A Covert War

by Michael Parker

  ‘Has the operation been compromised?’ Deveraux asked him.

  Hudson shook his head. ‘I don’t think so, but I think we should call a halt to the operation for a while.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘There was something that didn’t ring quite true with what happened. Grebo couldn’t figure out how the local boys got to the scene so quick. He said there was no phone call made, no alarms ringing off. The house is fairly secluded too. Grebo had chased the guy into the forest. Said he would have despatched him there if he had caught him. But the guy stumbled into the main road and into a policeman’s arms.’

  Deveraux considered the implications of what he had been told. It certainly sounded like some kind of connivance with the local force.

  ‘There’s a shipment due in this weekend, right?’ Hudson nodded. Deveraux went on. ‘And one due out in a couple of days?’

  ‘We’ll hold that,’ Hudson told him. ‘It’s in a bonded warehouse. It should be ok.’

  ‘How long do you want to hold off for?’ Deveraux asked him.

  ‘Couple of weeks. No activity until then.’

  ‘Will you tell Grebo?’

  The CIA chief nodded. ‘I’ll tell him to close everything down.’

  Deveraux whistled through his teeth. ‘That’s a long time; our client will think we’re reneging on the deal.’

  ‘Our client will do as he’s told,’ Hudson remarked angrily. ‘He’s getting a good deal out of us, and we’re an easy market for his goods.’

  Deveraux put his hand out. ‘Be that as it may, Randy, it’s always a tricky operation shipping those arms out; we don’t always have a smooth run.’

  ‘I know, John, but Cavendish is getting too close for comfort, and I can’t afford to throw caution to the wind just because some fucking raghead in Afghanistan is getting impatient.’

  ‘So why is Cavendish still around to worry the life out of you?’ Deveraux put to him. ‘What happened to the hit?’

  Hudson shook his head. ‘They fucked up. I don’t know why. All I know is that Grebo’s man waited for the full two minutes in the road, but the guys didn’t come out. He left.’ Hudson lifted his hands in a gesture of helplessness. ‘That was the agreed plan. I know Cavendish put a team in and cleaned the building totally. We lost one guy and the other is probably on his way to The Intelligence Bureau in Pakistan.’ It was there that the alleged questioning of MI6 suspects was carried out in order to bypass the interrogation laws in Great Britain. ‘No doubt they’ll get the truth from him.’

  ‘How will that affect us?’ Deveraux showed a little concern.

  Hudson shook his head. ‘It won’t; the guys were hit-men. They only know their own names. The Brits will get nothing out of the one who survived.’

  He sounded supremely confident, which made Deveraux feel a little more comfortable.

  ‘So what are we going to do about Cavendish?’ he asked the CIA man.

  ‘We’re going to leave it. It might be a good idea to let him have his head for a while. We’ll just have to be extra vigilant and extremely careful.’ He stood up, ready to leave. ‘We’ve got a good operation here, John, and we’ve got to keep the lid screwed down tight. We have to be patient. The Chapter has to keep running for the sake of all those poor kids out there,’ he said cynically.

  Deveraux chuckled and stood up. ‘And for the sake of the twenty million bucks you put in you offshore account last year.’ He reached across the desk and shook Hudson’s hand. ‘Keep me informed, Randy.’

  Hudson nodded. ‘You bet.’

  He walked out of the office and left Deveraux wondering if the operation was becoming too unwieldy, too big and with too many fingers in the pie. But he had also put twenty million dollars into an offshore account and decided you don’t earn that kind of money without taking a few risks.

  ***

  The M.V. Odessa inched its way towards the quayside as two dockers stood waiting for the heaving lines to be tossed over to them. Once this was done, they pulled out the large ropes that would tether the ship and dropped the loops over their respective bollards. Their job now done they waited while two crewmen on the deck of the ship, one fore and one aft, waited for the captain’s signals from the bridge before taking up the slack on the capstan winches.

  The ship stopped and the capstan winches groaned beneath the deck lights as the slack in the hawsers was taken up. When all was secure, the ship’s captain moved the bridge telegraph to ‘stop engines’ and handed over control of the bridge to the duty officer. He then went down to his cabin and waited the arrival of the local Customs Officer who would inspect the ship’s manifest and then do a physical check of the ship’s cargo holds.

  Marcus watched the arrival of the M.V. Odessa with a growing feeling of excitement, tinged with anticipation. He was concealed in the dark recesses of some timber stacks that were waiting to be loaded on to lorries during daylight hours. He didn’t know what cargo the Odessa was carrying beneath her decks, but he suspected that she was carrying something else that was worth a great deal more than the cargo that would be declared on her manifest.

  Marcus had been sent up to Kings Lynn by Cavendish. He had even been furnished with a British Ports Authority Pass and a reason for visiting the docks. But all Marcus had been asked to do was observe and do nothing else. He had been given the name of three ships; two of which had already docked and unloaded an enormous quantity of timber on to the quayside and departed. The third ship on Marcus’s list, the Odessa was not due to dock until midnight because of the tide. And it was the unearthly hour of its expected arrival that intrigued Marcus.

  He glanced at his watch and saw that it was almost midnight. He had no idea how long it would be until the crew bedded down for the night, but he had decided to chance his luck and get on board for a look in the cargo holds.

  Marcus had got over his wounds from his previous escapade. His ankle hadn’t given him any trouble and his shoulder had suffered only a minor peppering; nothing much at all. He was quite confident he no longer had to worry about them.

  He saw a single gangway hauled up to the ship and a man in uniform immediately hurried up on to the deck. Someone was waiting for him and the two of them disappeared into the accommodation block at the stern end of the Odessa.

  Marcus walked out from the timber pile, crossed the quayside and clambered up the gangway on the ship’s deck. Without stopping to think of what he should do next, he opened one of the doors set into the bulkhead and stepped inside.

  Marcus had chosen that moment to go on board because it was time least likely that anyone would have any suspicion of strangers going on to the ship, so long as it was done with a sense of purpose. All Marcus had to do now was to learn as much as he could about the cargo and get himself off the ship while most of the crew were sleeping.

  He made his way down to the lower decks by following a common sense approach and using stairs, or ladders as they were known on ships, which went down until he came to a long alleyway that ran forward.

  Although it was the middle of the night, the bulkhead lights were on and he could see a closed, watertight door at the far end of the alleyway. He made his way to this and swung the handles down, pulled the door open and stepped inside. He swung the handles up to secure the door and took his Maglite torch out of his pocket.

  Marcus knew he wouldn’t be able to break open any crates inside the holds without attracting attention and letting the crew know there was someone in the cargo hold causing damage. And Cavendish had been quite specific as to what he expected Marcus to do, and that was to learn as much as possible and then get out.

  After about thirty minutes, Marcus had seen as much as he was likely to. All of the crates that he could actually examine closely were identified by labels and serial numbers, which were painted on the sides of the crates. It meant nothing to Marcus but he dutifully made a note of what information there was in a small notebook.

  Marcus was getting to the end of the hold when sud
denly the door at the far end opened and all the lights came on. He spun round and immediately dropped into a crouch, keeping well behind the stack of crates.

  He heard two men talking to each other and risked taking a look, but such was the way that the crates were stacked that he was unable to see who they were. As the two men walked along the stacks, their voices dropped to a murmur, but as they came closer to where Marcus was hiding their voices grew louder.

  Marcus inched his way along the crate wall and peered carefully round the edge. He could now see the Customs officer who had gone on deck the moment the gangway had been put in place. He assumed the seaman with him was the ship’s captain, although he had no way of knowing. He was wearing a seaman’s cap with gold braid round the peak, and on his shoulder epaulettes were four gold stripes.

  The Customs officer tapped a crate with his knuckle.

  ‘This one,’ he asked, ‘with the X in the serial number?’

  The captain nodded and said something which Marcus presumed meant ‘yes’.

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Four.’

  The Customs officer seemed satisfied. ‘Tomorrow afternoon, on the quayside, I’ll sign them off.’ He tapped a clipboard he was carrying with the tip of his pen. ‘It all seems in order.’ He then tucked the clipboard under his arm and turned on his heel. It seemed to catch the captain unawares and he was left standing there for a moment. A minute later and the hold was in darkness once again.

  Marcus knew he had just seen a crooked Customs officer verify the crates containing the drugs were on board and had identified those he would attend to the following day. He had a vague notion that ships’ cargoes had to be cleared officially by the Customs and Excise people before they were allowed to be offloaded on to the quayside. And he had no doubt that they did a thorough and excellent job in the main. But here was a classic case of smuggling with the collusion of the authorities; in this case the bent officer. All Marcus had to do now was to get off the ship, notify Cavendish and get himself back to the Duke’s Head hotel for a good night’s sleep.

  Marcus made his way carefully along the crate wall to the door at the far end. He turned off his Maglite and put it in his pocket, then opened the door handles one by one until the door swung freely on its hinges.

  He stepped out into the alleyway and turned to close the door when a crewman came through an open door a few feet away. He saw Marcus and stopped for a moment. Then he called out something in a language Marcus didn’t understand. The crewman had shouted back through the door from which he had appeared, obviously calling for some help.

  Marcus didn’t wait to think of any consequences; he simply ran at the man and drove his fist into his face. It sent the crewman crashing to the deck and Marcus leapt over him. There was a shout from behind as two men came through the doorway. They saw their friend lying on the floor and immediately went after Marcus.

  Marcus ran as fast as he could until he came to a closed door. In the few seconds he took to open it, one of the two men chasing him threw something at him. It caught Marcus on his injured shoulder. Although Marcus hadn’t suffered any real ill effects from his wounds, when the heavy weight that had been thrown struck him, it seemed like a thousand fragments of steel had cut into him. He gasped out loud and fell up against the edge of the open door.

  This gave the two men an advantage and within seconds they were on him. Marcus felt their hands pulling him away from the bulkhead, cursing at him. The look on their faces left him in no doubt what they were about to do.

  But as hurt as Marcus was, he felt the anger rising up in his chest and he swung his elbow out, catching one of the men full in the face. The man yelled out and fell away clutching his jaw. Then Marcus lifted the heel of his shoe and dragged it down the shin of the second man. It was enough and Marcus was free for a moment.

  He ran as fast as he could until he reached a ladder and sprinted up two steps at a time, pulling himself clear on the upper deck. Another crewman happened to be at the top and wasn’t aware of the fracas going on below. Marcus drove his fist into the man’s face without stopping and kept up his dash for the gangway.

  Suddenly a shot rang out and he felt the bullet zip past his head and clang into the bulkhead. He almost stopped him in his tracks, but he turned away from the shooter and ran to the far side of the ship.

  Without giving thought to what the consequences might be, Marcus hurled himself over the side and plummeted into the water below.

  ELEVEN

  Susan hadn’t been home from work more than a couple of minutes when the doorbell rang. She put the milk back in the fridge and went through to the front door. When she opened it she saw a uniformed policeman standing there holding his warrant card out. He looked impossibly young to be a policeman.

  ‘Susan Ellis?’ he asked brightly.

  ‘Yes,’ Susan answered with the long, drawn out reply that suggests caution.

  ‘Constable Evans,’ he told her. ‘I wonder if you would be good enough to call in at the local nick.’ He corrected himself. ‘I’m sorry; the local police station. Just routine,’ he assured her. ‘Whenever is convenient. Well,’ he added, ‘if you could make it this evening, that would be really helpful.’

  ‘What’s it about?’ she asked the young copper.

  ‘I’m sorry, ma’am, I can’t say. You’re not under arrest; nothing like that.’ He looked quite concerned as he said it.

  Susan smiled. ‘I’m sure I’m not. Very well; give me five minutes and I’ll walk down to the station with you. Is it far?’

  He pointed over his shoulder. ‘I’ve got the car here. I’ll bring you back as well.’

  ‘Five minutes, then,’ she said and closed the door.

  About fifteen minutes later, Susan walked into the police station with the young constable. He took her up to the station desk. The young, female police officer looked up at them.

  ‘Susan Ellis,’ the constable told her, pointing over his shoulder at Susan. ‘Chief wants a word with her.’

  The young woman reached across to a box with an array of buttons and held one down. ‘Chief, desk here. Susan Ellis to see you.’

  She looked up. ‘Take Miss Ellis through John,’ she told him, and looked back down at whatever she had been doing when they walked in.

  Evans took Susan through a small maze of people working at their desks, on the phones, checking data on computer screens and busy chatting away as though they were anywhere but in a working nick.

  Evans knocked on a closed door marked ‘Detective Chief Inspector Rendell.’ He didn’t wait for a response but opened the door and stepped into the office.

  ‘Evening, Chief. Got Miss Ellis for you.’

  Rendell looked across the top of his half-moon glasses and signalled with a crooked forefinger to bring her in.

  Susan followed Evans into the office as Rendell stood up. ‘Thank you, Evans. I’ll call you when we’re finished.’

  Evans left the office as Rendell shook Susan’s hand and asked her to take a seat.

  ‘Can I get you a coffee, glass of water?’ he asked Susan. ‘Anything?’

  Susan shook her head. ‘No thank you, Chief Inspector. So long as you don’t intend keeping me here too long, I think I’ll manage.’

  Rendell was in his fifties and looked fit for his age. He reminded Susan of her father a bit. He had a warm, inviting face and seemed to exude friendliness, although she doubted he would show that countenance to offenders.

  ‘I’ll try not to keep you.’ He hadn’t taken his seat yet and immediately went across to a filing cabinet set against the far wall. On top of the cabinet was a folder which he brought across to the desk. He sat down and spun the folder round so that it was facing Susan.

  ‘Now, do I call you Miss, Ms, or what?’

  ‘Susan will do fine,’ she told him.

  He smiled and seemed to relax. ‘Good. Now, I have it on highest authority that you are a little bit special. I haven’t been told why, not yet anyway, so I’ll
assume you’re related to the Prime Minister or something like that, eh?’ He allowed himself a little chuckle at the joke.

  ‘Now, there are some photographs in there,’ he told Susan, pointing to the folder. ‘If you wouldn’t mind, would you look through them and tell me if you recognise anybody.’ He passed the folder across the desk and sat back and watched as Susan opened the folder.

  She began turning over the page and saw a photograph of one of her neighbours coming out of the front door. ‘My neighbour,’ she muttered and kept on turning the pages.

  It was obvious to Susan that someone, no doubt a police officer had been stationed outside her flat with the instruction to photograph everybody who came in or went out, and even those people like delivery men or salesmen who simply called at the front door or posted mail through the letter box.

  Then she stopped at a photograph of a man putting something through the letter box. In the next photograph he had turned round and was now walking away from the door. The photograph was very good; she recognised him immediately.

  ‘That’s Maggot,’ she said, looking up. ‘What the hell is he doing there?’

  ***

  Marcus sat in his hotel room thinking about his next move. He had thrown himself off the M.V. Odessa deliberately because he knew there was not much of a drop from the main deck down to the water, and the option of remaining on board and trying to make a fight of it hadn’t come into it; especially as someone was firing a gun at him.

  As soon as he had surfaced, he had swum away from the ship as fast as he could. He could hear the sound of shouting, but mercifully no more shooting. The darkness helped to cover his escape and he hoped that the captain of the Odessa would assume he was an illegal immigrant making a run for freedom.