Michael Parker: A Covert War

‘So what happens now?’

Grebo took another pull at his beer. ‘They’re gonna try and smoke the raghead out. They’re gonna put a team in and they want you to do the drop.’

Berry nodded thoughtfully, rolling the Budweiser in his hand and settled back in his chair. ‘What will be my cut?’

Grebo shrugged. ‘The usual, but there’ll be no pick-up this time. That’s all I can tell you. But listen up; none of the team that go in knows of the connection between the raghead and the diplomats. By using you, we are keeping this in house. The drop has got to be right.’

‘What about getting them out?’ Berry asked, knowing that once the team had been parachuted in from the Hercules, they were no longer his responsibility.

‘Once the job is done, the team will be brought out by helicopter.’

Berry understood the reasoning behind the decision to get him to fly the Hercules transport. He was due to begin another tour of duty in Afghanistan the following week at the American military base at Khost, and he was one of the very few men who were part of a highly secret cartel who owed little allegiance to their flag. There had been times before when he had flown a covert mission to extract a live cargo, but the live cargo had always been women and children and he had never flown them to any allied air force base but always to a remote strip somewhere near the Turkmenistan border, in the north west of Afghanistan. For that he had always been paid a handsome sum. And he had never questioned the morals or ethics of what he was doing.

Marcus picked up the phone and dialled the Foreign and Commonwealth Office. There was very little delay when a charming, female voice told him that he had reached the Foreign and Commonwealth Office and how could she help him?

‘Could you put me through to Mister Cavendish, please?’

‘One moment, sir. Who may I say is calling?’

‘Marcus Blake.’

‘Thank you Mister Blake.’

Marcus relaxed and gazed around the impoverished walls of his office, rattling the tips of his fingers on the desk top while the music played softly in his earpiece.

The music stopped and the operator came back on the line.

‘Mister Blake, I’m sorry, but there is no-one of that name here at the Foreign Office.’

Marcus sat upright. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked without thinking.

‘Yes sir; I have just checked the computer directory of employees here and there is no-one listed under the name of Cavendish.’

‘Oh.’ It was all he could think of saying at that moment. Then, ‘Oh well, thank you anyway.’

‘Thank you sir.’ The phone went dead.

Marcus put the phone back in its cradle. He sat like that for a while, his hand still lying on it and began to think of those points he had written while doodling and listening to Susan Ellis.

Cavendish. There had been something puzzling him about the man. When Susan Ellis told Marcus about her brief encounter with him, she had told him that she didn’t have Cavendish’s phone number and that she couldn’t call him back because his number had been withheld.

It was also odd that he seemed to know her the moment she walked into Starbucks, although that in itself was not significant. But the nonsense about the diplomatic bag was stretching things a bit, Marcus thought. His father had worked for the diplomatic Corps all his life and Marcus wondered how much credence he would put in a story like that. He picked up the phone, hit the speed dial and waited. A minute later his father came on the line.

‘Sir Henry Blake.’

Marcus chuckled. His father always answered the phone so that he sounded as though he was looking down his nose at the caller.

‘Hallo Dad, its Marcus.’

He sensed, rather than heard his father pull away from the phone.

‘Emily, do we know anybody called Marcus?’

Marcus rolled his eyes and waited. Then he heard his mother’s shout of joy in the background and the click of the phone extension as she picked it up.

‘Marcus, how lovely to hear from you. It’s been ages since you last called.’

‘A month, mother.’

‘Four months, Marcus.’

Marcus contested that. ‘Well, maybe three.’

‘How are you Marcus? Are you keeping well? When are you going to visit us? Your father and I would love to see you.’ Marcus just kept nodding. ‘And are you still working?’

‘Yes to all that, mother,’ Marcus butted in. He loved his mother dearly but she wouldn’t stop if he didn’t say anything. ‘Now, can I speak to Dad, please?’

‘I’m still here Marcus, as always.’

‘I know, Dad. Now look, I need a favour.’

His father made some kind of grunting sound down the phone. ‘Trouble with that escort agency of yours, is that it? Not enough Z list clients?’

Marcus banged his eyes. ‘Dad, I do not run an escort agency. I provide minders for important people.’

‘And how many minders do you have on your books?’ his father asked.

‘Well, it’s mainly me,’ he admitted. ‘But I do have men I can call on.’

‘As I thought; you’re sitting on your backside all day pretending you’re a big operator in the City. Why don’t you come home and get a proper job?’

‘I don’t need one, Dad; I’m happy and have enough money to keep my head above water.’

‘Your grandmother’s inheritance? Thought you would have blown that by now.’

Marcus had been left a generous annuity by his grandmother, part of which he had carefully reinvested and was now more than just comfortable.

‘So what do you need me for?’ his father asked.

‘Do you know anybody by the name of Cavendish?’ Marcus asked him. ‘A guy probably your age, may have gone to public school, University. Might have been in the military. Member of one of your clubs, perhaps?’

‘Hmmm. The sound rolled down the phone line. ‘I knew a Cavendish at Westminster. Went into the City, I think.’

There was silence for a while and Marcus knew his father was thinking. It was a positive sign because his father would never dwell on something that he knew he couldn’t possibly recall, so this was promising.

‘Of course,’ he father said suddenly. ‘I met a Cavendish a few years ago in Hong Kong, Something to do with military intelligence. It wasn’t the Cavendish I knew at school, but I do remember when I met this chap I asked him if we were at school together. He must have thought I’d lost my marbles.’

Marcus clenched a fist and gently punched the air. His father went on.

‘So yes, I do know a Cavendish, but if he’s your man, he doesn’t know me. Well, maybe he does. If he’s in Intelligence he’ll know every bloody diplomat going. Does that answer your question dear boy?’

Marcus nodded. ‘You’re a diamond dad, thanks a million.’

‘Wait, wait!’ his father called down the phone. ‘Don’t think I’m letting you off the hook that easy. Now, your mother and I want you to come up for a day or two. Can you pull yourself away from your not so busy schedule to see us?’

‘Tell you what, Dad,’ Marcus began, trying to come up with all kinds of imaginative reasons for delaying the inevitable. ‘Let me run this Cavendish bloke down and I’ll get back to you.’

‘Marcus.’ This was his mother. ‘Your father is talking about Sir Giles Cavendish. We met him at the handing over ceremony in Hong Kong. I think he was rather taken with me, but your father saw him off. Spoil sport,’ she added with a chuckle.

‘Take no notice, Marcus,’ his father urged him. ‘And be sure to come up here and see us.’

‘I will, Dad. Promise. Love you both!’ He put the phone down and leapt out of the chair. ‘Yes!’ he shouted. ‘A result.’