Michael Parker - A Covert War

Deveraux made the call that would see the end to Cavendish’s pursuit of those connected with The Chapter. It was short and to the point. He advised extreme caution because of Cavendish’s position within British Intelligence. And there was little point in trying to make it look like an accident, he warned the person on the other end of the phone; scientific analysis of a crime scene was so sophisticated now it was almost impossible to fool the crime scene investigators.

‘Just make sure,’ he insisted, ‘that the target is dead.’

Cavendish finished his lunch at The Crown, a Victorian pub on the Embankment opposite the Tate Gallery. He would often use the pub and then spend an hour or so wandering among the paintings hanging in the Tate, enjoying the ambience and the quiet. Cavendish found that the peaceful atmosphere often helped him to unlock difficult cases or come to terms with operations that had gone badly wrong.

His mobile phone vibrated in his pocket, dragging his mind back to reality and he walked out of the Tate and dialled his office.

‘We’ve got a couple of names, sir. Best you look yourself, but I think we have the man you’re looking for.’

Cavendish smiled and put the phone back in his pocket and caught a taxi back to the MI6 headquarters a short distance away.

The information in front of him on his desk showed the phone calls that Susan Ellis had made over the course of a week. There were several professional organisations that Cavendish recognised and dismissed immediately, but one organisation which stood out was that of Guard Right Services. And the address placed it within yards of the public call box that had been used by the mysterious caller when he made the calls from a City of London call box. It had been highlighted as the ‘most likely’ among all the others. And alongside the name of the Company was that of Marcus.

Cavendish looked across the desk at the young intelligence agent who had supplied the information.

‘I want you to find out as much as you can about this Marcus Blake.’ He paused because the name seemed to ring a bell but he couldn’t place it. He shook his head; it wasn’t important. ‘Then I want you to make an appointment to see him tomorrow morning, if possible. Use any name, but I will be going along myself. Oh yes, and I want you to put someone on Susan Ellis; she may be entirely innocent in all this, but I think it might be pertinent to keep an eye on her and any callers she has.’

Abdul drove the minibus with all the skill and assurance of a man who had been doing it for years. It was a kind of disguise for him; because his presence outside his own fiefdom would mean grave danger if he was recognised. He had discarded the Shalwar Kadiz dress of long shirt and baggy pants, or pantaloons that were de rigeur for all Taliban converts, even though he wasn’t one. Now he was wearing a traditional Afghan pakol hat, a chapan jacket and loose fitting pantaloons.

Beside Abdul in the front seat was his right hand man, Habib and behind him, sitting next to David was his third in command, Kareem. Abdul went nowhere without these two men, and it was a testament to them that he was prepared to trust them with his life this far away from the relative safety of his own people.

The three men had travelled with Abdul from the northern province of Zabor beyond Kandahar. They were now driving through the hills approaching Jalalabad, about one hundred miles or so east of the capital, Kabul.

David understood that this strange, new treatment of him by Abdul did not mean he was now considered a ‘trusty’, or whatever the equivalent was in this troubled country. No, David was still bound, although discreetly, and there was no way in which he could flee from his captors.

Abdul had made it clear to David that he was something of an investment now, but it had not been made too clear exactly what he had meant by that. Shortly after being told that he wanted him to write a letter, Abdul had appeared with pen and paper and instructed David to write to his sister, Susan.

David was staggered at the request; he thought the letter he was going to write was to have been to his old boss, Sir Giles Cavendish. He was also surprised when Abdul mentioned Susan, and when David asked what he should write, Abdul simply shrugged and told him to write the kind of things he would normally write to a member of his family. Once the letter had been written, and David had put as much in as he felt would be allowed, one of Abdul’s men took it away.

The minibus pulled off the main highway leading away from Jalalabad and turned on to a dirt road that wound its way towards the foothills and eventually the Mission orphanage.

David recognised much of the countryside and immediately began to feel a hurt deep inside. He recalled fond memories; memories he no longer wanted to have, but the lush green vegetation, the old road and the backdrop of the mountains were dragging him back to that moment when his heart died with Shakira.

The minibus bumped and groaned its way up the dirt road until the Mission came into view. It was a single story building with other, smaller outbuildings scattered around it. There was a fenced compound and a set of gates that were now closed. David remembered they had always been open.

He glanced up towards that place in the hill above the Mission where Shakira had died and, metaphorically speaking, so had he. He turned away and looked at the back of Abdul’s head and wondered what part he had played in the massacre.

Abdul pulled up at the gates and a turbaned Afghan walked over to the minibus. He was carrying a machine gun over his shoulder. Abdul put the window down and jabbered away at the man. David understood much of what was said. Eventually the man sauntered over to the gates and pulled them open. Abdul shoved the minibus into gear and accelerated through the opening, throwing up clouds of dust.

It was all very bewildering and not making a lot of sense to David. He couldn’t for the life of him think why Abdul had taken all this trouble to drive some distance from his own province down to Jalalabad. Whatever it was, it must have been important and probably worth a lot of money to the warlord.

Abdul pulled up outside the front doors of the Mission. Above the doors was the legend; The First Chapter. David glanced at it and remembered Shakira telling him that it meant the first chapter of a journey that deprived and orphaned children would embark upon to a new life in the West. He could see the bullet holes, unrepaired still in the woodwork.

David was ordered out and scrambled down from the minibus, helped by Abdul’s two minders. The four men walked into the Mission, but once inside, Abdul gestured to his men to take David along the passageway to another room. He then made his way to the office.

It crossed David’s mind that he might be recognised by one of the staff there, but considering it was a year ago that the attack happened, plus the fact that David was now wearing a full beard and was also dressed like Abdul and his men; it meant that he was literally unrecognisable.

After about ten minutes, and also having been escorted to the toilet, David was pleased to see some food and drink brought in. The man who brought it in said nothing. He even avoided eye contact, which didn’t surprise David either. He ate a good meal, which also included English tea much to his delight and surprise.

It was about an hour later when Abdul appeared and signalled that they were leaving. Once again David was herded like the prisoner he was by the two minders to the minibus. Still not sure why all this was happening, David began to adopt a kind of philosophical attitude, and had been ruminating on all kinds of theories when Abdul suddenly appeared with three, young children. A woman, dressed in the Catholic style nun’s outfit, accompanied the children. She spoke warmly to Abdul and then bobbed courteously before turning and going back into the mission.