.”

She didn't like the way the conversation was going and decided to change the subject. “Where did he get the name Gorilla?”

“Did you ask him? You seem like the type that would,” he said. Trench fixed her with a glare and let the silence hang.

She relented. “He wouldn't tell me. I assume it's something to do with his past.”

Trench had finished loading the bullets into several magazines, dried off his hands on the cloth and turned to her. He stepped toward her, his manner and voice becoming brooding. “Grant's past is a bit of a mystery, a bit murky so I'm led to believe, so I won't tell you either.”

She took a step away from him and he smiled. “Got the hots for him, have you? I wouldn't have thought he was your type.” His upper class cavalry officer accent had slipped, she noted, and had been replaced with a twang. Northern definitely… possibly Liverpool or Manchester and the sudden change in accent also gave him an even more sinister tone.

“No… not at all. I just wondered,” she said, not wholly convincing herself.

“Fancy a bit of rough, do you? Grant's certainly that, alright. Gorilla by name, Gorilla by nature.”

Nicole felt herself blushing, but still fixed a glare on Trench. God, he was loathsome.

“If you've got an itch that you can't scratch, I might be able to help you out old girl. A quick tumble perhaps, while the boss is away. It happens all the time, only natural. It could just be our little secret.”

Nicole turned away from him and headed back to the kitchen. “You're disgusting, Trench. Just stay out of my way,” she said.

Trench smiled, a smile which hid nothing of his malicious thoughts. The cavalry officer had returned once more. “Well, if you don't ask and all that…” she heard him say, as she slammed the door to the kitchen.