A Covert War

by Michael Parker

  A figure appeared behind the opaque glass and Marcus got to his feet as the sound of a knock came at the door. He walked across to the door and pulled it open. The man standing there was a lot older than Marcus had expected, recalling the sound of the person’s voice that had made the appointment. He did a swift mental appraisal of the man and put his age at about sixty. He was about the same height as Marcus and looked in reasonably good condition for his age. All that took Marcus about two seconds as recognition clicked in.

  ‘Sir Giles Cavendish,’ Marcus said with marked surprise. ‘How did you…?’

  ‘I’m in the intelligence business,’ Cavendish answered abruptly and stepped into the office. ‘How else could I have tracked you down?’

  Marcus closed the door behind him and continued to stare at Cavendish, his mouth slightly open while wondering just how he could have tracked him here?

  Cavendish sat down on the chair facing the desk. Marcus walked round the desk and put his finger on a desk diary, open at that day’s date.

  ‘I presume it wasn’t you who made the appointment?’

  Cavendish gave a winsome smile. ‘My office,’ he told Marcus.

  Marcus looked at the name. ‘Trotter?’ He thought of the TV character in the series ‘Only Fools and Horses’. ‘A sense of humour, then,’ he said.

  ‘We do have our moments,’ Cavendish admitted lightly.

  Marcus grunted and sat down. ‘Can I offer you tea or coffee?’ He asked Cavendish.

  Cavendish shook his head. ‘Thank you, no, but what you can offer me is the memory card from your camera and any pictures you have printed out.’

  Marcus reached into a drawer and pulled out an envelope. It dropped it on the desk. ‘I had this ready for when I was supposed to meet you, but you’ve pre-empted me.’

  Cavendish leaned forward and reached across the desk to take the envelope, but Marcus kept his hand on it and shook his head. ‘Not until you’ve done me the courtesy of answering some questions.

  Cavendish leaned back and waited, saying nothing.

  ‘Why did you lie to Susan Ellis?’ Marcus asked.

  Cavendish frowned. ‘So that’s who you’re working for,’ he said without answering the question.

  Marcus stood up and turned his back on Cavendish. He stood by the window, looking down on to the street. ‘I’m not working for anybody,’ he told Cavendish, watching two men get out of a black Mercedes. ‘Susan came to me because of you, but she couldn’t afford me.’ The men were dressed in black. They were fairly well built and looked as though they had a purpose in whatever it was they were about to do. ‘I decided to do a little investigating and discovered that you did not work for the Foreign Office as you claimed.’ The two men crossed the road as the Mercedes pulled away from the kerb. It moved off quickly and Marcus watched as it reached the top end of the City Road. He glanced back at the two men who had crossed the road and were walking towards the street door leading to his office. When he glanced back towards the top end of the City Road, the Mercedes had completed an illegal turn and was now slowly driving back towards the point where it had dropped the two men, but now on Marcus’s side of the road.

  Marcus swung round and looked at Cavendish. ‘Did you bring two thugs with you, just in case I put up a struggle?’

  Cavendish looked askance. ‘Of course not; I have nothing to fear from you.’

  The door creaked at the foot of the stairs and he heard the first groan of the step. Marcus knew they were not coming up the stairs to ask for an appointment. Suddenly he leapt round the desk and hauled Cavendish to his feet, throwing him up against the far wall.

  ‘Stay there!’ he hissed. ‘Whatever you do, don’t bloody move!’

  He then positioned himself up against the wall beyond the door, flattening his back up against it. Cavendish now looked bewildered but had the sense to see that Marcus was not threatening him with any kind of violence. He could also see something in the expression on Marcus’s face; something he would describe later as frightening.

  The door swung open and a gloved hand holding a Glock handgun appeared. Marcus swung his left arm up and grabbed the wrist of the man holding the gun and pushed it upwards, turning the hand at the same time. Then he rotated inwards towards the man and brought his right arm up beneath his armpit, locking his right hand on to his left wrist and pushed down with a tremendous force.

  The gunman cursed as his hand opened dropping the gun and Marcus brought his knee up swiftly, driving it into the man’s crutch. As the gun fell from the gunman’s hand, Marcus let the man fall and swooped down, picking up the gun.

  Only about two seconds had elapsed between the gunman opening the door and Marcus disarming him. But it was enough time for the second gunman to fire a shot at Marcus. The bullet zipped through Marcus’s clothing, scorching a deep line across the top of his shoulder.

  Without thinking about it, Marcus turned and fired the Glock he was now holding straight into the second gunman. There was a terrible cry of agony and pain as the gunman toppled down the stairs, falling into a heap at the bottom. He was dead.

  The speed with which Marcus was thinking didn’t slow because he knew there was still a risk from the first gunman. The man was on one knee and struggling to get up. Marcus brought the gun crashing down on the man’s skull, which flattened him. He dropped on to the man, driving his knee in between his shoulder blades and jammed the barrel of the Glock into the soft flesh behind his ear.

  ‘Don’t move!’

  Cavendish had hardly had time to breathe, and by the time he realised what was happening, it was all over. He looked at Marcus who was now bent over the gunman, his knee pressed into the man’s back and the gun jammed hard behind the man’s ear.

  ‘Don’t kill him,’ Cavendish snapped at Marcus.

  Marcus turned and looked at Cavendish, his face a mask of fury. ‘Why, is he one of your fucking hit men?’

  Cavendish put both his arms forward and shook his hands desperately. ‘No, no; he’s not one of my men. I don’t know who he is.’

  Marcus nodded his head in the direction of the small sink across the room. ‘See that tea towel? Bring it over here so I can tie him up.’

  Cavendish hurried across to the sink and lifted the grubby towel from the draining board. He brought it across to Marcus and helped tie the man’s hands behind his back. Marcus handed the Glock to Cavendish.

  ‘I presume you know how to handle this,’ he said firmly. ‘Keep him covered while I look for something else.’

  Cavendish took the gun and waited until Marcus had finished rummaging around his office and finally came back with a length of cord. He lashed the man’s arms to his ankles, and pulled the cord tight. He then took the gun from Cavendish and flopped down in his chair.

  Cavendish pointed at the phone. ‘I’d better make a phone call.’

  Marcus needed no telling; he knew what Cavendish was about to do. What had happened was something that needed to be kept out of the Press and police notebooks. Suddenly Marcus remembered the Mercedes and he went to the window. The car was immediately below him, which made it impossible to read the number plate. He heard Cavendish asking for a team, on the double, and knew some people would arrive who would remove the dead guy, clean the place up and leave no trace of anything that could connect him and Cavendish to what had happened.

  The Mercedes pulled away from the kerb which meant Marcus was able to read the number plate. He went back to his desk and wrote the number down on his doodling pad.

  Cavendish put the phone down and looked at Marcus. Marcus turned his head and glanced down at the man. Then he put his fingers to his lips and pointed towards the man trussed up on the floor. There was no reason for either of them to say anything until the team arrived. Now all they could do was wait.

  ***

  The children were taken from the safe house and driven away in a black car with darkened windows. Abdul had not tried to keep David from seeing the children leave, and David wondered what
the significance of the warlord’s change of attitude meant. He asked Abdul what was going to happen to the children.

  ‘There are many people in this world who are desperate to have children, but through no fault of their own, it cannot be.’

  ‘So you provide the children for these desperate people?’ David’s remark was acerbic; making no attempt to hide his true feelings about what he believed was child trafficking.

  Abdul smiled, showing his white teeth beneath his beard. ‘The First Chapter is in a good position to take advantage of the war in Afghanistan and find homes for orphaned children. What can be so bad about that?’

  ‘At a price, no doubt,’ said David.

  Abdul closed his mouth and changed his expression to one of a more philosophical stance, arching his bushy eyebrows in response to David’s cutting rejoinder.

  ‘There are people willing to pay, and I am willing to help.’ He got up from the table. ‘Enough now; time to leave.’

  The brief discussion was over and it left David wondering if there was really a benevolent heart beating beneath Abdul’s powerful exterior. He doubted it; after all, Abdul was known for his ruthlessness in dealing with his enemies. And it left David wondering once again why he was being dragged round with the man like a token of some kind. And why on earth was he asked to write a letter to his sister?

  His thoughts were cut short as Abdul’s men took David out of the house and bundled him into a Toyota Landcruiser. David wondered if Abdul had decided to change vehicles because of the pilotless drones that flew high overhead, watching the movements of known insurgents and warlords. He hoped and prayed that Abdul had not been picked up by the remotely controlled aircraft. If that was the case, he was sure their journey would end in death by a missile fired from the drone.

  Perhaps, he thought; that was why Abdul was hauling him round the country ? as protection from a missile attack. He slunk into his seat and began to feel an uncomfortable frisson of fear trickling down his back.

  ***

  The team arrived and ushered Marcus and Cavendish from the building. Marcus wanted to protest but knew he was involved in something too big for him to deal with. He clambered into a white van that was waiting outside and as soon as he and Cavendish were settled into their seats, the van pulled out into traffic and sped away.

  They motored out of the city and travelled for several miles into the countryside, travelling at normal speeds and obeying all the road signs and taking care with the varying traffic conditions. Marcus was impressed with the unspoken professionalism of Cavendish’s men.

  Eventually the van pulled into the driveway of a house shaded by a combination of Oak and Elm trees. It stopped outside the front door and Cavendish immediately climbed out, beckoning Marcus to follow him.

  Once the two men had got out of the van, it sped off, leaving them standing by the front entrance. As the door was opened for them, Cavendish looked at Marcus.

  ‘After you,’ he said, indicating that Marcus should go on ahead of him.

  Marcus stepped into a large hallway. There was an umbrella and hat stand: very old fashioned, thought Marcus. On one wall was a mirror with a gilt frame. The carpet on the floor looked as though it had seen the passage of many feet over many years. It had a dull, military colour and lacked any kind of style. There was little else in the hallway to suggest a family might live there. And considering the game that Cavendish was in, Marcus doubted if anybody did; it was probably a safe house.

  Cavendish led Marcus into a lounge which was sparsely furnished. It added to Marcus’s opinion that the house did indeed belong to the intelligence department. They were followed into the room by the man who had opened the door for them. He waited until both Marcus and Cavendish were seated.

  ‘Care for a drink?’ he asked.

  Cavendish glanced at Marcus, giving him the opportunity to order something first.

  ‘Tea please; bog standard English.’

  Cavendish grinned. ‘I think I’ll have a whisky and soda, thank you Eric. Oh, and would you bring in some first aid dressing? Our man needs a plaster.’

  Marcus’s wound was superficial and he had almost forgotten about it, but he thought that it was probably the right thing to do; get it looked at.

  Eric disappeared to get the drinks. Cavendish turned to Marcus.

  ‘Now,’ he said, ‘we can talk.’

  Marcus thought Cavendish looked more comfortable now; he had been trembling earlier, which Marcus put down to adrenalin after the shock of the attack. The man was too old for excitement really, he decided. He thought about what had happened knowing that only Cavendish could come up with the answers.

  ‘Who were those men?’ Marcus asked.

  Cavendish shook his head. ‘I have no idea, but I’m sure I will find out.’

  ‘Who were they after, me or you?’

  Cavendish arched his eyebrows. ‘My, you do value yourself highly,’ he said mockingly. ‘They were professionals. It had to be me they were after.’

  Marcus thought that would be the case. ‘Not very good at their job then, were they?’

  Cavendish frowned. ‘Where did you learn to do that?’ he asked.

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘I’ve seen a lot of very skilful men in my career; hardened professionals who would walk through hell to defend their country and their colleagues. But they have all been trained professionals; taught how to react instinctively to any threat, and to deal with it without thinking of the consequences. You reacted like one of those men,’ Cavendish acknowledged. ‘You saved my life and your own simply by reacting and not thinking of the consequences. I must say you were exceptionally quick. So I say again; where did you learn to do that?’

  Marcus shrugged. ‘I’m a quiet sort of guy. I like to be easy come, easy go. Enjoy life. You know the sort of thing. I just get very pissed off when people try to spoil my day, that’s all.’

  Cavendish allowed himself a rueful smile; seeing Marcus ‘pissed off’ was indeed a sight to behold. One he decided he might be able to make use of.

  ‘As you say, Blake, they were not very good at their job. If they had been, neither of us would be here now.’

  ‘So who were they?’ Marcus asked again. ‘If they weren’t after me they must have been after you. That makes them Russian then, right?’

  Cavendish laughed out loud. ‘You’ve been reading too many spy books. If the Russians had wanted to dispose of me they would have been far more discreet and far more successful, I can assure you.’ He let the laughter subside and shook his head. Marcus waited for him to continue. ‘I don’t know who they were,’ he went on, ‘but I will find out.’

  ‘How?’ Marcus asked.

  Cavendish looked at Marcus in surprise. ‘You only killed one of them; the other one is still alive. He might have a few bruises, Blake, but he is well enough to tell us what we want to know.’

  There was a knock at the door and Eric walked in. He placed a tray on the table, nodded at Cavendish and left the room. Cavendish got up and poured out a cup of tea for Marcus. He brought it over to him and then retrieved his whisky and soda. He then went back to the tray and lifted a first aid box from it.

  ‘Take off your shirt, Blake; let’s see what’s needed.’

  Very little was needed, in fact. Cavendish cleaned the wound and rubbed some salve on to it.’

  ‘You’ll live,’ he said and returned the first aid box to the table while Marcus put his shirt back on. Marcus then lifted his cup and sipped his tea, which was surprisingly good.

  ‘Suppose he doesn’t want to tell you anything?’ Marcus asked referring to the comment Cavendish had made about getting information from the man who had survived Marcus’s show of anger.

  Cavendish tilted his head a little. ‘Oh, he will; I’ve no doubt about that.’

  ‘What will you do, barter with him? You know, freedom for some information?’

  Cavendish said nothing.

  ‘Or will you torture him?’ Marcus said, and li
fted his cup to his mouth.

  ‘How we get the information has nothing to do with you; just be assured that we will.’ Cavendish sounded quite abrupt.

  Marcus decided to push him a little. ‘Rendition,’ he said.

  Cavendish screwed his face up. ‘What?’

  Marcus put his cup down. ‘Rendition. It’s what the Yanks have been doing; sending their prisoners to other countries who don’t give a toss about extracting information under torture.’ He studied Cavendish for a while. ‘But you don’t do that kind of thing in MI6, do you?’

  ‘What we do and what we don’t do is not your concern,’ Cavendish told him levelly. ‘But what should concern you now is your own safety, and what we must do about that.’

  Marcus shrugged. ‘I don’t think I have anything to worry about,’ he told Cavendish. ‘They weren’t after me, so I’ll just get back to my business and leave you to get on with yours.’

  Cavendish shook his head. ‘Don’t be so naïve; they will be back, and this time they will be more careful. So for your own safety you need to remain under my protection until we can nail the bastards who tried to kill us.’

  ‘I don’t think I fancy your kind of protection,’ Marcus told him. ‘It nearly got you killed.’

  Cavendish laughed. ‘Touché.’ He drained his whisky and got up, walked over to the table and put his empty glass on the tray. ‘It is probably connected with the assassination of the Secretary of State, and until I can learn more, I suggest you trust me and my department to keep you out of their clutches.’

  Marcus stood up. He put his empty cup and saucer next to the empty whisky glass. ‘No thank you. Just get me a taxi and I’ll be out of here. If you want to speak to me about any of this, you know where to find me.’