A Covert War

by Michael Parker

  ‘It’s about the James Purdy assassination, Prime Minister.’

  The PM’s facial expression changed, bringing his eyebrows closer together.

  ‘Bad business, that,’ he said. ‘The Police Commissioner assures me that he will find the perpetrators. I’ve asked him to keep me informed of course. Do you have anything to add, Sir Giles?’

  Cavendish nodded briefly. ‘Purdy’s assassination has uncovered a whole nest of vipers and unfortunately it implicates the minister in a way that could be very damaging to the government, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Some very senior and important people in this country are involved in drugs and pornography.’ He put up a restraining hand. ‘I know; it’s something we all know, but often we shake our heads and tut tut our opinion, and tend to mentally sweep it all under the carpet. But with James Purdy it reached a point where National security could have been threatened.

  ‘Go on,’ the PM said again.

  ‘James Purdy was photographed engaging in pornographic, sexual activities with three, under-age girls from Pakistan. One of the girls subsequently died from the injuries she received.’ The Prime Minister gasped out loud but Cavendish continued. ‘The two girls who survived have disappeared and are now most likely to have been sold into a paedophile or prostitution ring.’

  The Prime Minister’s face was now almost white.

  ‘Let me understand this, Sir Giles, you say Purdy was photographed. Does that mean you have seen the photographs?’

  Cavendish nodded. ‘Yes, it was my department that took them.’

  ‘You knew this was going on?’ The Prime Minister seemed shocked.

  Cavendish leaned forward to make a point. ‘Prime Minister, it’s my job to make sure no foreign government can blackmail, threaten or intimidate any member of your Cabinet. We had our suspicions about Purdy, but even then we didn’t know just how deep he had got himself. So deep in fact that he was actually working against our interests.’

  ‘Are you saying, Sir Giles,’ the Prime Minister interrupted, ‘that James Purdy was working for a foreign government?’

  Cavendish shook his head. ‘Not exactly a foreign government, Prime Minister, but a group who have a great deal of power and can use that power to influence decisions made by government ministers.’

  ‘So why was Purdy assassinated?’ the PM asked.

  Cavendish shifted in his chair. ‘He was about to tell me who his co-conspirators were; who else was involved in the gang rape of those three young girls and who is responsible for smuggling huge quantities of drugs into this country.’ He almost took a deep breath when he added the next line. ‘And who is responsible for shipping arms out to Al Qaeda and the Taliban in Afghanistan.’

  He let it sit there, allowing the Prime Minister to digest the import of his words and the real damage that men like Purdy can do, simply to feather their own nests and indulge their own, misdirected passions.

  Eventually the Prime Minister spoke.

  ‘So you believe that Muslim terrorists assassinated James Purdy because he was about to name names?’

  Cavendish shook his head. ‘No, Prime Minister, it wasn’t the Muslims who murdered James Purdy; it was the Americans.’

  ***

  The police radio in the Vectra had been left on because there had been no reason for Iverson to turn everything off when ordered out of the car by the two American MPs. A metallic voice filled the empty car.

  ‘Whisky India, come in please.’

  Back in the call control centre in Thetford, the call control officer tried several times to raise Iverson and Whelan without luck. He turned to his supervisor and told him he was having trouble raising the two officers.

  The supervisor came over to the desk and looked at the controller’s console.

  ‘They’re not on an incident,’ he muttered as he checked the screen. ‘Where is Whisky India, by the way?’ he asked.

  The controller selected a sat nav screen which showed the exact location of the police car. ‘Two miles west of Feltwell.’

  ‘Who’s closest?’

  The controller scanned the screen. ‘Boon and Manning.’

  The supervisor straightened up. ‘Get them to check it out.’

  The controller pressed the call button on his desk console. ‘Bravo Mike, control, come in please.’

  ***

  In the bonded warehouse, Grebo continued to stare at Marcus. All Marcus could do was hold the American’s gaze and wait for something to happen. There were seven men in the room. Two of them, the American MPs. were armed. It was unlikely that Grebo would be carrying a weapon but he could have one in his desk draw. Marcus felt confident he could take care of one of the armed policemen, but he wondered who would take care of the other one.

  ***

  Boon and Manning received the call to investigate why Whisky India was not answering the call from control. They were on their way within seconds of being directed to the sat nav location. Boon switched on the flashing blue warning lights and put the hammer down. Manning estimated it would take about ten minutes in their BMW to reach Whisky India’s Vectra.

  ***

  It was Whelan who spoke first. ‘Whoever you are,’ he said to Grebo, ‘I think you should know that we are police officers.’ He lifted his hand up, keeping it open. ‘I’m going to get my warrant card out,’ he told Grebo.

  Very slowly, Whelan pulled out his warrant card and laid it on the desk in front of the American. ‘Detective Sergeant Whelan. And this,’ he pointed to Iverson, ‘is Detective Constable Iverson.’

  Grebo looked away from Whelan to Marcus. ‘And who is this?’ he asked.

  Whelan turned slowly to Marcus. ‘He is a trainee police community support officer.’

  Marcus wondered how Whelan could have come up with such a preposterous idea in such a short time.

  ‘Is he now,’ Grebo responded acidly. ‘So what are we going to do with you all?’

  ‘You’re going to do nothing,’ Whelan told him. ‘We are going to walk out of here now.’ He reached forward to pick up his warrant card.

  One of the MPs put an arm out to stop him. He had a gun in his other hand.

  Whelan stared at him with an iron hard look. ‘You be careful, sonny,’ he warned him and picked up his warrant card.

  Grebo flicked a cautionary look at the American. Marcus could see the dilemma: Grebo could not afford a shootout, nor could he afford to let any of them go. There was also something else behind that look: like a rabbit trapped in the headlights.

  ***

  Boon and Manning came up beside the Vectra. They peered through the windows of their car but could see no-one inside. Manning climbed out of the BMW and checked the police car. He turned round to Boon and showed him a pair of empty hands.

  Boon pointed towards the side road and indicated to Manning that he would drive up there. Manning nodded and waved him forward, preferring to walk up behind him.

  Boon turned into the side road and cruised slowly towards the curve in the road. Manning kept pace behind him.

  ***

  Grebo was about to say something when the phone on his desk rang. He looked a little startled as he picked up the phone.

  ‘Grebo.’

  He listened briefly then slammed the phone down. ‘There’s a police unit at the gate,’ he said in disbelief. ‘What the fuck are they doing here?’ For a moment Grebo looked like a man lost. Then suddenly he made up his mind. He pointed at Marcus and the two policemen.

  ‘Keep them here,’ he ordered and opened a desk drawer. He then pulled out an M9 hand gun and hurried out of the office.

  The two MPs immediately waved their guns at Whelan and Iverson, pointing to the far side of the office. They shuffled across to the far wall. Marcus was told to join them. It looked like the execution wall in front of a firing squad and Marcus had no intention of moving over there.

  He turned his head suddenly towards the MPs and was about to say something, hoping to
distract them so he could get at them, when they all heard several shots ring out. The two MPs automatically turned in the direction of the shots. At that moment Marcus knew he had the window he needed and launched himself at the nearest MP.

  He kicked the man’s gun from his hand as the other MP lifted his gun to shoot Marcus. But Marcus dived beneath the first MP and lifted him bodily into the air, holding him on his shoulders in a fireman’s lift. He then spun and dropped the man at his colleague’s feet, intending to knock the man off balance.

  The man was still trying to get a shot at Marcus but was hesitating because he was afraid of shooting his colleague. The sudden opening gave him the chance, but at that moment, Iverson had thrown himself forward and lifted the desk, bringing it up as a shield and pushed it at the MP who was about to shoot Marcus.

  The man saw it coming and turned and fired at Iverson instead. Now Whelan joined in the fray and came forward with the intention of grappling with the man who had been tossed to the ground by Marcus, but the shot aimed at Iverson caught Whelan on the arm. He cried out and fell on top of the MP, clutching his arm.

  Iverson stood up and reached over the desk which was now on its side as the American swung the gun round to fire off another shot. He grabbed the collar of the second MP, swung his arm down on to the man’s gun hand and dragged him over the desk. On the way the MP dropped his gun. Immediately the lorry driver, who until now had been a spectator, picked up the gun and fired a shot into the ceiling.

  Everybody stopped. Except Marcus; he gambled on the man not being a gunman and leapt over the top of Whelan who had collapsed and kicked the driver with a classic, straight leg right into the rib cage.

  They all heard the sound of the man’s ribs crack, and he dropped into a heap letting the gun fall from his hand.

  Iverson picked up the gun and walked round the overturned desk. He picked up the other M9 and handed one to Marcus.

  ‘Cover them, and try not to shoot anyone,’ he said. ‘I’m going outside to see what’s happened.’

  Whelan staggered to his feet. His arm was bleeding from where he had been shot. He looked at the damage caused by the sudden explosion of violence and shook his head.

  ‘What a fucking mess,’ he muttered to himself. ‘God knows how we’re going to write this one up.’

  He then leant down and searched the two MPs until he found his Sig Sauer handgun that had been taken from him outside the compound. He tucked it into his waistband. Using his good arm, he pulled the desk upright and dragged it away from the two MPs and the lorry driver until it was pushed up against the far wall. He then propped himself up against it and looked at the scene in front of him.

  The lorry driver was lying on the floor nursing a cracked rib or two. One of the military policemen was lying on the floor too, but he looked as though he had been winded. The other MP was on his knees, but Marcus was standing well clear with the M9 pistol pointing at them.

  Whelan took the Sig Sauer from his waistband and held it loosely in his good hand.

  ‘Marcus, see if you can give Yorkie a hand,’ he asked, ‘I’ll keep an eye on these three.’

  Marcus was about to go outside when the door flew open and Iverson burst in. He looked devastated.

  ‘The bastard’s shot two coppers; one of ours and one of his own.’

  ‘Where is he now?’ Whelan snapped.

  ‘Gone,’ Iverson told him. ‘He took the local’s BMW, shot the MP in the gate house. There’s another copper out there, he’s ok though.’

  ‘Put out an APB,’ Whelan told him.

  ‘I’m on it,’ Iverson replied, ‘Can you manage here?’

  Whelan nodded. ‘Oh yes, we can manage here.’

  Thirty minutes later the area around the compound was like a scene from a Hollywood movie; there were several police units, British and American, ambulances from the American base and the local hospital at Thetford, flashing blue lights from stationary police cars and coppers marking off the area with police tape. There were also several American officers of various ranks with very grim looking faces.

  The two American MPs who had been involved were in the back of a police wagon along with the driver of the lorry. Grebo was now on the run after shooting Boon and the American MP in the gate house.

  Manning had come across the shooting just as Grebo was hauling Boon out of the police car and using it to make his getaway. Boon was not mortally wounded, but the poor unfortunate American in the gate house was dead.

  Whelan had been seen by a paramedic and was waiting to be taken to hospital in one of the ambulances. Marcus sat beside him on a chair outside the office which had now been cordoned off as a crime scene.

  Inside the bonded warehouse was a team of men, British and American checking the crates, opening each one carefully. It was an unhappy scene, Marcus thought. He knew Grebo had run because he couldn’t see any other way out. In a way that had saved the lives of Marcus, Whelan and Iverson but sadly had cost the life of the poor guy in the gate house. He probably didn’t even know what was going on.

  Now the whole world was about to find out as the first of many television vans appeared at the gate; tomorrow it would be on all the front pages and the major news networks worldwide.

  And Marcus knew that this time Cavendish would not be able to send a ‘team’ in.

  THIRTEEN

  Sir Giles Cavendish went ballistic; or his version of it anyway. Sitting alone in his office with the first editions on his desk he felt extremely angry that decisions he had made, and those made by others had resulted in such a woeful outcome. He couldn’t really fault any one person for causing what the red top tabloids were describing as a shootout at the OK Corral, but each person in the chain was culpable. And being at the head of that chain, Cavendish felt responsible for having a coach and horses driven through his careful, methodical investigation into the corrupt practices of some people in very high positions of authority.

  He felt he had reached a crossroads and didn’t know which way to turn. His investigation was now dead in the water and common sense told him that those people involved in the vicious trade he had been looking into would close ranks, and probably lie low for a while. The trouble with that was that he needed them to be active so he could penetrate their organisation and reach the head. He swore and called down curses on those people who dealt in misery, violence and death.

  The phone rang. It was the prime Minister.

  ‘Good morning, Sir Giles. Could you come over to Downing Street right away?’

  There was no ambiguity in the Prime Minister’s request; he expected Cavendish over there immediately.

  ‘I’ll be there in thirty minutes, Prime Minister,’ Cavendish promised, and put the phone down.

  He had two guesses: one was a conference, the other was dismissal. Not that being dismissed would be so terribly painful, he mused. After all, he would pick up a gold plated Civil Service pension. A statement on his retirement would be couched in prosaic terms and he could retire to the country where he could tend his roses or whatever it was retired civil servants did. And meanwhile men in high places would continue to pursue their misguided foreign policy and feather their own nests with millions of dollars drawn from the pain and suffering of the victims of their obsessive lust for wealth.

  And men like him would know the truth but never be allowed to reveal it either through stealth or any other means. To do so would have meant no more tending of roses, no more gold plated pension, and no more of anything.

  He arrived at Downing Street and was shown into the Cabinet office where the Prime Minister was waiting. With him was Andrew Butler, the Metropolitan Police Commissioner, and James Faulkner, the director of SOCA. SOCA was the Serious Organised Crime Agency; Britain’s equivalent to the American FBI.

  ‘Ah, Sir Giles, take a seat.’

  It was clear from his body language that the Prime Minister was keen to get on with the meeting and dispense with any niceties.

  ‘I’ve no need t
o apprise you of last night’s events,’ the Prime Minister began, ‘But I would like your take on it.’

  Cavendish had just about made himself comfortable, but responded immediately. ‘My take on it, Prime Minister is that a huge hole has been blown in my investigation; one from which I cannot see us recovering.’ He helped himself to a glass of water. He took a sip and put the glass down on to a small table. ‘At the moment all I can think of is damage limitation and trying to keep the Press out of it.’

  ‘Was your investigation the reason we ended up with a shootout, as the papers put it, at an American depot?’ the Police Commissioner asked him.

  Cavendish gave it a moment’s thought. ‘I wish it wasn’t but, yes, that was the reason there was a shoot out.’

  Butler frowned. ‘I find that a little flippant,’ he told Cavendish. ‘There must be a convincing reason why you were there. And why on earth were the Americans involved?’

  Cavendish bridled at Butler’s assertion that he was being flippant, but held his tongue; the last thing he wanted here was a slanging match and point scoring over other security departments.

  ‘The reason my men ended up at the American depot was because they were following a suspicious cargo which we believed contained drugs.’

  Faulkner butted in. ‘What on earth was your department doing investigating drugs?’ he asked testily. ‘We have a dedicated drug squad for that very purpose. Why weren’t we informed?’

  ‘It wasn’t so much as the drugs we were interested in,’ Cavendish replied, ‘but the result of where those drugs were going, and who is behind the operation.’

  Faulkner made a guttural sound in his throat. ‘Hmmph! Come to my office, Cavendish and I’ll give you a list of known dealers a mile long.’

  ‘Do they deal in arms as well?’ Cavendish put to him. ‘And do they deal in child pornography, trafficking young children for the delectation of men in high places? Do they put this country’s security as risk because they are involved in one of the vilest, vicious, demonic and lucrative operations?’