Michael Parker - A Covert War

It was a simple reply, and Marcus could imagine these two huge coppers putting the fear of God into hardened criminals.

The three of them sat there for well over an hour, saying very little and making small talk. Marcus had tried to encourage them to open up a little, but they were not that forthcoming, so he gave up.

They all saw the driver come out of the truck stop and walk across to his lorry. Yorkie gunned the motor into life and waited until the lorry was on the move before pulling away from the parking lot.

Their journey was not too long. The lorry drove away from Brandon a short distance and then turned on to the Weeting road. It headed into the country until it came to a sign pointing to the town of Feltwell.

None of them spoke as a sense of tension began feeling its way into the car. Marcus was sure it would not affect the two coppers, but he could definitely feel a slight, skin tightening sensation creeping over him.

They followed the lorry through the small town of Feltwell. It was beginning to get dark and the street lights were flickering into life. Soon the shops and houses began to thin out as they drove a little deeper into the countryside.

Then the lorry slowed and turned on to a small road. Yorkie pulled the Vectra over and parked.

‘Why are we stopping?’ Marcus asked.

‘Wouldn’t do to follow him up there,’ Whelan told him. ‘We’ll have to wait until it gets dark.’

‘Aren’t you afraid of losing him?’

Whelan shook his head. ‘No.’ It was all he said.

So they waited until the darkness was complete. Suddenly Whelan leaned forward and reached over the empty passenger seat. Yorkie put his hand out and opened the glove box. He took a Sig Sauer hand gun from the compartment, and handed it to Whelan who slipped the magazine out, checked it and rammed it back. Then he put the gun into his inside pocket.

‘Wait here,’ he said and climbed out of the car.

Whelan walked carefully along the track, which was in very good condition considering it was probably no more than a farm road. It had a tarmac surface, which surprised him.

He could see the road curving in the moonlight, but the curve was too sharp for him to see much beyond thirty yards or so. On his right the trees seemed to leap up and hang over him like phantoms. He took the Sig Sauer handgun from his pocket, slipped the safety catch off and held the gun firmly, pointing it down.

The road began to straighten and he was able to see a chain link fence in the distance. He could also see a wide, metal gate, which was closed. But astonishingly the gateway was flooded in light from arc lamps bearing down from high stanchions above the fence. And just inside the gate was what looked like a sentry post; a security hut. He could see someone sitting at a desk. He was wearing a uniform which Whelan recognised. And then he saw the large, floodlit sign.

‘Oh bollocks,’ he said.

The words on the sign read: United States Air Force. 7th. Logistics Wing. Bonded Warehouse.

Whelan stopped and slipped the gun back into his pocket. He then retraced his footsteps until he had cleared the curve in the road. He then quickened his pace and eventually broke into a trot. When he reached the car he was slightly breathless.

Marcus and Yorkie watched him get into the front of the car.

‘It’s the fucking Yanks,’ he gasped. ‘A bonded fucking warehouse!’

‘What are you talking about, Paddy?’ Iverson asked him.

‘It’s a bloody, Yank compound,’ he explained, shaking his head. ‘Can’t go in there asking questions.’

Suddenly there was a tap on the window. The three of them looked over at the window beside Yorkie. There was an American Military Policeman standing there. Yorkie put the window down.

‘Yes officer?’ he asked politely.

The MP’s hand came into view. He was holding a standard issue M9 handgun

‘Get out of the car, sir.’ He stepped back.

Whelan felt the weight of his own gun in the pocket of his jacket, but before he could make a decision one way or the other, it was made for him: his door was pulled open by a second, armed MP.

‘Hands in the air!’ was the command as the three men climbed out of the Vectra.

As Marcus straightened up he saw the Dodge pick-up truck. It was just rolling to a halt about twenty yards from them. He realised that the MPs must have approached their car on foot, although he had absolutely no idea where they came from.

The pick-up truck was a long wheel base wagon with a passenger compartment. The MPs frisked the three men, removed the gun from Whelan’s coat pocket and marshalled them to the rear door of the Dodge and made them get in.

Once they were seated along the bench seat, the doors were locked and the truck motored up the side road to the compound where they knew the contraband had been delivered. The gates were now wide open. The driver took the Dodge up to the large doors of the warehouse and parked in front of them.

The three of them were made to get out and taken through a pedestrian door which opened into the warehouse. On one side was an office. The lights were on and sitting there was the man they assumed to be the lorry driver. Facing him from behind the desk was Danny Grebo.

The Master Sergeant looked at the three men through the glass window of the office. His posture was fairly relaxed and the expression on his face one of authority and control.

Then it changed: he recognised Marcus.

Grebo stood up slowly as recognition dawned on him. His eyes darted swiftly to Iverson and Whelan, and then back to Marcus as the two MPs brought them into the office. He said nothing straight away, but Marcus knew he had recognised him. And Marcus was intelligent enough to know that once Grebo discovered that Iverson and Whelan were policemen, he could not afford to let them go.

Not now.

Cavendish was shown into the Prime Minister’s private office. It was almost midnight and the Prime Minister, not one for spending too much time in bed had agreed to the meeting with the Intelligence chief even though it was quite late.

Cavendish had explained to the Prime Minister that he wanted a private meeting, no notes, no record and no Parliamentary Private Secretaries to sit in on the conversation.

Cavendish sat down in an armchair to wait for the Prime Minister. He had no qualms about what he would discuss with him, and knew it would certainly give the man a problem. But that was the price of holding down the top job.

The door opened and the Prime Minister walked in. He was still dressed in his daily attire of bespoke suit and knitted tie. His hair, as usual, was a shambles and his appearance was that of someone who is always in a hurry. But what Cavendish knew of the Prime Minister was that the man had a very keen intellect, a razor sharp mind and did not suffer fools gladly.

‘Good evening, Sir Giles,’ he said, holding out his hand.

Cavendish stood up and shook the Prime Minister’s hand.

‘Would you like a drink?’

‘No thank you, Prime Minister,’ Cavendish answered. ‘I don’t intend staying long.’

‘Very well,’ the PM said and sat down in an armchair that had been placed at a right angle to the one Cavendish had chosen. ‘So, what is it you wish to see me about?’

‘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.’