Michael Parker - A Covert War

The Police Commissioner interrupted Cavendish. ‘You’re not suggesting the links with this Grebo go further up the chain of command, are you?’

‘I hope I’m wrong,’ Cavendish told him, ‘and I have no proof, but I know I’m right: the Americans are in it up to their necks.’

Marcus was lying on his back with his hands behind his head looking up at the ceiling. He had been doing some thinking, and he wasn’t convinced that he was cut out for intelligence work. He seemed to have a habit of attracting violence and being forced to dish it out, when all he really wanted was a quiet life. The events twelve hours earlier had taught him a salutary lesson: people like Danny Grebo and his associates were to be avoided at all costs. But then, he reasoned, the world is full of people like that, and they encroach on your life whether you invite them to or not. In his case, Marcus had to accept that he had been largely responsible for his own demise, and it was this that made him decide to split from Cavendish.

Marcus had reached that decision earlier, shortly after waking up in the holding cell in Thetford where they were keeping him. He had asked if he could make a phone call. The station officer had agreed, so Marcus phoned his father and asked for a lawyer to get down to the police station to get him out. He was sure there wouldn’t be a problem; not that he understood the law but he was fairly convinced the police couldn’t hold him without charge. He was sure the lawyer would post bail or whatever they do; get a magistrate or judge to sign some release papers. And bugger Cavendish, he thought resolutely, he could play his own silly games.

He had had a wash and cleaned his teeth; toiletries provided by the station sergeant, and had a fairly decent breakfast. Lunch passed by as well, and so far no- one had come to see Marcus about the events of the night before. It was strange but perhaps there was a conflict between departments, he decided, and neither one had won the argument. He was sure Cavendish would have him out of the nick in two seconds, and he was equally sure that a normal police investigation would have him remanded for some time. So all he could do was wait.

With nothing to do, Marcus began to think again of his decision to split from Cavendish. He also thought of Susan and her brother, David. Susan wanted nothing more than to see her brother free. When she had come to Marcus she only wondered if David was still alive. Now she knew because she had received a letter from him. That meant a line had been opened between David and Susan by whoever was keeping David prisoner.

Marcus also began to think about Grebo and the whole American connection. Just how deep, he wondered were the American military involved. Afghanistan was not really Britain’s bag; more the Yanks. The kind of organisation Grebo was running, if he was running it, had to have some powerful backers. How else could Grebo make use of a bonded warehouse right under the noses of the American military?

Marcus was reconsidering his options when he heard footsteps in the passageway. He swung his feet off the bed and sat up as a police sergeant, accompanied by a civilian appeared at the door of his cell.

‘Time to go, Blake,’ the sergeant sang out as he rattled the keys in the lock.

Marcus jumped to his feet and stepped through the open door. He presumed it was the lawyer with the sergeant although he didn’t recognise him.

‘Hallo Marcus, I’m Covington. Your father sent me to get you out of here.’

Marcus shook the lawyer’s hand thinking as he did that there was something odd in the way the lawyer had said ‘out of here’. It was more like ‘outta here’. He put it to the back of his mind and followed the lawyer to the desk where he had his personal effects returned and his release papers were signed.

Marcus followed Covington out to the car park towards a black Mercedes parked in a visitor’s slot. Covington aimed the key fob at it and the hazard lights on the car flashed several times as the door locks were released.

Covington turned to Marcus and smiled, gesturing to the passenger door on the far side. Marcus did as he was bid and climbed into the soft leather upholstery. Covington settled himself into the driver’s seat and gunned the motor into life.

Reversing out of the parking slot, Covington swung the wheel effortlessly. Marcus immediately felt a familiar sensation as adrenalin began pumping into his system.

‘Where are we going?’ Marcus asked him.

Covington turned and looked at Marcus. ‘We’re going to meet your father,’ he told him. He accelerated out of the car park and into the main high street. As he did, Covington reached forward and pressed a button on the dash. Marcus heard the sound of the door locks closing.

They cleared Thetford within twenty minutes or so and were soon heading up the A134, passing through the amusingly named Two Mile Bottom. Marcus had no idea where they were going, but he knew he would have to come up with something if he wanted to see the rest of the day out.

Suddenly Covington slowed and turned into a side road. About a mile or so later he pulled into a lay-by and stopped.

He then turned to Marcus and was about to say something when Marcus hit him.

Marcus knew there would almost certainly be a little preamble; something like ‘This is where you get off’, or ‘Get out of the car because I’m going to blow your brains out’. But whatever Marcus did, he had to make sure he did not give the man who called himself Covington an opportunity to kill him; because he knew that was the man’s intention.

Marcus hit him again and again, pounding his fist into the side of Covington’s head until the bogus lawyer sagged unconscious into the seat.

Marcus quickly removed his seat belt, reached forward and pressed the button to release the door locks and then looked out through the windows to see if there was anybody about.

A car drove by fairly quickly, rocking the Mercedes. Once that had gone, Marcus got out and went round to the driver’s side. He released Covington’s seat belt and pulled him out of the car. Then he checked the road again to make sure it was clear and lifted him on to his shoulder, back heeled the door shut, then carried him into the woods lining the side of the road.

Once clear of the road and out of sight, Marcus dropped Covington on to the ground and immediately searched through his pockets. He took his wallet and a Walther PPK hand gun. He left him there and went back to the Mercedes and settled himself into the car, switched on the ignition and started the motor. Then he glanced over at the trees where he had dumped Covington.

‘Sorry about this, Mister Covington,’ he shouted. ‘But I gotta get outta here!’

He powered the Merc away. Ten minutes later Marcus pulled up beside a public phone box in the village of Munford and phoned his father.

Sir Henry Blake answered the phone with little else on his mind other than what he and his wife Emily would be doing later in the day. It was one of the pleasantries of retirement, where one could make plans at one’s leisure. But there were times, naturally where circumstances tended to blunt even the most quiescent moments. And this was to be one.

‘Sir Henry Blake,’ he said as he pressed the phone to his ear.

‘Hallo Dad, Marcus here.’

Blake’s eyes lit up as they often did when his son called. ‘Marcus, my dear boy, your free.’

‘Yes, but there’s a problem,’ Marcus told his father. ‘The man who came to get me out claimed to be Covington, your lawyer.’

Blake nodded. ‘Yes, I sent him.’

‘It wasn’t your man. The guy who came here was an American, and he had no intention of letting me go free.’

‘What do you mean he had no intention of letting you go free? That’s the reason I sent him up there.’