Michael Parker - A Covert War

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.

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 to apprise you of last night’s events,’ the Prime Minister began, ‘But I would like your take on it.’