Michael Parker - A Covert War

‘Look Dad, I’m free, I’m ok, but I have to lie low for a while. I’ll explain later. But I think you need to check up on something.’

‘Marcus, you’re not making sense,’ Blake told him sternly. ‘What are you gabbling about?’

‘When did you speak to Covington?’ Marcus asked him.

‘Shortly after you rang, why?’

‘Well somehow, the Yanks intercepted Covington and sent one of their own men. And they could only have done that because they knew you had called him.’

‘What are you suggesting, Marcus?’ Blake had a feeling he wasn’t going to like what he was about to hear.

‘The Yanks must have a tap on your phone line; it’s the only way they could have known about Covington. I suggest you get in touch with Cavendish and nobody else. Tell him I’ve called and what has happened.’

‘I think this is preposterous,’ Blake replied strongly.

‘In that case Dad, phone your lawyer. I’ll be in touch.’

The line went dead and left Blake staring into space. He replaced the handset and flicked open a phone book which lay on the table beside the phone. He found the number of his lawyer and dialled it. It was picked up within seconds.

‘Cope’s legal services. How may I help you?’

‘Judy, this is Sir Henry Blake. Can you put me in touch with John Covington?’

‘I’m sorry, Sir Henry, we have been trying to get in touch with Mister Covington on another matter, but he’s not answering his mobile. It’s most unusual for him not to answer. Perhaps he’s lost it, but we won’t know until he phones in. Is there something Mister Cope can help you with, Sir Henry?’

Blake didn’t answer for a few seconds; his mind was beginning to move into overdrive.

‘Ah, no, no, thank you Judy,’ he said hurriedly. ‘Just ask Mister Covington to ring me as soon as you can. Thank you.’

He put the phone down and his heart sank. Blake’s gut feeling was that Covington would not be getting in touch with his office or anybody else for that matter.

Covington was almost certainly dead.

Danny Grebo had dumped the BMW in north London and walked through the streets until he came to an all-night taxi rank. Grebo’s knowledge of the city was scant so he simply asked the taxi driver to drop him off at Oxford Street. Once there, he made his way round to Grosvenor Square in sight of the American Embassy and located a public phone booth.

The call he had to make could mean a way out of the jam he had got himself into. Any other option simply didn’t exist. Grebo knew he would be indicted for murder and almost certainly extradited to America because he had killed a serving, American military policeman. It meant the electric chair and that just didn’t bear thinking about. He was hoping that the man he was about to ring could get him into the American Embassy in the first instance. This would give him a relatively safe haven, providing none of the American authorities knew he was there, until it could be decided which would be the best way to get him out of the country.

The ringing phone was answered fairly quickly.

‘John Deveraux.’

‘This is Grebo. Can you talk?’

There was no reply for a couple of seconds. Then, ‘I think so; Marjorie is in the shower. What do you want?’

‘You know about last night?’

‘I didn’t get to bed until four o’clock this morning, thanks to you. Of course I know about last night.’ Deveraux sounded terse.

‘I need a way out, Commodore. You’re the only one who can help me.’

‘And what makes you think I can help you?’

‘The Chapter can,’ Grebo answered desperately. ‘Get them to me; they can get me out.’

‘They may not want to, Danny. After all, you’ve messed up big style.’

‘They’re my only chance Commodore. You’ve got to help me.’

‘You should have thought of that before you murdered one of our own men.’

‘I didn’t plan it that way, I swear.’

‘Planned or not, Grebo you killed one of our serving airmen. I think The Chapter will probably want to wash its hands of you from now on.’

‘Don’t let them do that sir. I need help and I need it bad. I’ve made a lot of money for those guys, including you. They owe me.’

‘Nobody owes you anything, Grebo. You’re the one who has come unstuck; nobody else. And why should they owe you?’

Grebo could feel the sweat gathering round his neck. It was like a noose. ‘If I get picked up, the whole organisation could go to the wall. I know the names, places, everything. How long do you think it would take them to get all of that out of me? I know about rendition, commodore, and it ain’t nice.’

He listened for an answer and could hear the sound of Deveraux’s breathing coming down the phone line. Eventually the commodore spoke.

‘Very well, Grebo, I’ll see what I can do. Call my office at ten o’clock. I will give you an address in London. That’s all I can offer at the moment.’

‘Thank you sir, thank you.’ Grebo felt his whole body begin to shake in relief. ‘Ten o’clock.’

He put the phone down and stepped out of the phone booth. It was still early and he wondered what he could do to fill in the next few hours. Ordinarily he would have drawn some money out of an ATM machine and bought himself a breakfast and maybe a wash and brush. Trouble was, though, he wasn’t sure it was a good idea to use his ATM card in case the police were looking out for any transactions he might make so that they could pinpoint his location. He still had a few pounds in his wallet so he decided instead to wander around the department stores in Oxford Street, grab a coffee and a donut (he had enough money for that), and make the call at ten o’clock.

When Grebo made the call, he was given an address in Ealing Broadway. He knew he could get there by tube and using the ATM machine for the fare money wasn’t too big a risk because the police would never know where he was going if indeed they did pick up the transaction.

Grebo arrived at the address he was given about ninety minutes later. The road was a typical pre-war residential area. Fairly run down now, but probably a very up market neighbourhood in its heyday. Grebo didn’t bother to knock at the front door; he simply turned the knob and pushed the door open.

He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. He waited for a moment and then called out. A voice answered.

‘Hi, Danny, come through to the kitchen.’

Grebo walked down the passageway towards the back of the house. He reached the door that he believed would open on to the kitchen. It was partly closed. Gingerly he pushed the door and it swung open. He couldn’t believe what he was looking at first, but the entire kitchen was covered in plastic sheeting. For a brief moment he thought someone was in the process of decorating.

Then he felt a hand push him in the back. The barrel of the gun came up on to the back of his head and Grebo was dead before he hit the deck.

James Faulkner and Randolph Hudson were enjoying a beer together at a riverside pub overlooking the River Thames. It wasn’t unusual for the two men in their capacity as security chiefs to share some interdepartmental gossip and swop detail on any joint investigation their relative departments might be undertaking. But this time their conversation had little to do with national security, British or American; it was to do with the disappearance of Marcus Blake and the demise of Danny Grebo.

‘Grebo was a liability anyway,’ Faulkner was saying, ‘such a pity really because he was important to The Chapter.’

‘We had no choice, James,’ Hudson said. ‘Once he’d told Deveraux that he would probably crack and spill the beans.’ He shrugged with a hopeless gesture.