Michael Parker - A Covert War

‘At least he was honest,’ Faulkner observed. ‘Too honest for his own good.’ He lifted his beer and took a mouthful. A river cruise boat went by and Faulkner looked down at the tourists with their cameras and colourful outfits. ‘Poor buggers don’t know the half of it,’ he said, putting his glass down. ‘So how are you going to fill the gap left by Grebo?’ he asked the CIA chief.

Hudson reflected on that for a while. ‘It will be difficult, but not impossible. We have to be prepared for people dropping out, so I’m sure we’ll cope.’

‘It shows how quickly a plan can fall to pieces,’ Faulkner lamented. ‘I haven’t been able to figure out where this man Blake fits in, but I think he was largely responsible that things fell apart so rapidly.’

‘Who is he anyway?’ Hudson asked the SOCA chief. ‘We sent a specialist to deal with him but he gave our man the slip.’

Faulkner arched his eyebrows. ‘Hmm, I’ve spoken to Cavendish; asked him if Blake was working for him or doing a bit of freelancing.’

Hudson laughed. ‘Some freelancer; he seems quite a guy.’

Faulkner conceded. ‘Yes, but we’ve underestimated him. If he shows up again we’ll have to make sure we finish the job this time.’

‘Well we know he phoned his father. He was clever enough to realise there was a tap on the old man’s line.’

Faulkner nodded. ‘It’s off now; too bloody risky. His old man has some clout in the city; could cause us some problems.’ He put his hand up and smiled. Hudson looked like he was about to make a suggestion. ‘No, I don’t want it taken care of,’ Faulkner told him. ‘Sir Henry Blake is untouchable, OK?’

Hudson laughed a little too and lifted his beer, and to all the world they were just a couple of guys enjoying a quiet lunch time drink, not two of the most dangerous men in Britain.

The Metropolitan Police Commissioner, Andrew Butler did not normally bother too much with crimes committed within the London area that would normally be dealt with by his very able, senior officers. From his lofty position, his daily round was often briefings with politicians, leading journalists, policy groups and often Chief Constables from other divisions. But at the early morning brief with his own senior officers, one name had been mentioned that had drawn his attention away from more administrative matters and focussed it on the recent events that had drawn him into the world of Sir Giles Cavendish. And that name was Blake.

After the meeting he asked his secretary to contact Cavendish, wherever he may be and ask him to phone. It was late that afternoon when Cavendish rang. The Commissioner’s secretary put the call through to Butler.

‘Good afternoon Commissioner, Sir Giles Cavendish here.’

‘Hallo Sir Giles, good of you to call. Something has come up that will probably interest you. It’s not part of your remit, I would think, but I am sure you will want to be kept informed.’

‘Thank you, Andrew.’

‘A body has turned up in a public toilet in one of the main underground stations. It has been identified as a lawyer by the name of Covington. He happens to be Sir Henry Blake’s lawyer. The time of death has been put at about ten thirty yesterday morning. Yesterday afternoon a lawyer by the name of Covington presented release papers at Thetford police station and had Marcus Blake released, four hours after the real Covington was murdered. I’ll keep you informed of any developments in the case, Sir Giles, but my division superintendent will obviously want to keep this in house. If there is any proven link to your investigation, he will almost certainly prefer to hand it on to SOCA. I’m sure Faulkner will want to be kept informed too.’

In his office, Cavendish mouthed an obscenity. Then he composed himself and put a request to the Police Chief.

‘Commissioner, would you try to keep this out of the hands of SOCA? For the time being at least?’

‘Would you like to tell me why, Sir Giles?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t; not yet anyway. And if I did, it would be in private; not over the phone. I hope you’ll understand.’

‘I will do my best,’ Butler promised, ‘but if the superintendent feels he wants to pass this on, I will try to hold it up for forty eight hours.’

‘Thank you Andrew. I’m sure we’ll talk again.’ He put the phone down.

Cavendish was reluctant to have SOCA involved because of something Faulkner had said during the meeting with the Prime Minister. On its own it wasn’t incriminating, but it managed to ring an alarm bell in Cavendish’s mind, and that was all that was needed in his murky world of secret intelligence.

Marcus left the Mercedes at the truck stop where he had met up with the two policemen, Blake and Whelan. He then drove the Mondeo that Cavendish had provided and motored back to London. He didn’t go back to his own flat, but found a three star hotel and booked in there for the night. The following morning he put together a plan that he hoped might get him closer to the organisation that sent the bogus Covington to release him from the jail in Thetford.

Marcus had the hit-man’s wallet and the car keys to the Mercedes. With the car’s documents and the driving licence, he now knew where the guy lived, and decided to go to the man’s address.

Marcus knew the score: not to approach the house until he was convinced it was empty and he wouldn’t be noticed. To that end he needed to spend some time watching the premises without being seen; the watcher being watched.

The house was in Elgin Avenue at Maida Vale. Marcus found somewhere to park his car and walked to the Elgin public house. The pub was situated on the corner of the street. There were tables and chairs on the corner and from there Marcus was able to sit and watch with a soft drink in his hand. He knew he couldn’t sit there all day, but he had to spend as much time as possible until he could be certain it was safe to enter the house. He had bought a daily paper so was able to adopt the classic stance of pretending to read while keeping an eye on the place.

His patience was rewarded when he saw someone leave from the front door. It was a woman who Marcus assumed to be the man’s wife or partner. When she had gone, Marcus got up from the table and walked down to the front entrance. He walked up the short garden path and rang the doorbell. There was no reply, so Marcus tried again. When it was obvious there was nobody in, Marcus walked away and went back to the Elgin pub.

Marcus gambled that there would be nobody watching a house, so he retraced his footsteps and went back, but this time he walked up to the front door and opened it with the key that was on the Mercedes key ring.

He pushed the door open and stepped over the threshold, pulling the door closed behind him. He then waited for at least two minutes, not moving, but listening carefully for any sound that might suggest there was still somebody in the house.

There was a staircase in front of Marcus, which he assumed led up to the bedrooms. He went up as quickly and as quietly as he could and opened the doors that all faced on to the landing running alongside the upper stair well.

There was nobody about so he went back downstairs and into the front room. It was furnished tastefully and expensively, which didn’t surprise Marcus considering the profession of the man who, he believed lived there. He saw a bureau against a far wall. He went over to it and began looking through it, lifting out letters, documents and the odd receipt and bill.

He then went through to the dining room and began searching through the Welsh dresser that was in there. Once again the drawers were haphazardly filled with impedimenta relating to bills, addresses, TV licence and the like. But there was nothing he could see that could link the man to the organisation he knew Cavendish was investigating.