Michael Parker - A Covert War

The Minister’s eyes widened. ‘Oh, in what way?’

Cavendish looked across at the minder and held his hands open above the table for a brief moment. Then he reached into his jacket and pulled out a small envelope.

‘I would like you to look at these photographs, Minister and say nothing nor do anything.’

He slid the envelope across the table. The minister reached forward, a curious expression beginning to scramble his features. He opened the envelope and pulled out the photographs. Immediately the colour drained from his face and he looked across at Cavendish.

‘What the blazes?’

Cavendish held up his hand. ‘I know how you got the bruises and the scratches on your face, Minister. Now, would you like to arrange to speak to me privately, with or without your lawyer?’

Cavendish’s expression was as hard and cold as iron. It also looked regal; rather like an eagle on its eyrie, its prey struggling beneath the vicious talons that were sunk deep into its victim’s flesh.

And standing above them, leaning against the railings, Marcus was busy photographing the whole thing.

David Ellis heard the sound of a vehicle grinding its way across the rocky ground towards the compound. He sat up and struggled to his feet, then edged his way carefully to the cave opening.

David had hobbled out of the cave once the attack was over and struggled down to the compound. In all he counted about twenty bodies as he searched among the ruins and the devastation. There was nobody left alive.

He made it into what was left of the house and began searching around for something to help him get his gag off. He came across an old, wooden coat hook and managed to remove his gag by slipping the edge of the hook between his cheek and the gag and pulling down sharply.

Once the gag was off, David was able to find a container of water. Although it was lying flat on its side and most of the water had dribbled out, he was at least able to get down to it like a dog and fidget with it until he had drank enough to quench his thirst.

He knew he would find some food because the men would have been preparing supper when the attack came. He came across a cupboard, its door shattered and hanging from its hinges. He found fruit, bread and some meat. But before he attempted to eat anything, he went in search of the man who had been his jailer. If he could find that man’s body, he was sure he would find the keys to his handcuffs.

It took David about twenty minutes to find the body and another twenty minutes of sheer frustration before he could bring his hands round to the front of his body and get the key to his handcuffs. Once he had removed them he had to rub his wrists gently to restore some life into them. He picked up the dead man’s Kalashnikov machine gun, took a bandolier from the man’s shoulders and went back into the house to eat.

David woke suddenly as the noise of a diesel engine invaded his sleep. He realised that he must have slept through the night because there was daylight penetrating the cave. He had chosen to stay in the cave because he was afraid of being alone in the shattered house.

He looked down towards the compound as a Toyota pick-up truck bumped its way across the terrain. He tightened his grip on the Kalashnikov and waited, not really knowing what he would do. He wasn’t sure if the men in the pick-up were hostile or not. It was an irony that didn’t escape him because his kidnappers were hostile by definition, and the previous night’s attackers were not concerned about searching for him, so they obviously had no interest in his predicament. That’s if they even knew he existed.

So he watched and waited, and what he saw began to convince him that the men who had turned up were friends of those who had died fighting. He could see by their body language the despair that would have been seen on their faces. And that put him on the horns of a dilemma; should he go out to them or remain hidden in the cave?

Suddenly one of the men barked out some instructions and began sweeping his arm round in a gesture that looked like he was urging them to search for something, or somebody; survivors perhaps?

It took no more than five minutes before they were back together in a small group. There was a huddled conversation and the one who appeared to be the leader began looking around again. Then he suddenly pointed towards the cave where David was watching, and David realised then that it was over; there was no way he could offer up any resistance to these men because he was outnumbered and, in a sense, defenceless. So he dropped the Kalashnikov to the ground and the bandolier and walked out of the cave with his hands in the air.

There were five men in the group, and as soon as they spotted David they broke into a run and came rushing across the rocks towards him. David stopped and let them come to him.

They were all wearing caftans, a traditional, hooded garment but no headgear. Each one had a large leather belt around his waist with a fearsome looking knife and sheath hanging from it. One of them spoke to David in English.

‘Ellis. What happened here?’

David remembered him although he had only seen once since he was taken from the hospital.

It was Abdul Khaliq.

David simply gestured towards the compound and the house and explained what happened. His explanation was succinct and left Abdul in no doubt that the attackers were intent on one thing: murder.

‘They didn’t find you?’

David shook his head. ‘They didn’t look. Unfortunately it wasn’t a rescue mission.’

Abdul considered this for a moment, not taking his eyes off David. Then he said, ‘You will help my men bury these people. We must cover them so the wolves and jackals cannot finish what they started during the night.’ He turned away and began walking off towards the grim scene that lay before him. Then he stopped and turned towards David.

‘They may not have come for you, my friend, but this may be the beginning of your freedom.’

And with that curious statement, he wheeled away and hurried towards the morbid task that awaited them.

Susan Ellis had been home from work little more than an hour when the phone rang. She lived on the ground floor of a Victorian house that had been converted into flats, and was in the kitchen at the rear of the house preparing her evening meal. She had no idea who could be calling her. She put the knife down that she had been using and wiped her hands on a paper kitchen towel, pulled off her apron and went through to her front room to answer the phone.

‘Susan Ellis.’

‘Good evening Susan, this is Marcus Blake.’

She frowned and did not recognise the name for a moment. Then she realised who it was. ‘Marcus Blake? How did you get my number?’

‘With high skill, extreme perseverance and a modicum of luck. Can we talk?’

‘What about?’

‘Well, I would prefer to speak to you face to face.’

Susan wasn’t keen on inviting a comparative stranger round to her home. ‘Can’t you tell me what it is you want to say over the phone?’

‘I could,’ he replied honestly, ‘but I have something I want you to see and I can’t exactly show you that over the phone.’

‘Oh, well why not try to explain what it is that you want to show me?’

Marcus sensed her extreme reluctance, but he was determined to push her until she relented.

‘I cannot do that, but what I can do is invite you out to dinner and we can talk. It will be in public and you can leave whenever you wish. How does that suit you?’

She found herself nodding. ‘Well, that is reasonable, but I was already preparing a meal for myself.’

‘It’s no fun dining alone, Susan. I know because I do it so often.’

‘Is this about my brother?’ she asked him. Susan felt a little lift in her spirit and her skin tingled in anticipation. It was a momentary thing and passed quite quickly.