A Covert War

by Michael Parker

  David could think of nothing he could do, given the circumstances of his confinement that could help Abdul in any way. But he asked, naturally.

  ‘What can I do?’ He shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘You wrote something, a long time ago. Remember?’

  David thought back to when he had been taken from the hospital. One of Abdul’s men had given him a notebook and asked him to write down what had happened at the Mission. David needed time to bring himself to recall on paper exactly what he had seen and what had transpired. And when he had written just a couple of pages, the book had been taken away from him. He decided then it was the beginning of their mind games; deprivation: giving something and then taking it away.

  While David was thinking, Abdul watched him carefully.

  ‘We took the book and removed a lot of the empty pages. Then we soiled it, made it looked as though you had written it while being desperately ill.’

  ‘Why did you do that?’ David asked, frowning.

  Abdul smiled. ‘Pretence,’ he said, then he took an apple from the bowl of fruit that was on the table and bit into it. He carried on talking as he was chewing the apple.

  ‘I want you to write a letter to the man you served in British Intelligence. I will tell you what to write. But first I want to know how much you trusted him, and if you still trust him.’

  David lifted his hand and ran his fingers through his hair. He felt some comfort in being able to do that in front of the man who could order his death as easily as ordering a Hookah pipe. It was an absurd notion, but it implied a degree of relative ease within himself.

  ‘How can I answer that honestly?’ he queried. ‘I was working for a man who held many secrets; someone who has worked in powerful positions in the military. He was my boss and I was his employee. Do your men trust you?’

  ‘We trust Allah, who knows everything.’

  ‘That doesn’t answer my question, Abdul. How can I say to you that I trust my boss when I have been your prisoner for...’ He stopped; it occurred to David that he wasn’t really sure just how long he had been in captivity. ‘How long have I been here?’

  Abdul shrugged. ‘No matter, you will write the letter and then, one day you might be a free man.’ He stood up. ‘Inshalla!’

  And with that he walked out of the room leaving David to wonder if this was to be more of the mind games.

  ***

  Marcus found a newspaper shop and bought a packet of envelopes. Then he went looking for a photocopier, finding one in an internet café. He took the photograph of Cavendish from his wallet and copied it a few times. Then he disfigured the face of the minister and wrote the words ‘Covent Garden’ on the top of the picture. Beneath this he wrote the words: “I will call mid-day for three days.” Then he slipped the copy into an envelope and wrote “For the attention of Sir Giles Cavendish only”.

  Satisfied with what he had done, he retraced his footsteps to the Embankment and MI6 headquarters.

  EIGHT

  Three days after Marcus had delivered his envelope by hand; there was a reception at the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square. John Deveraux, the Military Attaché caught up with Chief Master Sergeant Danny Grebo and parted him from an attractive, female journalist representing CNN. He led Grebo away to a reasonably quiet area in the large reception room.

  ‘I think it looks less obvious if we talk here rather than in my office, Chief,’ Deveraux told him. ‘But we do need to talk.’

  Grebo smiled and tried to look as though he was simply indulging in pleasantries. ‘Yes, I know sir, but it depends what you want to talk about.’

  ‘Cavendish is getting too close,’ Deveraux admitted. ‘He freaked the English minister out.’

  Grebo thought he detected a sense of strain in the attaché’s voice. He hadn’t been involved in the assassination of the British minister, but was fairly confident that Deveraux had called the shots; it had been his decision.

  ‘I thought it was too public, whatever the reasons,’ Grebo told him. ‘The crap has really hit the fan now.’

  Deveraux took a drink from a passing waiter, leaving his empty glass on a sideboard nearby. ‘The British are blaming Muslim terrorists.’

  ‘Very convenient,’ Grebo offered. ‘But why so sudden?’

  ‘We have a shipment due in. Cavendish wanted names; he had the minister over a barrel.’

  Grebo frowned. ‘How come?’

  So Deveraux told him. Grebo whistled softly through his teeth. ‘I thought the girls were makeweights; something to sweeten the pill for these perverts.’ He paused and sipped consciously at his champagne. ‘They lost one?’ he asked eventually, disbelief all over his face.

  ‘That’s not important; the girls mean nothing.’ He put on a smile for the benefit of whoever might be looking in their direction. ‘We’re sitting on a billion dollar operation here and those idiots can’t keep their sexual peccadilloes out of it. They could pull a couple of frigging whores out of the city and do it without dragging The Chapter into it.’

  It was unusual for The Chapter to be named in any conversation between those men who headed up the organisation, unless there was a specific need for it. For that reason, Grebo realised that Deveraux’s action in ordering the assassination of the government minister smacked of a keenly felt worry about the organisation’s security.

  ‘How many were involved?’ Grebo asked him.

  ‘Three,’ Deveraux replied. ‘Fortunately, Cavendish was only interested in the Cabinet minister.’

  ‘As far as you know,’ Grebo put in.

  ‘As far as I know,’ Deveraux admitted and looked around the room, smiling at whoever was looking directly at him. He caught the Ambassador’s eye and regretted it immediately. He turned to Grebo.

  ‘Looks like we’ll be splitting up. Ring me later.’ He checked his watch. ‘About five this evening? Remember, we have to stop Cavendish.’ He raised his voice a little as the Ambassador came up beside them. ‘So, when is it you leave the service, Chief?’ he was saying. Grebo looked at the Ambassador, Deveraux turned. ‘Ah, Ambassador, allow me to introduce Chief Master Sergeant Danny Grebo.’

  The two men shook hands and began a desultory conversation as Deveraux made his excuses and left the two men talking.

  ***

  The phone rang and Cavendish picked it up. ‘Sir Giles Cavendish.’

  ‘Thought you’d been avoiding me,’ Marcus said to him. Twice he had rung and twice he had been fobbed off with somebody purporting to be from Sir Giles Cavendish’s office and was sorry that Sir Giles was away on important business.

  ‘I presume you’ve seen the photograph?’ Marcus asked him.

  Cavendish sighed deeply. ‘I hope this isn’t a very feeble attempt at blackmail, whoever you are.’

  ‘No blackmail, I promise. Well,’ Marcus said hurriedly, ‘perhaps a little persuasion.’

  Cavendish listened for some background noise. He could hear the muffled sound of traffic, so assumed the caller was in a public call box somewhere. It didn’t sound as intense as London traffic might.

  ‘Isn’t that the same thing?’ Cavendish asked. ‘Unless I do as you ask, you will take a copy of the photograph to the newspapers and try to implicate me in something that could seriously jeopardise my livelihood. Or something like that.’

  ‘Not quite, Sir Giles,’ Marcus told him, ‘but I do need your cooperation.’

  ‘Cooperation about what, may I ask; cooperation for what you want?’

  Marcus grinned on the other end of the phone and looked at his watch. Another minute and he would have to hang up. ‘Cooperation on behalf of a client of mine,’ he told the security chief.

  ‘A client? So you are a professional, are you?’ Cavendish asked a little mockingly. ‘And exactly what profession is it you practice?’

  ‘I’ll ring you again tomorrow while you think about it today,’ Marcus answered and put the phone down.

  Cavendish looked at the phone and put it down gently in its cradle
. Whoever it was, he thought to himself, was playing a dangerous game. It would be interesting to track him down and learn the real reason for his phone call.

  There was a knock at his office door.

  ‘Come in,’ he called.

  ‘A young man came in clutching a notepad. He closed the door behind him.

  ‘We traced the call to a phone box in Clapham, sir. That means he has phoned twice from the same box in the City and once from a box in Clapham.’

  He waited for Cavendish to make some comment, but it was obvious that his boss was mulling something over. He wouldn’t go until he was dismissed. Eventually Cavendish moved and opened a draw in his desk. He took a pad from it and began leafing through it. Then his face brightened triumphantly.

  ‘Susan Ellis,’ he said to the young man. ‘Susan Ellis lives at Clapham. I want you to check her phone records and find out if she has been in touch with any professional organisations within the last week. Let me have the list as soon as you can.’

  The young man dipped his head in acknowledgment and left the office. Cavendish looked at his watch, feeling pretty good. Time, he thought, to have lunch.

  ***

  Deveraux made the call that would see the end to Cavendish’s pursuit of those connected with The Chapter. It was short and to the point. He advised extreme caution because of Cavendish’s position within British Intelligence. And there was little point in trying to make it look like an accident, he warned the person on the other end of the phone; scientific analysis of a crime scene was so sophisticated now it was almost impossible to fool the crime scene investigators.

  ‘Just make sure,’ he insisted, ‘that the target is dead.’

  ***

  Cavendish finished his lunch at The Crown, a Victorian pub on the Embankment opposite the Tate Gallery. He would often use the pub and then spend an hour or so wandering among the paintings hanging in the Tate, enjoying the ambience and the quiet. Cavendish found that the peaceful atmosphere often helped him to unlock difficult cases or come to terms with operations that had gone badly wrong.

  His mobile phone vibrated in his pocket, dragging his mind back to reality and he walked out of the Tate and dialled his office.

  ‘We’ve got a couple of names, sir. Best you look yourself, but I think we have the man you’re looking for.’

  Cavendish smiled and put the phone back in his pocket and caught a taxi back to the MI6 headquarters a short distance away.

  The information in front of him on his desk showed the phone calls that Susan Ellis had made over the course of a week. There were several professional organisations that Cavendish recognised and dismissed immediately, but one organisation which stood out was that of Guard Right Services. And the address placed it within yards of the public call box that had been used by the mysterious caller when he made the calls from a City of London call box. It had been highlighted as the ‘most likely’ among all the others. And alongside the name of the Company was that of Marcus.

  Cavendish looked across the desk at the young intelligence agent who had supplied the information.

  ‘I want you to find out as much as you can about this Marcus Blake.’ He paused because the name seemed to ring a bell but he couldn’t place it. He shook his head; it wasn’t important. ‘Then I want you to make an appointment to see him tomorrow morning, if possible. Use any name, but I will be going along myself. Oh yes, and I want you to put someone on Susan Ellis; she may be entirely innocent in all this, but I think it might be pertinent to keep an eye on her and any callers she has.’

  ***

  Abdul drove the minibus with all the skill and assurance of a man who had been doing it for years. It was a kind of disguise for him; because his presence outside his own fiefdom would mean grave danger if he was recognised. He had discarded the Shalwar Kadiz dress of long shirt and baggy pants, or pantaloons that were de rigeur for all Taliban converts, even though he wasn’t one. Now he was wearing a traditional Afghan pakol hat, a chapan jacket and loose fitting pantaloons.

  Beside Abdul in the front seat was his right hand man, Habib and behind him, sitting next to David was his third in command, Kareem. Abdul went nowhere without these two men, and it was a testament to them that he was prepared to trust them with his life this far away from the relative safety of his own people.

  The three men had travelled with Abdul from the northern province of Zabor beyond Kandahar. They were now driving through the hills approaching Jalalabad, about one hundred miles or so east of the capital, Kabul.

  David understood that this strange, new treatment of him by Abdul did not mean he was now considered a ‘trusty’, or whatever the equivalent was in this troubled country. No, David was still bound, although discreetly, and there was no way in which he could flee from his captors.

  Abdul had made it clear to David that he was something of an investment now, but it had not been made too clear exactly what he had meant by that. Shortly after being told that he wanted him to write a letter, Abdul had appeared with pen and paper and instructed David to write to his sister, Susan.

  David was staggered at the request; he thought the letter he was going to write was to have been to his old boss, Sir Giles Cavendish. He was also surprised when Abdul mentioned Susan, and when David asked what he should write, Abdul simply shrugged and told him to write the kind of things he would normally write to a member of his family. Once the letter had been written, and David had put as much in as he felt would be allowed, one of Abdul’s men took it away.

  The minibus pulled off the main highway leading away from Jalalabad and turned on to a dirt road that wound its way towards the foothills and eventually the Mission orphanage.

  David recognised much of the countryside and immediately began to feel a hurt deep inside. He recalled fond memories; memories he no longer wanted to have, but the lush green vegetation, the old road and the backdrop of the mountains were dragging him back to that moment when his heart died with Shakira.

  The minibus bumped and groaned its way up the dirt road until the Mission came into view. It was a single story building with other, smaller outbuildings scattered around it. There was a fenced compound and a set of gates that were now closed. David remembered they had always been open.

  He glanced up towards that place in the hill above the Mission where Shakira had died and, metaphorically speaking, so had he. He turned away and looked at the back of Abdul’s head and wondered what part he had played in the massacre.

  Abdul pulled up at the gates and a turbaned Afghan walked over to the minibus. He was carrying a machine gun over his shoulder. Abdul put the window down and jabbered away at the man. David understood much of what was said. Eventually the man sauntered over to the gates and pulled them open. Abdul shoved the minibus into gear and accelerated through the opening, throwing up clouds of dust.

  It was all very bewildering and not making a lot of sense to David. He couldn’t for the life of him think why Abdul had taken all this trouble to drive some distance from his own province down to Jalalabad. Whatever it was, it must have been important and probably worth a lot of money to the warlord.

  Abdul pulled up outside the front doors of the Mission. Above the doors was the legend; The First Chapter. David glanced at it and remembered Shakira telling him that it meant the first chapter of a journey that deprived and orphaned children would embark upon to a new life in the West. He could see the bullet holes, unrepaired still in the woodwork.

  David was ordered out and scrambled down from the minibus, helped by Abdul’s two minders. The four men walked into the Mission, but once inside, Abdul gestured to his men to take David along the passageway to another room. He then made his way to the office.

  It crossed David’s mind that he might be recognised by one of the staff there, but considering it was a year ago that the attack happened, plus the fact that David was now wearing a full beard and was also dressed like Abdul and his men; it meant that he was literally unrecognisable.

  After abo
ut ten minutes, and also having been escorted to the toilet, David was pleased to see some food and drink brought in. The man who brought it in said nothing. He even avoided eye contact, which didn’t surprise David either. He ate a good meal, which also included English tea much to his delight and surprise.

  It was about an hour later when Abdul appeared and signalled that they were leaving. Once again David was herded like the prisoner he was by the two minders to the minibus. Still not sure why all this was happening, David began to adopt a kind of philosophical attitude, and had been ruminating on all kinds of theories when Abdul suddenly appeared with three, young children. A woman, dressed in the Catholic style nun’s outfit, accompanied the children. She spoke warmly to Abdul and then bobbed courteously before turning and going back into the mission.

  The children had a very small bag each. Abdul took the bags from them and shepherded them into the minibus. Without any words spoken between them, the three children were settled into the empty seats. Abdul gunned the motor into life and roared out of the mission gates. And just as he cleared the gates he turned and said to David, ‘Your letter is on its way.’ Then he looked back at the road ahead and up at a darkening sky. ‘We stay in a safe house tonight and tomorrow we return home.’

  ***

  Marcus checked his watch for the about the tenth time that morning. He had only looked at it a few minutes earlier. He was getting fidgety, waiting for a client who had been very close mouthed about what it was he wanted Guard Right Security to do for him. But Marcus had little or no option when asked for an appointment; after all, he was supposed to be in the security business.

  It was past mid-day and the appointment and been made for twelve o’clock. Marcus wasn’t the best time keeper in the world, but he did expect others to be; one of his failings probably.

  It was twelve thirty when Marcus heard the door at the bottom of the stairs creak open. He then heard the familiar tread of someone on the stairs as the steps creaked and groaned beneath the person’s weight. His mind went back to a few days earlier when it had been Susan Ellis who had trod that path to his office, and found himself wishing he had a good reason to call her and offer to take her out to dinner again. But after the incident with the two muggers, Susan seemed quite reluctant to want to see him again. He decided to phone Cavendish as soon as he had finished dealing with the next appointee and then maybe he would have a good reason to call Susan.