Sentinel Five

Chapter Two

Chapter TwoARISAIG, 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 b****y 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 b****y 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. b****y 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 b****y 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 b****y pulp.

Jack Grant snarled. “Well, Mr. Penn, you better tell me what you want b****y 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.