Michael Parker - A Covert War

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 cafe. 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.

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 Attache 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 attache’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.