by Chris Allen
Ashcroft-James nodded.
“Sorting out whoever’s running major operations without your approval is a matter for you, Violet. For now, perhaps you’d be so kind as to tell me all about your man, Lundt. The truth this time.” Davenport’s tone suddenly took on a distinctly dangerous bite that was legendary around Whitehall. “Because I agreed to put a man into the middle of this mess on the understanding that you had lost two good agents, only to find SIS suspected all along that one of them, Lundt, was bent and the other man, Collins, had actually been sent to kill him.”
CHAPTER 45
LONDON
“So, how are you coming along? On the mend?”
“Yes, sir,” Morgan replied, standing across from Davenport. “All good. The doctor issued me with a clean bill of health and Tom Rodgers has been putting me through the paces. I seem to be holding up OK.”
“Good. That’s good news. Rodgers is a good man. Dangerous bugger, too.”
“Yes, sir.”
It was clear the general was distracted. There was an uneasy silence.
“You’ve been nominated for a bravery award, by the way.”
“What for, sir?”
“Malfajiri. News travels fast through the corridors of Westminster,” replied Davenport. “I received word today. And the helicopter pilot, Kruger? A similar recommendation will be made to the South African Government. Posthumously, of course.”
“Kruger definitely deserves something. But … I was a few breaths away from coming home in a box. Fredericks and Garrett, they’re the ones who should be getting medals. They fought their way back from the evacuation point, dragged me out.”
“Well, apparently it’s the Chiltonford management who made the submission to the Foreign Office based on the recommendations of those very men. By all accounts, you handled yourself admirably out there, Alex. In the meantime, there’s work to be done.”
Davenport left these words hanging and took from his desk a file emblazoned with the title DEFENDER: 012910/43. All Intrepid operations began with the designator DEFENDER, and 012910/43 was the mission number allocated to the illegal arms supply to the Malfajiri rebel forces. Morgan’s spirits lifted immediately.
“So, where to from here in the search for the elusive Mr. Lundt?” the general asked, picking up the file and motioning for Morgan to join him at the small table where Mrs. Jolley had laid out coffee. “Have you ever come across Abraham Johnson?”
“I know the name, sir. Never met him, though.” They sat down. “Pretty senior guy over at the Foreign Office. Political Directorate, I think. Isn’t he the acting boss at present?”
“Yes, that’s right. Bill Evans has been out of action for many months. Good man. Cancer. Some say he may never return. What have you heard about Johnson?”
“Not a great deal. I don’t get the impression he’s very popular. Dictator, constantly looking for an ass to kiss.”
“That’s the man.”
Davenport drank his coffee and took a moment to enjoy it. “Some time ago, I played a hunch, Alex. I sowed a seed with Mr. Johnson.”
“How so?” What was the old man up to?
“I stroked his ego. Led him to believe I was taking him into my confidence over this Chiltonford issue. Wanted to see which way he’d play it. The man’s driven by self-aggrandizement, has been for years. So, with the sniff of a possible victory over SIS and the chance to cement himself in as director-general at the Foreign Office permanently, it wasn’t hard to get him to take the bait.”
“You think Johnson’s bent?” Morgan shifted in his seat.
“Johnson is considered competent enough,” the general continued, “but, as you have so eloquently put it, he is a renowned sycophant. The opportunity to discredit SIS is serious motivation for him. But it doesn’t end there. My suspicions are shared by someone I rate very highly.”
“Commissioner Hutton?” Morgan knew of the respect the two men had for each other.
Davenport nodded. “For years, Sinclair Hutton and I speculated about the existence of a group of players within Whitehall entrenched in the illicit arms trade. There have been cases where the evidence screamed a British influence, one requiring the seniority, autonomy and experience to operate beyond the reach of ministerial interference.”
“What’s made you head for Johnson?” Morgan asked. If the general was correct, just how entrenched were these players within the pillars of British government departments? And who among them had set up Collins?
“To start with, it was purely gut instinct. Recently a number of more compelling issues have drawn us toward him.” Davenport smiled.
He took Morgan through his numerous discussions with Ashcroft-James, breaking down the complex sequence of events that had led to the interest in Gregory Cornell, Lundt and now Johnson. Davenport described Scotland Yard’s surveillance of Cornell, which had identified – quite unexpectedly – that SIS agents were also following him. With great discomfiture, Ashcroft-James had conceded, and her deposition had confirmed, that Lundt was operating outside the wire.
Morgan’s frustration at the imbecility of the government machine was building. How often were departments at war with each other at the expense of their responsibilities?
“None of this would have come to light if I hadn’t been invited to assist SIS in Malfajiri,” Davenport said.
“Jesus,” Morgan exclaimed. He dragged an agitated hand through his hair. “Meanwhile, whoever’s behind Lundt must have been frothing at the mouth in anticipation of Baptiste seizing power. His first job as their puppet president would no doubt have been to award them exclusivity to Malfajiri’s rutile and diamond mines.”
“Cornell remains our prime suspect as Lundt’s contact here in London. We follow him to get to Lundt, and the money behind him.”
“And you think it’s Johnson?” Morgan’s mind was racing, processing the reams of information that were now filling in the gaps. He shifted heavily in his seat opposite Davenport.
“I believe Johnson is a key player, yes. Although, he’s no mastermind. More of a general manager, I suspect, answering to a board of directors. Confirming that will be for another day. Today our priority is to confirm unequivocally that a link exists between Cornell and Lundt, and then, hopefully, between Cornell, Lundt and Johnson. At this point, we have only a very tenuous link with Cornell as the common thread. Yesterday, Cornell was recorded making a telephone call direct to a number that Hutton’s people have managed to link to Johnson. The message was strange; a plea for help, of sorts, but not the sort of conversation one would expect between two people who are familiar with each other. So Johnson would easily walk away from any allegation of an illicit involvement with Cornell, if all we had was the recording.”
“What about that memory stick I took from Turner? Did the IT squids turn up anything?”
“On the surface it all appeared to be legitimate business-related correspondence between Alga Creek Mining Corporation and its various partners. However, I asked the chief of staff to have the analysts trawl through every scrap of information it contained, including cross-referencing the membership of the various boards and senior shareholders of Alga Creek’s partners. Buried deep within thousands of pieces of general correspondence they found encrypted files containing letters relating to a shadow company called The Renegade Group, of which the wife of a certain Abraham Johnson is a major shareholder. But Turner was only a middle man, and he’s disappeared, too. Using him to get to Johnson is out.”
“Can’t we just pressure Cornell to get to Johnson? He seems to be the patsy in all this, but there must be something we’ve got on him that we can use as leverage?”
“Cornell is way out of his league. I suspect he was cultivated for some time and was flattered by the notion that his position was of greater value outside the Foreign Office. Of course, he would have been given some incentive: sex, money, drugs. He would only have to have accepted it once, and then they had him.”
“Blackmail.”
“So, we push him some more. Bring him in and shake him up a bit. Shouldn’t take much effort to get him to talk. This time, he can do some good. Where is he?”
“Boarded a plane for Australia this morning.”
“Damn it!” Morgan exclaimed, exasperated. Then he sized up the expression on Davenport’s face. “You’re letting him go, expecting he’ll lead us to Lundt.”
“And flush out Johnson in the process. We need to coax Victor Lundt out from whatever rock he’s hiding under. I’ve convinced Hutton and Ashcroft-James to pull back and let Cornell fly the coop so I can use him.”
“Right, sir,” Morgan said, “when do I leave?”
“You’re on the last flight out this evening. Your confederate, Commander Sutherland, is already en route,” Davenport gave a conspiratorial smile. “Left this morning. Same flight as Cornell, I believe. Sutherland’s recovering from knee surgery, but can still make himself useful. He’ll set up the necessary arrangements and meet you when you arrive.”
“I’d best get cracking.” Morgan stood to leave.
“Just a moment, Alex.” Davenport returned to the file he’d been reading. “There’s more.”
“Sir?” Morgan resumed his seat.
“During the Scotland Yard surveillance of Cornell, we managed to positively identify the SIS agents who had been following him. However, there was one face we struggled to identify. Violet Ashcroft-James had a look, realized who it was, and thought it to be an important development. Perhaps you may recognize her?” the general said with a raised eyebrow. He spun a couple of color images around.
Morgan’s heart stopped.
Arena Halls was snapped sitting alone at a table by the window of a pub. In another image, she was leaving the premises, pulling on a coat. She wore a fitted beige angora twinset, a tight black skirt and knee-high black suede boots, and her blond hair and crystal blue eyes were unmistakable. A note below the image said: The Duke, Richmond. The date indicated it was taken two nights ago. She looked troubled.
Morgan hadn’t seen or heard from Ari since they’d said goodbye in Spain; now, without a word, here she was in London. But wrapped up in all this?
His BlackBerry buzzed in his jacket pocket. He checked it. The red envelope icon told him he had mail.
It was from her.
CHAPTER 46
BELGRAVIA, LONDON
Abraham Johnson, senior civil servant, Companion of the Order of St Michael and St George, and acting director general at the Foreign Office, walked back in to the private study of his London residence. The family home was in Exeter. The children were at university there.
Johnson dropped heavily into the plush leather seat at his desk and waited. His gaze fell upon the dark green folder emblazoned with the national emblem of Malfajiri sitting ominously in the center of the desk. Inside, page upon page chronicled the sequence of events that had resulted in the attempted overthrow of the government of that country. However, the erratic leadership of the rebel leader, Baptiste, was counter to the Renegade Group’s original intentions for Malfajiri, specifically the establishment of a stable and enduring government to function in partnership with Renegade. Consideration now turned to an alternate president, with plans progressing to arrange a resurgence in rebel violence, ultimately leading to the execution of Baptiste and the return of the exiled, much-feared former president, Dr. Patrice T Siziba. On resuming the presidency, Siziba would ensure certain considerations would, as the contract detailed, be made in favor of the Renegade Group of Companies, of which he, Johnson, was a silent partner, although the silence of his association with the Renegade Group did not in any way reflect the extent of his financial interests, which were considerable.
The opportunity to secure the rights to the exploration of oil, gas, copper and gold in key untapped sites throughout Malfajiri would more than make up for the recent setbacks. And while Malfajiri was not totally lost to Renegade, there was no chance of regaining traction without new leadership. Not for a while, at least, and not without attracting attention.
A resurgence of violence and the replacement of Baptiste would be the ideal opportunity for Johnson to redeem himself in the eyes of the Renegade board, that is, the real board, the one that sat well behind, but very much in control of, the public face of the corporation. Johnson thumbed through the file. Latest assessments of oil and gas reserves indicated a potential yield four times greater than original estimates. Success would confirm his appointment to that silent board.
There came a gentle tap on his door.
“Come,” he said.
“Dr. Siziba has arrived, sir,” the butler said. “I have him in the sitting room.”
“Very well, Richard. Please ensure that we’re not disturbed, and tell Mrs. Johnson that if I’m not ready by seven, then she should go on without me. I’ll join her at the restaurant later.”
“Very good, sir. Would you like me to show Dr. Siziba in?”
“No, that’s alright. I’ll collect him. We’ll have coffee in here.”
The butler left with a deferential nod. Johnson stood, straightened his jacket and walked out to the sitting room.
Dr. Siziba’s eyes were cruel, soulless holes that carried not the slightest hint of warmth or humanity. Nestled deep within shadowy, crater-like sockets, their uncompromising attention bore down with the self-assured air of a man confident that his star was on the rise. The skin of his face was a mottled coffee brown, angrily pockmarked by years of adolescent acne. Teeth, partially hidden behind full, feminine lips, were stained yellow by nicotine, and a mat of shiny black hair sitting upon an unusually high forehead was combed back in a petrified wave to crown his fierce, angular features. The title doctor was not one that would normally be associated with this creature. Siziba was a cold, calculating political survivor, reviled in his country, his political allegiances feared by his immediate neighbours.
That was all of little consequence to Abraham Johnson.
“It’s good of you to join me at such short notice, Dr. Siziba. I trust that you are well and your accommodation comfortable?”
“I am and it is,” Siziba replied flatly.
“I’m glad to hear it,” Johnson said. They shook hands. It was the briefest of contact. Siziba’s hand was in and out of Johnson’s with the precision and economy of a stiletto being plunged between ribs.
“Perhaps you would follow me,” said Johnson uncomfortably, guiding Siziba back toward an impeccably furnished sitting area within his study. Coffee had been left for them.
Johnson reclined on the sumptuous burgundy leather sofa opposite Siziba and stared into the dark, vacant eyes of a man who had presided over the murders of many thousands of his countrymen. It mattered not to Johnson. Politics had seen Siziba ousted from the presidency some years ago. Business would see him returned to power.
“So, I think that you would like to discuss some outstanding business with me.”
“I would very much. There are things I would like to discuss in order to guide our respective interests to a position of mutual benefit. Mutual benefit, you will agree, is to remain the basis of our arrangement.”
“I do agree, and I am interested to hear what you have to say. I’m sure you will appreciate that I have been very disappointed with recent events. Although, I am confident you are about to allay any concerns that I have.”
The barb was not lost on Johnson; he had expected a frosty reception. In the interests of expediency, Siziba had been left out of the original plan that had resulted in Baptiste being identified as the most convenient candidate to ascend to the presidency. It had been a mistake. But to Johnson, that was all part of the game. One plan hadn’t worked so an alternative was required. And the Malfajirian’s willingness to talk, despite a bruised ego, was an indication that the man was hungry for the proposal to proceed.
Johnson had thoroughly researched the impact of Siziba’s return and his a
bility to control the planned escalation of rebel violence in Malfajiri. Siziba’s strength and reputation for cold efficiency were needed to restore order where Baptiste had failed. Johnson needed him as much as he needed Johnson.
“Now, there’s something I need you to do for me, doctor. I presume you still have loyal supporters in Australia?”
As their conversation continued, across the street and parked a discreet distance from the residence, Senior Constable David Ingham checked the digital images he had captured as Siziba had arrived.
PART FOUR
THE PEACE DISINTEGRATED
CHAPTER 47
QF32 A380–800
LHR TO SYD VIA SIN
Gregory Cornell felt vindicated.
They had finally acknowledged the role he had played and the risks he had taken. He couldn’t believe how quickly the ticket had been arranged, business class, and the harborside hotel room in Sydney sounded perfect. Of course, the price he had to pay was one final task to attend to: a meeting that was likely to be disagreeable but, in the scheme of things, a small cost to put this whole mess behind him.
He would be free of the constant feeling of dread and scrutiny that had threatened to overwhelm him back in London. Australia would give him time to think, to plan the future.
Cornell knew he could never return to his career with the Foreign Office. He had accepted a substantial amount of money to betray Britain’s interests, and while the bloodhounds of Scotland Yard had not yet beaten a path to his door, it could only be a matter of time – the man on the phone had made that very clear. An early departure from England was the only chance he would have of keeping them at bay. But could he slip away from twenty-two years of government service without signaling culpability? There had already been far too much attention given to his request for special leave. He’d cited health issues, though, and leave had been approved without any impediment. That miserable bastard, Johnson, had said with a smug, patronizing expression, “Of course, take some leave, Gregory. You’ve been looking a little frayed around the edges lately. I’m sure we’ll get by.”
