Sentinel Five (The Redaction Chronicles Book 2) (2 page)

ARISAIG, SCOTLAND – SEPTEMBER 1967

The small fishing village of Arisaig was looking particularly beautiful that morning, as Jack Grant emerged from his front door and took in the scene before him. Lights danced in the tiny cottages which were nestled along the coastline, breaking up the still-lingering darkness. The last vestiges of summer clung to the village and at that time of the morning, fog was still rolling in onto the land from the sea, giving the scene an ethereal quality. To Jack Grant, it always appeared as if a painting had come to life. The rain and the wind swept through the leaves into the gutter outside the small house. He turned up the collar of his waxed outdoors jacket and tucked his head down, so that his bearded chin burrowed deep into the top of his old, roll-necked jumper.

For the past year Jack Grant, a one-time member of the Secret Intelligence Service, had been working as the right hand man on his brother-in-law's fishing boat. He had left his old life behind, changed his appearance as best he could and settled down to the mediocrity of mending nets, fixing motor engines and hauling fish to market. While he was in no way contented, he satisfied himself with the fact that he was where he should be, with what was left of his family around him. This morning was the same as any other morning. He was up by five-thirty am, having breakfast while the rest of the family either slumbered on, or began to stir ready for work and school. Today though, he was driving down to Fort William to pick up an engine part for Hughie, his brother-in-law. Actually, for Hughie's aging boat,
The Tempest
.

He climbed into the battered and mud-splattered Land Rover, rumbled the engine to life and headed out of Arisaig. The drive was slow and carefree, with Grant taking in the stunning vista of the mountains which sheltered the village from the harshest of Scottish elements in any season. He'd been driving for no more than ten minutes when he spotted the vehicle following his old Land Rover.

He'd sensed it, before he'd seen it. A prickling of his skin, his senses trembling, the hairs on his arms standing on end – all were alerting him to the fact that he was being watched, observed, assessed and evaluated by persons' unknown. Whoever it was, he was useless at vehicle surveillance. Driving a bloody big show-off car like a Jag made him stick out like a sore thumb in the rural environment. The only people who had flashy cars around here were the 'bookies', and gangsters from Glasgow, and they didn't tend to be visiting small fishing villages at five in the morning in Jack's experience. “Okay, sunshine,” he muttered to himself, his eyes never wavering from the rear-view mirror. “Let's see what your game is.”

Grant had watched the Jag's headlights, throughout the hour's drive down to Fort William. It had turned out to be so easy. Drive into the centre of town, dump the Land Rover and go about his business. It had taken him less than ten minutes of dragging himself around the stores and streets, before he'd identified his 'watcher', and then another five before he'd procured the name from his mental list of faces. Jack Grant recognised the face; a senior officer in Berlin, from bloody years ago. An Intelligence Corps Captain, attached to agent running. Penn, that was it. Jordan Penn, Jordie for short. Nice bloke. What a shame.
Well Mr. Penn
, thought Grant,
nice bloke or not, I'm about to spoil your day.

* * *

Jordie Penn, former Captain in the Intelligence Corps, and now private security consultant to the rich and famous of Mayfair, had already had a pig of a day. He'd been on the go since three am. Jack Grant, his target, was routinely up and out early and therefore, he'd needed to be up at least several hours earlier, lying up in a spot along the route. He'd sat freezing his backside off in the Jaguar, trying not to let the windows steam up. He couldn't put the heater on, because that would mean turning on the engine and possibly alerting someone, so he'd had to leave the driver's window open to stop the condensation… and it was arse-numbingly freezing. Bloody hell!

Penn had enjoyed the drive up and through the Scottish mountains the previous day. He had taken in the majestic views of the Glens and the hills and had gloried in their ruggedness. He'd witnessed the clouds merging into, and hanging low over, the mountain peaks like some kind of camouflage. They were, he was sure, one of God's finest achievements. But it was the rain and the cold that was crucifying his part in the surveillance.

He had seen Grant – God, he had resembled a dishevelled fisherman – climbing into the Land Rover and heading off along the main arterial route down through the mountains, past Ben Nevis, and into Fort William. It had been slow going for Penn in the Jaguar, trying to keep Grant's vehicle in sight, while remaining unseen. Once they hit Fort William, it had been easier. More people, even at this early hour of the morning, had helped him to blend into the surroundings. Not that Jordie Penn was any kind of expert at hostile surveillance, far from it. His forte had been running a pathetic bunch of displaced persons as agents in post-war Berlin. So shadowing a target, even on UK soil, was something way outside of his remit. But… since his recruitment to this new operation he'd been doing an awful lot of things outside of his usual job description. The order had been given from the 'boss', so he was determined to see it through. “Follow him Jordie, get him on his own, then make the approach… bring him back into the fold,” had been his brief the previous evening.

So Penn stuck to Grant as best he could. Up and down the high street, watching where he went. It was on his second tour of the same street he'd been down less than five minutes ago, when Grant made a sudden lurch into an entryway between two shops. It was probably the access road for deliveries. Penn took his time and peered into the concrete walkway, before he cautiously followed his target. The laneway brought him out into a courtyard, full of small industrial units. Several workers glanced up and scowled at him, before carrying on with their work.

“Where the bloody hell did he go?” Penn muttered, as he started to walk back out into the street. He was halfway along the laneway when he saw the dishevelled fisherman he'd once known in Berlin and… he was coming straight at him at speed! He exhaled sharply with the impact and Grant's fist tightened at the Intelligence Corps regimental tie at his throat. Pushed backwards, his feet were kicked out from under him, and his back hit the hard ground with not inconsiderable force. Above him, the furious face of Jack Grant glared down, his fist drawn back and ready to pound his face into a bloody pulp.

Jack Grant snarled. “Well, Mr. Penn, you better tell me what you want bloody quick – or you'll be picking your teeth up with broken fingers!

* * *

Penn had been dragged to his feet and wisely, he talked… quickly. He obviously knew of Gorilla's reputation for violence and he was wise enough not to test it. “Someone wants you to attend a meeting. Now. Thirty minutes' drive from here. A private meeting.”

“Who?” snarled Grant, dusting the dust from Penn's jacket.

“I can't say. But it's a meeting you'll want to attend. It's a 'friend'.” His face had flushed under the sudden onslaught of violence from the smaller man, but he was slowly regaining his composure.

A 'friend' was an informal name for members of SIS. Grant was intrigued, but he was more than determined to play hard to get, at least until he had more solid information. “Piss off. You think I'm going to just walk into a trap? You've been at the whisky, sunshine.”

“I was told to tell you it was relating to your old offices, back at Pimlico,” said Penn reasonably.

“I've been out of that for a wee while now, I don't know anyone there anymore.”

“Nevertheless, my employer has taken great steps to keep this meeting secret. He's respecting your privacy, and your family's security.”

At the mention of his family Grant's demeanour grew even more aggressive and he glared at Penn, fury invading his face. “How long for?”

“A few hours, no more, then you can return to your village,” said Penn.

Grant weighed up his options and then issued a warning. “Any funny business and I start breaking limbs. Yours will be the first, Penn. Just so that you know. For the record… you understand?”

They travelled back in convoy, Penn leading the way in the Jaguar and Grant following close behind in the mud splattered Land Rover. The route from Fort William took them northwards, almost back to where Grant had started from that very morning in his tiny fishing village. Penn suddenly turned sharply to the left a few miles before the village, negotiating the Jaguar down a private road that was little more than a track. Less than half a mile away, through the fog and the rain, Grant could make out a large mansion house in its own private grounds. It was isolated and protected by the mountains standing guard around it on the banks of the Loch. Grant knew what it was immediately. Inverailort House was something of a legend within the quiet communities and villages in the Lochailort area. During the war, it had been one of the first Special Training Centres for the sabotage service and any number of fledgling Special Forces groups. Its grounds and rooms had played host to all kinds of nefarious black arts; small arms training, silent killing, explosives and sabotage.

Now though, the building was vacant and obviously in need of some repair. Even though the post-war years hadn't been kind to it, the house still stood formidably against the fierce weather and the elements. They parked directly in front of the main doors and Penn led the way up the stairs to the main doors. He produced an iron key from his pocket, turned it in the lock, and pushed open the large wooden door. The main reception hall was bright and airy, but with the look of a place used infrequently. The main staircase divided the hall into two large corridors and Grant estimated the mansion must have anything between ten to fifteen large rooms at its disposal.

“We go this way,” said Penn, ushering Grant down one of the grand corridors. The smell of mould and mildew filled Grant's nostrils. They carried on for a good twenty feet, past heavily-curtained windows, until they reached what had once been the main dining hall. It had definitely seen better days. The wood was warped and cracked, there was an overwhelming smell of dampness and moisture, and darkness permeated the room making it appear smaller than Grant suspected it actually was. The heavy curtains in this room had been drawn shut and the room was poorly lit by faded wall sconces. It reminded Grant of a dour church he'd been made to visit when he was a boy.

He heard Penn close the door behind them and he stepped further into the gloom. Grant took only a few faltering steps before he heard the sound of rubber tyres squeaking on the dusty wooden floor. He made out a wheelchair at the far end of the huge dining table, and watched as it slowly pivoted to reveal the silhouette of a man. The darkness disguised the features of the man's face, but Grant would have recognised the voice anywhere. In truth, he'd suspected who had summoned him, even before they left Fort William.

“You look like you haven't shaved for a month,” said the voice. It was deep, basso, commanding and in control. It was the man he'd fought side by side with, and the man he'd killed for.

It was the Colonel. Masterman. It was Sentinel.

It had been a little over two years since they'd last met, at the funeral for a former Redaction team member who had been killed during an operation in Rome. Masterman, once a large and powerful man, now resembled a broken scarecrow. His frame had lost all of its bulk and his body was contorted at unnatural angles, almost as if he was wracked with pain whenever he moved. His complexion was pale, and sickly. The Colonel looked like a man ten years older than his true age. Except for the voice and of course, those eyes, which still held the familiar bombastic fire.

Masterman, to his credit, took the shock and surprise on Grant's face well. “I had a run in with some flying lead and explosives. It ripped apart most of my back, damaged my spine and broke one of my legs. Not to mention what it did to my face.” Masterman raised one hand up to the scar tissue running across his face.

Grant eased himself into a chair; he could feel his legs trembling with shock. “Jesus, Colonel, you should have let me know, I would have come—”

Masterman interrupted, clearly not interested in any pity or remorse for his plight. “Pah, you had enough to deal with. I understand that now – you'd been through a rough operation. It hit you harder than you liked to admit and the best thing for your sanity was to give yourself some air to breathe, away from the death and the killing. Not that we didn't miss you, Jack. Many a time we could have done with your pistol skills, to assist us in halting a bit of trouble.”

“What happened? Was it a mission?”

Masterman nodded, wincing with the movement. “I was ambushed by a dead man, or at least, we all thought he was dead.” Masterman paused and Grant suspected he was using the extended silence, to decide how much to tell him. Finally he said, “It was your old team mate, Trench. We had word that he'd been taken out during an operation several months before in Macau, and I had no reason to doubt the information. Until I see him sitting in a sniper's perch, shooting down my security team and killing my informant in Australia.”

For a moment Grant couldn't take it all in. Trench gone rogue! What the hell had been happening in the year since he'd left the Service?

“I never trusted the bastard, but to his credit, he was a damned good Redactor. Trench is working for some very bad people, it seems, and they're the reason I need you back in the game and operational,” Masterman added.

“What? Me! I'm out of it, Colonel,” spluttered Grant.

“Our country is under attack,” said Masterman. “And the average man and woman on the street haven't even got a clue about it… yet. Besides you're never completely out of it… not in our game.”

Grant stared at Masterman, trying to assess if his old comrade was serious. Masterman, Grant knew, wasn't prone to bouts of melodrama. He saw the fear in the other man's eyes and spoke. “Alright. Tell me everything.”

“It started with an investigation,” Masterman began. “The Chief had personally involved himself in the smallest details of the case. He judged it to be of such significant threat to the nation, that he took charge of it himself. The details, even now, are still hazy and unclear. I received a package a week after C was killed, containing copies of the evidence he'd accumulated. Sir Richard was a careful man and it seems he feared he would be a target for assassination. He had evidently chosen me to pick up the mantel and carry on the fight… little did he know, I'd been taken out of the game as well.”

Masterman glanced down at his damaged body, pausing for a moment of reflection before he carried on. “It seems the Chief had been approached directly, by a former agent from his old wartime network, someone who had been part of an operation during the war in Asia. You know how it is; sometimes old agents pop up and try to make themselves useful again. Most of the time they're just after cash, needing a hand-out and missing the workings of the intelligence game, but according to the information I inherited; this agent was unique. This man had become aware of an organisation, one that if not controlled properly, could have been a threat greater than anything we've faced so far.”

“What kind of organisation? Terrorist?” asked Grant.

Masterman shook his head. “Not exactly. It borders on a private intelligence network, subsidised by the use of mercenaries for hire, private assassins and illegal arms deals in the region. All to the highest bidder, I might add. There were even rumours that they'd waged a war with several Yakuza clans in Japan, but the Yakuza fought back by forming an alliance. It was a close run thing though, and the gangsters were lucky to make it out alive.”

“So what was the information about?”

“Just rumours at first, talk of extortion, terrorist actions, the usual rubbish that we get all the time. But this one was a bit different… there was talk of a weapon, that if unleashed could have been devastating,” answered Masterman.

Grant cocked his head to one side. “A weapon. Explosives? Missiles?”

“No. A biological weapon, something we hadn't seen before and way beyond anything our experts have at the moment. Even now, the details on it are a tad vague. The Chief communicated secretly with his former agent and requested more details. What he discovered seemed to shock him into action. According to his private diary, he immediately ordered the agent to come into protective custody and make himself known to the SIS Head of Station in Hong Kong.”

“And did he?”

“No. The agent never made it. He was found with his throat slit, the day before he was due to meet with the Head of Station. Someone had gotten to him first, before we could question him in more detail. In the months following this event, the Chief's patience appears to have grown short and he targeted SIS resources at finding out more about the people behind this organisation, and the possible whereabouts of the bio-weapon.”

Grant frowned. Whatever this bio-weapon was, it had been enough to have the Chief of the Secret Intelligence Service frightened. The whole situation seemed rather seedy and totally un-British. Since when did the SIS back down against terrorists? Something didn't add up. “What about Redaction? Couldn't you have sent the boys after them?” he asked.

Masterman paused, slowly moving his wheelchair until it was directly facing Grant. He pulled out a commando dagger from a sheath on the wheelchair, and pointed it at Grant like a schoolmaster instructing a pupil who is being particularly dense. “Redaction is gone, Jack. We were decimated. All your old team mates were wiped out by agents from this organisation. Following C's assassination and my shooting in Australia, the powers-that-be decided we'd outlived our usefulness and we should be scattered to the winds.”

Grant stared at his former leader in shock. Redaction – gone? The elite of SIS destroyed? These men had been the action arm of the British Secret Service! How could all of them have been… murdered? “What about the Service? What state is that in?”

“It's a cabal,” growled Masterman. “The lunatics have taken over the asylum, the Service is being stripped to its core and the politicians are in charge and they're making a right balls-up of it. At this rate, the Russians won't have to penetrate SIS – they'll be able to read all our secrets in the newspaper.”

“Who's in charge? Who is the new 'C'?” Grant asked. He was finding it hard to absorb all the radical changes which had apparently taken place in his old Service.

“Some career diplomat, a bit of a fop in my opinion. Sir John Hart.” Masterman shrugged, his expression softening slightly. “He's not a bad man, comes from a good family by all accounts. But he's out of his depth, and hasn't a clue how bone-to-bone intelligence operations really work. He's leaning a lot on Thorne's arm and in effect, he's taking his orders from him.”

Grant's brow furrowed. The name sounded familiar, but he couldn't quite place it. Masterman helped him out. “Sir Marcus Thorne, former member of the Service way back in the bad old days, now Deputy Chairman of the Joint Intelligence Committee. He stepped in when the crisis began, helped negotiate with these… these terrorists. Hs advice has been invaluable. He's been put in charge of re-aligning the old SIS departments, and bringing new people up, to take over from the old guard.”

A kingmaker
, thought Grant. Someone able to wield enough power to nudge the pieces on the chess board to wherever he wanted them. The hierarchy of the intelligence world always threw up such men; power hungry, ambitious, ruthless and willing to decimate a Secret Service to achieve their aims.

“So what is all this then?” said Grant, waving a hand at their secret meeting. “If Redaction is blown, what exactly is going on with all this?”

Masterman smiled, the scars on his face wrinkling maniacally like a cruel pirate. “This is private enterprise, Jack old boy. This is deniable all the way. SIS doesn't even know we exist. They think we're all retired, disabled, injured or drunk. This is about a debt of honour. This is about pure and bloody revenge.”

* * *

“Be a good chap Jordie and put the movie on,” said Masterman. Penn flicked the switch on a hidden movie projector, bringing it to life. A white light lit up the opposite wall and the inevitable number countdown began. The film started. It was dark and grainy, but clear in its detail. The footage had obviously been taken from behind a two-way mirror. What it showed was a small cell, no bigger than a standard prison cell. Except this cell had a small aperture built into one wall, which allowed something the size of a small suitcase to be pushed through in one direction. In the other corner of the cell was a young boy, no more than ten or twelve years of age. He looked like an Asian street kid, who had been imprisoned for some petty crime. His clothes were tattered and hung off his thin frame. He was huddled on the floor, his knees drawn up to his chest.

Grant looked more closely at the footage and noticed that in the bottom corner of the room, there were ventilation grills. Some kind of smoke or mist was being filtered through them and into the cell. Not in great plumes, but enough to make the small space cloudy for a few moments at a time. The boy barely seemed to notice, his head was down as if he was trying to block out his fate. While Grant watched, he began to twitch, almost imperceptibly at first, a flinch of a shoulder, a snap of his head, the shudder of a foot then an arm.

Grant turned to Masterman, a look of confusion on his face. Masterman, as if he guessed what the other man was thinking, merely pointed a finger at the footage and said, “Keep watching.”

Grant turned back to the film and saw that the boy was now bent forward on his hands and knees. His whole body was shaking and convulsing, and it seemed to be…
stretching
, almost as if his bone structure was extending swiftly, visibly increasing the young boy's size. Without warning, the boy launched himself head first at the two-way mirror, and a large crack appeared where his skull impacted on the safety glass. Blood poured down his face from a gash on his forehead, but still the boy drove himself forward, banging against the glass with his fists, knees and feet. The glass was actually vibrating, from the level of punishment it was taking. Still trying to process what he was seeing, Grant was stunned when the small door in the corner of the room was lifted and, rather bizarrely, a goat was pushed into the cell before the door quickly snapped shut behind it. The boy didn't seem to notice the animal at first; still too busy using the mirror as target practice. It was only when the terrified animal bleated that the crazed boy stopped and turned. In a sharp movement he twisted his body around, leaping across the cell and onto the animal.

God he was fast,
thought Grant.
He'd spied the goat and moved across the room in a blur of movement.

Grant forced himself to watch the events unfolding. It wasn't pleasant and it wasn't easy, but force himself he did. The boy ripped at the small goat with his bare hands, manipulating it and pulling it down onto the floor before he set his mouth against the animal's throat. The boy's teeth found their target and when he bit deeply into the goat's neck, the blood flew. What followed was a cacophony of flying fur, snapping bones and an explosion of blood as the animal was ripped to pieces within seconds. There was a short cut away and the next scene revealed a guard wearing a gas mask entering the cell. He strode up to the boy, who was still pummelling the remains of the goat with his bloodied hands, and quickly shot the boy in the head with a pistol.

The scene abruptly cut away and the cell was replaced by a darkened room, possibly an office. A figure sat in shadow behind a desk, only the merest glint of light revealing him in silhouette. A single, well-manicured hand could be seen, the fingers drumming calmly on the desk. The rest of the body remained completely still, and when the figure spoke, his voice was deep and chilling. “I am the Raven, the gatherer of death, the demon of nightmares. I am here and I am nowhere. I will strike at the hearts of your children and take great revelry in the slaughter of your warriors. My legacy will be your torment for generations to come and you will learn to kneel before me, or face the wrath of my
Kyonshi
! The
Karasu-Tengu
will have his feast.” The screen went blank as the spool of film wound off and the room was once more shrouded in blackness, the silence thick when Jordie switched of the projector.

“What the hell was that? Is that the bio-weapon at work?” Grant asked, his face stamped with a mixture of anger and disgust.

“We call it Beserker,” said Masterman. “That's the codename we've given it. They call it
Kyonshi
, which is Japanese for living dead. We believe it's some kind of next-generation drug. It's far beyond anything we currently have. C's notes suggest that the weapon's initial purpose may have been targeted towards revolutionary-coup operations in third world countries; Vietnam, Bolivia and Cuba to name but a few. The toxin would be released in a confined space – say an office, or a high street – where it would interact with the local populace. The infected would begin to physically attack and kill their fellow citizens. As you can imagine, based on what you've seen in the film, it would cause widespread chaos and anarchy. Effectively, the country's own population would be fighting against itself.”