Michael Parker: A Covert War

‘I don’t have any siblings, so I wouldn’t know.’

After a few moments of thought and relative silence, Susan asked if they could move on to more pragmatic things. She found the discussion of her brother and whether he was alive or not was becoming distressing.

‘Look,’ she began. ‘I have spoken to other agencies in the City but I’m afraid they are all far too expensive for me. What I want to know is what it would cost me for you to accompany me to Afghanistan while I look for the truth about my brother.’

‘You want a bodyguard,’ he said, ‘a minder, is that it?’

‘Yes, that’s it exactly. I would feel vulnerable if I went on my own.’

Marcus was quiet for some time. It was fairly clear to him that the young woman sitting opposite him was now down to the last noggins; the last scraping of the barrel. She had no money to speak of otherwise she would have taken on one of the bigger agencies. His own expertise extended little further than escorting celebrities, minor ones at that, and doing some courier work for other companies. What Susan Ellis was asking extended beyond his usual limits and would almost certainly end in tears, metaphorically speaking.

‘My fees,’ he said suddenly, ‘are two hundred and fifty pounds a day, plus expenses.’

Susan nodded her head slowly and sadly. ‘I was afraid of that,’ she told him, and stood up. ‘I can’t afford that kind of money, so I’m obviously wasting your time as well as my own.’ She held out her hand. ‘Thank you for listening, Mister Blake, but I can’t do business with you.’

Marcus stood up. ‘So what will you do?’ he asked as he shook her hand.

‘Oh, I shall take a couple of weeks off work and fly out to Afghanistan. Try on my own for a while. I owe that to David,’ she said.

‘Why not give Cavendish a call?’ he suggested. ‘Perhaps he can come up with something.’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t have his number. I tried dialling him back, but the number had been withheld.’

Marcus gave that some thought, then came round the desk and opened the office door for her. ‘I wish you luck,’ he said as she stepped out on to the landing. ‘I wish there was something I could do.’ He shrugged. He meant it too; she was too lovely a woman to have to relinquish so soon.

Susan gave him a brief smile. ‘Thank you again,’ she told him, and went down the stairs.

Marcus closed the door and went quickly to his desk. He tore off the top sheet of the pad on which he had been doodling and then he pulled a pair of sunglasses from his desk drawer and walked out of the office, lifting his beanie hat of its peg as he went out.

When he got down to street level, he checked to see which way Susan had gone, then turned round and locked his outer door. He slipped the Beanie hat over his blond hair and put on the sunglasses. Then he followed Susan up the City Road towards Old Street Tube station.

TWO MONTHS EARLIER

Abdul Khaliq glared across the table at the American sitting opposite him. There was no love lost between the two men, particularly when it came to business, and the American was upsetting Abdul because he was demanding a little extra for his pains. The girl Abdul had offered him was little more than a passing bauble between men who had no scruples. The American wanted something with a bit of class; something a little more refined than one of Abdul’s whores who would be passed off as rough trade.

Abdul Khaliq was a product of Afghanistan’s turbulent history; very much like the warlords who held power with an iron grip. But his province extended beyond the vaguely drawn boundaries that defined the tribal fiefdoms of the country, and reached into the very corridors of power in the Western World. Abdul bowed the knee to no man, but many bowed the knee to him.

Abdul’s power lay not in fiefdoms or the merchandise he traded with his Western counterparts, but in the more powerful element of knowledge; knowledge that could be useful as a bargaining chip, and deadly as a means of reprisal. His currency was fear, and men who traded with Abdul were not to be found in the upper echelons of the Taliban or Al Qaeda, but among those who hid behind some of the most powerful leaders in the West. And it was these men who had most to lose, and from that spawned the fear that Abdul used as his ultimate weapon.

But Abdul was becoming unsettled by a subtle change in the way in which his British and American customers wanted to do business. It was almost like a collective change of philosophy; a change so fine it was almost undetectable. But pressure for results was being upped a little, and balancing the scales between his sources and his customers was causing extra friction.

In short, Abdul’s almost inviolable powerbase seemed to be coming under threat; as though some others wanted to move in on his operation and effectively reduce his influence to that of a mere cog in a big wheel. His position as a warlord was becoming increasingly untenable.

Abdul’s ability to sense danger was legendary; he had the awareness of a wild animal. He also understood that his position in the chain of operations between his powerbase and the big hitters in the West could only be undeniable so long as he held the upper hand. And he knew there was a sense of impatience in the demands being made on him, and powerful men were becoming restless.

But the American guy sitting across the table from him was not in that league, and he would often try to extract more from Abdul whenever he negotiated the deals on behalf of his paymasters. Despite his power, Abdul was no mug; he needed to keep the Americans and the British happy. But keeping the big guns happy didn’t mean he had to listen to the inflated ego of a minion. The man was becoming a nuisance and Abdul was losing his patience fast.

‘The girl has been spoken for,’ Abdul told the American. ‘She is part of my next shipment.’ He waved a dismissive hand at the American. ‘It was a mistake that you saw her. Believe me, she is not for you.’

The American persisted. ‘Abdul, my friend, who is to know if the girl has been used?’ He shrugged. ‘And we have been doing business for some time. I think you owe me.’

Abdul put up a restraining hand and stood up. ‘I owe nothing to nobody but to keep my word. And my word is that this girl will be delivered clean and untouched.’ He went to move away from the table when the American reached forward and grabbed his arm. Abdul looked down at the man in surprise. Then that emotion turned to disbelief that the American should have the temerity to lay hands on him.

He pulled his arm away and stepped out from the table. ‘You will not do that again,’ he said quietly, but venomously. Then he walked over to the door of the room and pulled it open.

The American stood up and was about to say something when the two men who had been in the room with them stepped forward and blocked his path. Abdul nodded his head sharply and left the room. If the American was wondering what was happening, he was about to find out. The moment Abdul closed the door a crashing fist sent the American into oblivion.

Fifteen minutes later the two men carried the American’s body out of the farm house and tossed it into the back of a Toyota pick-up truck. There was no sign of Abdul, just the faint trail of dust from his Landcruiser that signalled his departure.

The two heavies climbed into the pick-up. Beyond them was an enormous expanse of wasteland; an enormous expanse in which to dump the dead American.