A Game for Assassins (The Redaction Chronicles Book 1) (33 page)

As he stepped into the arrivals lounge of London Airport, Jack Grant was greeted by an army of faces and bodies jostling for position to be the first to spot their loved ones, families, business colleagues.

They were all a blur and through the exhaustion of recent events, not to mention the excursions to a host of European countries over the past few weeks, he was aware that his concentration levels were ebbing. He also recognized that he was starting to burn out, which for a man in his profession could be a dangerous flaw.

He started to lag behind the rest of his fellow passengers, hoping to buy himself some time, so as to spot someone he knew. Nothing, at least not visible, so with no other option, he decided to make his way outside and stand proudly in front of the terminal. In truth, he wasn't sure who would be waiting for him, some nameless staffer from headquarters who had been roped in to do an 'airport run' probably, so he was pleasantly surprised to feel a hand on his shoulder and see the familiar face of Masterman.
Christ, the man could move like a big cat when he had to,
thought Grant. Then he saw Masterman's serious expression and knew instantly there wasn't going to be a happy, welcome home party for him.

“You look like hell,” said Masterman.

“Thanks. It comes from being awake for the past few days,” said Grant, the tiredness evident in his voice.

“Rough, was it?”

“I've had worse. Had better also.” If he had, he couldn't for the life of him remember when that was.

“Well, let's get you to the car, shall we? I've a flask of coffee to perk you up.” Masterman's car, a sporty MK1 Triumph Spitfire in black, was parked at the farthest end of the small car park, facing a concrete wall.

The rain was tapping against the windscreen.
I've traded a wet, cold, miserable Paris for a wet, cold, miserable London,
thought Grant.

“What do you think of the car? It's new,” asked Masterman as he settled into the driver's seat.

Grant nodded. “Very nice. Shift does it?”

“It pulls a little around the corners, but on the straight it's like a rocket. Elsa thinks it's far too young for me. She's probably right.”

Elsa was Masterman's wife. Their marriage was one of the great romances of the Service's history. They had met in Cairo during the war and were completely devoted to each other. Legend has it she once faced down an Arab extremist in Palestine, who had broken into the house one night. She had been armed with a revolver, him with a knife. Really, it had been no contest and the fledgling terrorist had scarpered with his testicles still attached to the rest of him.

Masterman was pouring steaming hot black coffee from the flask into two metal cups. Grant accepted his, wrapping both hands around the cup, sniffed the aroma and then took an appreciative sip.

“How are the intelligence reports from the Burrower's going down?” asked Masterman.

“Well. Very well, in fact; for a young bloke he certainly knows his business. Tell him whatever he's doing to keep on doing it. At this rate, we'll have this team closed down in no time,” said Grant.

Masterman raised an eyebrow at that. He knew from years past that praise from Grant was something of a rarity. “So you approve of the reports then? Clear, concise, accurate?”

“They seem to be.”

“Good, because I've got another one for you. It's an urgent one, in fact.”

“How urgent?”

“Like now urgent. That's why we've brought you back. We tracked them down again. You leave as soon as we've finished our little chat and you've had a look over this.” Masterman pulled an envelope from the side pocket of the driver's door and handed it over.

Grant rubbed his eyes to draw away the tiredness and began to look through the briefing file. He skimmed it as usual, taking in the relevant points: Agent
Scorpius
, Cornwall, a boat called
The Thamilia
leaving from Barfleur, the window of opportunity over the next day to lure the killers into a trap; in fact, everything that was needed to complete the next phase of the operation.

“The bulk of the clues came from the intelligence you and Trench grabbed in Marseilles. It led us right to Scorpius as the next target,” said Masterman.

Grant took another glance at the sheets and stuffed them into the glove compartment. “And there we were, thinking it was going to be Paris for the next hit.”

Masterman nodded. “That's what they had all thought, except for young master Burrows. He had the foresight to think differently, which was confirmed by the movement of the vessel leaving Barfleur.”

“What about weapons? I've none,” said Grant. He had left his '39 back in the safe cache in the apartment in Paris. Following the shooting in the hotel, the Redaction team had evacuated the Marseilles base and quickly gone their separate ways. Grant and Nicole back to Paris and Trench separately to who knew where.

The standard procedure for overseas weapons carry was that Redaction agents didn't take firearms on commercial airline flights. This was partly for security reasons, but more practically so that the agents cover wasn't blown. Why would a businessman working for a firm of accountants have a revolver? Instead, weapons were sourced in country from contacts or delivered through the Embassy's diplomatic bag to the agent's dead drop. It wasn't a perfect system, but it worked.

“Don't worry. There's something useful secured in the boot for you. Not your normal tool of the trade, but the best I could get at short notice from the tool shed. There's a change of clothes also – oh, and I thought this might come in handy, on the off chance that you get the opportunity to have a quiet word with one of the targets.” Masterman handed over a small, leather bound case similar to the type used as a gentleman's grooming bag, one that would normally hold scissors and nail clippers, comb and sewing kit.

“What is it?” asked Grant, unsure of just what the hell he was holding.

“We'll call it a modern version of the thumbscrews, shall we? Ironically, it's one of the test kits which has been given to us by the CIA; apparently, they rate these methods rather highly,” said Masterman unconvincingly.

Grant unzipped the bag and took in its contents. Three syringes, a cannula, and an antiseptic cleaning kit. He quickly zipped it up again with disgust.

Masterman noted the other man's displeasure. “I know what you're thinking, Jack. I'm of the same mindset as you; it's not my thing either. I find it rather distasteful. But if it gives us the edge in this hunt, then use it.”

Grant wiped away the condensation from the passenger side window and peered out at the grey airport terminal. He knew the case officers back at SIS hated the thought of using chemical interrogation methods. It went against their code. In truth, Grant was of a similar mind and found the idea abhorrent. But this was a unique situation and the one thing he didn't have was the luxury of time, time to slowly coerce a man in a skillful interrogation session, easing the information out in a calm and subtle way.

“Ideally, we'd like to haul these killers in and let the interrogation mob wear them down. Unfortunately, time is against us and this seems to be the most humane way of resolving the problem. Besides, it's an order, so get it done,” said Masterman.

Grant placed the kit on top of the envelope and looked directly at Masterman, resigned to his orders. “Understood. So we let them come into the bay, luring them into a trap. What happens if the coastguard or police launches take an unhealthy interest in what they're doing?”

Masterman dismissed it as a minor issue. “Don't concern yourself with that. Just concentrate on getting the job done. SIS, as you know, has considerable influence in various quarters. We've had a quiet word with the local forces and coastguard. They've been told to look the other way and not to interfere with a boat called
The Thamilia
. It's officially down as a training exercise. They'll keep their noses out until we say so.”

Grant could imagine the phone calls as Masterman pulled strings and called in favors. A request to SIS's Naval liaison officer, who would then call his opposite number in Naval Intelligence, who would then pass it directly to the Admiralty, who would then call the coastguard and so on and so forth.

SIS always made sure that the rules didn't apply to them. Masterman was setting the scene for a great big bear trap for the hit-team, and he didn't care who he had to manipulate to get what he wanted.

“What's the news on the American angle? Are we still playing against them?” asked Grant.

“For the moment, although I have orders to bring them into the fold soon. I'll wait until it's confirmed that you've removed the threat to Scorpius first, don't want to drop you in it, do I. But I think it's time that this stupid American enterprise was brought to a swift conclusion,” said Masterman.

Grant looked doubtful. He knew that the Americans always insisted on having their own way. It seemed to be a national trait and he couldn't imagine some over-ambitious CIA operations officer taking any notice of Masterman, or anyone else.

“Think about it Jack, half of this hit-team will have been destroyed and if our intelligence is correct, there will only be one man left to carry out the remainder of the job. It would be impossible for him to continue effectively,” said Masterman.

Grant had to admit that with the American operation out in the open and only one contractor left, then the odds of its continued success were diminishing with each new 'hit'. That was, unless the remaining contractor was something special or just damned lucky.

Masterman made a move to get out of the car. “I think a quiet word in the ear of the right person might let the Americans know that they've had their little piece of folly well and truly blown sky high. I'll leave you here and grab a taxi back to the office. Oh, and one more thing, please don't crash. I haven't run her in properly yet.”

* * *

He set off in the dead of night. The streets of London, once busy and bustling were now deserted except for the occasional bus, lorry and police patrol car and he, for one of the few times in his life, enjoyed the solitude of driving on the streets of the nation's capital.

He had returned briefly to the toilets inside the airport terminal and changed into the clothes that Masterman had provided in a rucksack– a pair of dark, thick overalls, a stout pair of army boots, a heavy black duffel coat complete with gloves and an equally somber knitted cap. Masterman had picked well and knew that wherever Gorilla ended up, he might well have to approach the target both rurally and covertly.

The only other item in the boot was the weapon Masterman had provided: a Remington 870 pump-action shotgun, complete with a case containing a mixed bag of ammunition. The Remington was an excellent close quarter weapon and Masterman had chosen well.

The drive to Falmouth was a high-octane ride that passed in a blur of speed, noise, and darkness. With the burning lights of London soon behind him, he quickly entered a dream state of driving in the warmth and safety of the car, only mildly aware of the blanket of freezing fog which shrouded his route and soon even the high-pitched scream of the Spitfire's engine faded into the background.

Gorilla's exhaustion was pushed to one side now that he was operational again. He'd spent the past weeks chasing down leads and not coming up with very much, and he yearned for the call to arms again and the chance to bring down his targets. So all thoughts of sleep were eradicated and only his tenacity and iron hard will was keeping him going, pushing on through the darkness. The Spitfire handled well, it was a man's car and as such, Gorilla, ever the keen driver, drove it well. On the straights he floored the pedal, determined to make up speed as and when he could. On the corners and the bends, he threw it around proficiently, slow in and fast out.

He occasionally stopped in a layby, flicked on his hand torch and studied the road map that would take him nearer and nearer. Then it was the roar of the Spitfire's engine, the flare of the headlights and he was off again, pushing the car faster and faster.

The names on his route passed him by… Yeovil… then Exeter… Lauceston… Bodmin…

Then across the moors… Truro… Penryn… Falmouth… until the names of the villages and the road signs to his destination became more infrequent.

Finally, the road to Maenporth opened up and he was aware of the sea to his left as it crashed against the cliff face and the shoreline. He pulled the car over into a layby for one last check of his map and five minutes later, he found the gates to the property he was looking for. They were of substantial ornate ironwork with the words 'Scarrick Point' worked across the head, with a smaller, wooden signpost attached to the main bars warning visitors to 'Keep Out – Private Property'.

That was okay,
thought Gorilla as he hefted the tools for the job over his shoulder. He wouldn't be going up the main path, just in case the man inside was nervous, or trigger happy, or both. He would be going over the wall further along and approach from an angle.

Better to flank and stay out of sight, until he was sure he was the first to arrive.

* * *

Scarrick Point had originally been a seventeenth century hunting and fishing lodge, which had once belonged to a local landowner who had a reputation for hanging poachers who dared to encroach on his land. It was reputed that he hanged them with their own bow strings.

It stood balanced on the edge of an eighty-foot-high cliff promontory, overlooking a cove near the town of Maenporth, and as its name implied, it looked as if it had been slashed, cutting a scar into the rock. During the summer months the cove was a haven for holidaymakers, there to enjoy its fine beach; but during the winter, it was a desolate place with the cliffs being exposed to the merciless battering of the elements.

The lodge was a simple three-bedroom affair and was unremarkable to the eye. However, it was its location that afforded it its grandeur, being set in five acres of land only accessible via a private road which led directly to the front door. Anyone approaching could be spotted almost at once. To its right stood the barred private road, to its left stood the sheer drop of the cliff and the brutal power of the waves. To all intents and purposes, it stood alone, isolated, unwelcoming and unapproachable to strangers.