Sentinel Five (The Redaction Chronicles Book 2) (6 page)

KOWLOON, HONG KONG – OCTOBER 1967

The Caucasian moved confidently through the sultry heat of the busy market place. It was one of the rougher parts of the city and at that time of night, manual workers, traders and street criminals of all persuasions were making their way home or on to their next illegal enterprise. None of them mattered to the Caucasian, he wasn't threatened by them, wasn't scared that he was the only western man in the warren-like maze of the street market. He had a look about him which said 'This is one fight you're going to lose, if you try to fuck with me.'

For the past year his name had been Janner. No first name given, just Janner. Occupation: war zone photojournalist. In truth, his name wasn't Janner and he had no experience in the world of photography or journalism, but it provided a plausible enough cover to allow him to get in and out of countries in the region so that he could indulge in his real occupation – contract murder.

His name had once been Frank Trench, but he was that man no more. He was dressed in the fashion of the day. A light coloured safari suit with bell-bottomed trousers and boots with Cuban heels. His hair had been grown long, past his collar and he now sported a drooping moustache and thick sideburns, as was the current style. Long gone were the Cavalry officers' neat haircut, regulation moustache and three piece suits from Saville Row that he'd worn when he was a member of the Redaction Unit for the British Secret Service in London. This man was rougher around the edges and had the look of some kind of playboy/adventurer, but one who would carry a concealed weapon on his body in case of trouble, which in fact he did; a push-dagger in a covert belt sheath. He continued at his strong pace, his boots clock-clocking on the wet streets, making his presence known amongst the street rats. He liked that, letting them know he was approaching. One of them attempted to talk to him – small and whip-like, a heroin addict probably - and Trench sent a warning glare the man's way. The man cowed and disappeared back into the shadows, scarpering like a cockroach.

If someone were to ask him if he missed the patriotism of working for the Secret Intelligence Service, Trench would have told them to fuck off and pistol-whipped them. Poor money, high risk, no gratitude and no chance of promotion. He thought it had been piss-poor and was nothing like working as a freelancer for his new employers… the complete polar opposite, in fact. Good money, expenses paid, travel to the glamour spots of Asia and as many hookers as he could bang, plus the killing – the killing made it all worthwhile… that and the fact that he was no longer under the thumb of that cripple, Masterman. Yeah, that had been a good day for Frank Trench, the day he'd blown good old Sentinel to kingdom come… the Raven had been especially pleased with him after that hit.

His recruitment into the Raven clan had been less than orthodox, however. It had begun with his final job for Redaction, a little over a year ago, although he didn't truly know it at the time. A trip to Hong Kong, said Masterman, sandbag a senior member of a new and upcoming mercenary organization operating in Asia. The job itself had been easy enough. Picking up the target – a man called Angel – an arms dealer who moved guns for the Japanese underworld and who was reputed to be a main supplier. The job had been simple and after that, it had been nothing Trench hadn't done before. Drug the man, take him to an abandoned location – in this case a warehouse by the docks – interrogate him and then eliminate him. Simple. But there had been something in the way the man had spoken to him. Begged – well, they all did that at this point in the game, when you had a knife at their throat – but it was more than that. It was as if he recognised a kindred spirit in the Redactor. The man had offered Trench a deal. Let him go, give him his freedom and he would reward Trench, and the Raven would reward Trench.

“Why should I?” laughed Trench, flicking his knife eagerly in his fingers.

Angel had smiled in return. “Because, the Raven can offer you far more than Masterman has ever done… Trench.”

Hearing his own name thrown back at him so casually had shaken him to his core and hearing the name of the Head of the Redaction unit, doubly so. These people knew the internal workings of Redaction! How did they have access to that information?

And so Frank Trench had taken the biggest gamble of his life and trusted the man he'd been about to kill. In truth, he'd been waiting for an opportunity, a reason, to move on to a new life. England was dead to him, SIS had used him, and he wanted to be more than a poorly-paid government servant for the rest of his life. So he'd crossed the line and gone rogue, faked his death, taken up a new job, a new face and a new identity. He'd shed Trench and became Janner, hired killer. After that it had been an easy fall, and his knowledge of SIS operations had helped the Raven to dispose of any more Redaction agents sent against him. They had fallen one by one… Spence, Marlowe, Burch and then finally nailing Masterman in Australia… and they all had Frank Trench's mark on them.

His rise over the past year had been meteoric and now he was in charge of talent spotting and running all the European contract killers working for the Raven clan. It had been plain sailing and easy money until last week, when one of his top gunmen, an Australian mercenary by the name of Darren Reierson, had been found with his brains blown out in Holland. The police reports said it was suicide, judging by the forensics – a bullet to the head. Trench wasn't so sure, there was a lot that didn't add up with the picture the police had presented… but what he did know was that he was one 'contractor' down and he had an important hit contract to arrange for the Raven in the next few weeks. Bloody Reierson! Damn him, whether he had killed himself or someone had done it for him!

He moved out of the shadows of the street market and onto the main thoroughfare, heading towards his favourite club, The Pleasure Dome, a first floor dive of a place just off Nathan Road, which offered a good selection of beers and an even better selection of go-go girls. Trench had been in Hong Kong for a little over a week, laying low and enjoying some much deserved rest and recuperation before working out the details of his next contract for the Raven. But for now, he had the night to himself, the bar in his sights and the thought of having enough hard-earned cash in his pocket to pay for two, or maybe three, of his favourite comfort girls. It was going to be a fun night.

* * *

Gorilla spotted Trench when he first entered the nightclub, thanks to the full length mirrors running the length of the bar. In truth, Gorilla would have known it was Trench anywhere. He had the same arrogant swagger and pompous glare he'd always had. Trench's new persona did nothing to hide that. It was the same old game of a 'hard case' walking into a bar. Gorilla knew the rules; he'd used them himself in the past, many times. You slowly stop in the doorway and give a short, sharp glare to the toughest looking bunch in the room. It was a look that says, “I'm here now, this bar belongs to me and you lot are on probation.” Trench had played this game for years and played it well.

The bar was only half full, the late night crowd hadn't yet finished eating before moving into the Pleasure Dome's realm of drinks and girls, and what customers there were had found their own little island pockets of solitude. Gorilla for his part, played his role to perfection. Sitting on one of the stools at the bar, he had the look of a slightly down-at-heel and down on his luck traveller to Hong Kong, complete with hair that needed a good trim, a thick beard and an old suit which was fraying at the cuffs and pockets. He hoped he looked like a gambler who had put everything on red, only to have it come out on black. He was nursing his second drink of the evening, a Navy rum, and he was determined to make it last as long as he could. He watched as Trench made his way to the rear of the club, to a small reserved table, waving to several people on his way. It was a good position Gorilla noted – near a backdoor exit and allowing him full view of the people in the club. Trench scanned the room once, twice and then settled back to sip at the drink a waiter had brought for him.
Obviously a regular, if the waiter knows his poison,
thought Gorilla.

Gorilla continued to sip at his drink while keeping Trench's reflection under surveillance from the corner of his eye. The club was starting to fill up now; at least twenty people had come in during the last few minutes, mainly businessmen looking for a good time with the girls, but there was also the odd European couple, canoodling in the corner and listening to the jazz band playing – playing what, Gorilla didn't know, it sounded bloody awful and not like the jazz he was used to in London. This sounded like someone was torturing a cat.

A few minutes later and nearly at the end of his rum, he felt a tap on his shoulder and was surprised to see Trench's tame waiter standing next to him. He had a stupid grin and a large drink of dubious concoction sitting on the tray in his hands. “The gentleman in the private booth wishes to buy you a drink, sir,” said the waiter in a half Chinese/half cockney accent. His bow tie was crooked and he looked about twelve, Gorilla thought as he weighed up this intelligence. Gorilla shook his head. “Must have the wrong guy, mate, I don't know anyone here. Send it back.”

The waiter shuffled nervously, but stayed static. “Please sir, the drink is an offering from a Mister Janner, a very important customer… please, see for yourself.”

Gorilla turned slowly towards where the waiter was pointing. He knew what was coming next – the face off, his first foray into Trench's new world. They locked eyes, and Gorilla squinted as if he was trying to establish who the man was… then he let dawning realisation spread over his face in the form of a frown. Still the staring contest continued. He turned to the waiter. “Okay, leave the drink, and thank him for me.” By the time he'd taken his first sip of the cocktail – something rum-based which was quite good – Trench was stood next to him, hanging on his shoulder like a vulture. “Hello, Frank. Thanks for the drink, cheers. How you keeping these days?” said Gorilla. He was being deliberately blasé, keeping it light and sipping at his drink.

Trench smiled as he sat on the next stool along and stared at the smaller, dishevelled man. “I'm doing fine, thanks Jack, keeping the wolf from the door.”

“I can tell. I like your costume,” said Gorilla, indicating Trench's ensemble. “What you trying to do, get down with the hippy kids and the youths?”

Trench ignored him; the only sign of his annoyance was a slight flaring of the nostrils.

“You still in?” tested Gorilla. “You on a job out here?”

Trench smiled, and it was a cold hearted, stone killer's smile. “What, you mean you don't know Jack? Is that why you're here? You come to take me back to Blighty in shackles?”

Gorilla deliberately masked his face in confusion, and for the first time that evening, regarded Trench in full. “Sorry Frank, I haven't a bloody clue what you're talking about. I got out a little after Marseilles, after that blow up in Rome. I only went back to quit. SIS did me no favours, I'm afraid.”

“Ah… I heard they treated you badly after the girl got murdered,” Trench said cruelly. He obviously knew it was one of Gorilla's few weak spots and was testing him for his reaction.

“They can go fuck themselves,” said Gorilla bitterly, before downing the rest of his drink in one.

Trench mused upon this. “Really… really… so what you doing for sheckles these days? Whatever it is, it obviously isn't paying
that
well.”

Gorilla glared at Trench and then quickly calmed himself. “I was working a bodyguard job in Europe, decent work and the money was alright for a while…”

“So what happened?” Trench asked, pushing to get to the juicy details.

Gorilla shrugged as if it was all a matter of ancient history. “Ahh well… The boss, the client, was a bit of a prick. He seemed to take it personal when his wife tried to hop into bed with me…”

Trench burst out laughing. “You always were the thinking woman's bit of rough, Jack. So that's why he fired you? Banging his old lady… a bit of a looker, was she?”

Gorilla shook his head. “No, he fired me for breaking his nose when he tried to talk down to me. As I say he was a bit of a prick.”

Trench thought for a moment, seemed to accept Gorilla's explanation for what had happened. The 'Gorilla' always did have a rage inside him, and a penchant for violence. “So what brings you to Hong Kong, Jack?”

Gorilla smiled. “Bit of a holiday, see some of the old stomping grounds, see if there were any work opportunities; that sort of thing.”

“What? Bodyguard work? Don't think that's the right career path for you, Jack, and I don't suppose old busted nose will be writing you any recommendations in the near future.”

Gorilla, laughed at that, despite himself. “Ha, yeah, no chance. Not necessarily just bodyguard work, I'll consider anything at the moment… my cash is running out fast.”

Trench lapsed into silence, and Gorilla hoped he was giving consideration to offering him a job. He knew Trench would need a replacement for Reierson, and he imagined he'd be under pressure to recruit someone soon. The only question was; would he trust Gorilla enough to consider him? Gorilla decided to play it cool and make it seem as if he didn't give a damn either way.

“Yeah, well, thanks for the drink Frank, much appreciated, but don't let me keep you from your night out,” said Gorilla, hopping off the stool and standing as if he was ready to leave.

Trench stopped him with a gently restraining hand. “Hang on a minute, Jack old boy, don't get so antsy, I might just have heard of a whisper of work. It could be right up your street, if you're still up to it.”

Gorilla cocked his head, intrigued. “Go on.”

Trench smiled his crooked smile. “How's about we go over to my table, get a decent bloody drink, shampoo, fancy a bottle of Krug and have a very, very serious chat.”

* * *

Thirty minutes and several glasses of champagne later and Trench was playing his old games. Plotting, planning, scheming, weighing up the risks and desperately trying to get inside Grant's head to discover his motives – if any. Trench moved forwards, backwards and laterally in his questioning of Grant's timeline over the past few months.