Michael Parker - A Covert War

David could see men pouring out of the house and being picked off by the attackers. Then he saw flames blossoming up from the old place and could see there was little more that the defenders could do; whoever was attacking them was a well drilled team.

David had never witnessed a fire fight, but had heard many reports of the bedlam, the fury and the fear that is felt and experienced by all who are involved. The fear gives an adrenalin rush to many of the combatants, and those who are left behind are usually dead. There are certainly no prisoners taken, and those who lie on the ground wounded will probably die of their wounds anyway.

It was over in minutes. The attackers had come swiftly and taken the men in the house completely by surprise. David watched as the attackers moved around the compound, rolling bodies over and dispatching those who had not been killed. He wondered what he should do, whether to run out of the cave and let himself be seen by the men or not. He couldn’t shout at them because he was still gagged. If they had been sent to rescue him, they would not have destroyed the house as they would have secured it and left it reasonably intact so they could search for him.

He began to think that possibly these men were not there to rescue him. So what were they up to? And would he be of any use to them? Would they kill him as they had those who had survived the fire fight, or would they ignore him? Did they even know he was there, he wondered?

As if to answer his question, David heard the sound of a helicopter thundering its way towards the scene of the battle. And as the last rays of the sun disappeared completely, the silhouette of the chopper came into view and landed on the hard ground, throwing up clouds of dust. Very quickly the attackers all ran towards the chopper and merged with the billowing sand storm until their figures could be seen no more. Then the helicopter lifted and thundered up and away, the chopping sound of its blades reverberating through the evening air until the sight and sound of it was no more.

It was over. Only David was left. And he was still gagged and handcuffed.

Marcus knew he would get short shrift if he went to the headquarters of MI6 at Vauxhall Cross and asked to see Sir Giles Cavendish. He thought he might try using his father as a reason for asking, perhaps by intimating that his father and Cavendish were old school friends, which of course they were not; he might be able to use that as an angle. If he played the idiot, it might work. He also knew that if he walked into MI6 headquarters and asked somebody to point out Cavendish to him, or show him a photograph, he would be arrested and thrown in jail for a couple of days until he had been checked out by the police. So that was not an option. So he found another way, and that was why he was sitting on a bench on the embankment with his father on a very cold day.

What Marcus had done was to agree to spend a weekend with his parents if his father would agree in return to help him identify Cavendish. So on the Monday morning after Marcus’s weekend visit, he travelled down to London on the train with his father and went immediately to his father’s club, Whites in St. James Street. There was no way Marcus was going to suggest to his father that they went to his office in Oliver’s Yard.

At about mid-day, Henry Blake phoned MI6 headquarters and asked to speak to Sir Giles Cavendish. He was put through by the operator and reached Cavendish’s secretary. He was asked his business.

‘I’m an old school chum of Sir Giles. Thought I’d look him up while I’m in London. Surprise him.’

‘Who shall I say is calling?’

‘Sir Henry Blake.’

‘One moment, sir.’

The silence that followed was interrupted by music. Then, a minute or so later the secretary came back on the line. ‘I’m sorry, sir, but Sir Giles has no recollection of anyone by that name from his school years. He does apologise and hopes this hasn’t inconvenienced you. Good day.’

The phone went dead. Blake looked at his son. ‘Well, Marcus, I said they would be a suspicious lot. At least we know he’s there, don’t we?’

Marcus nodded his approval. ‘OK Dad, now we go and wait until he goes to lunch.’

And that was why they were sitting on the bench, and had been for an hour or so when Cavendish came out of the building and hailed a cab. Blake stiffened and nodded in the man’s direction.

‘That’s him, Marcus. I remember the randy old goat as if it were yesterday.’

‘Did he really chase after mum?’ Marcus asked.

‘He wasn’t the only one,’ Blake muttered. ‘They were like flies round the jam pot sometimes.’

Marcus smiled at the thought. ‘Never make a pretty woman your wife, so the song goes,’ he said to his father, and put his arm up to a passing taxi.

‘I’ll remind you when it’s your turn to get married,’ his father said and stood up. ‘OK my boy, time I caught the train back home and let you get back to this mysterious job you’ve got.’

‘I haven’t got it yet,’ he lamented. ‘But I may be able to provoke a reaction and get into someone’s good books,’ he said as he climbed into the cab.

‘Pretty, is she?’

Marcus looked up at his father’s smiling face. He held his hand out. His father took it and then leaned forward and gave him a hug. He felt Marcus’s body stiffen slightly.

‘Be careful, Marcus. No heroics. And don’t let your mother know what we’ve been up to; she’d have a fit.’

Marcus winked at him. ‘Thanks Dad, I’ll see you around.’

He turned to the taxi driver and pointed up the embankment to where Cavendish was getting in his taxi. ‘Follow that cab.’

Sir Giles Cavendish paid off the taxi outside Covent Garden and wandered down the stairs through the throng of tourists watching the classical musicians busking in the small area allocated for the acts that performed there. Not far behind, Marcus followed using his camera like any tourist, and making sure Cavendish was in every shot.

Cavendish had not bothered to wear a coat and was now beginning to wish he had. But his business in Covent Garden wasn’t going to take up too much of his time, and he knew the man he was meeting would probably not want to linger either.

He saw him sitting at an outside table, still with his black overcoat buttoned up. It was one of the little foibles of The Right Honourable James Purdy, Secretary of State for International Development, that he was never without the coat. He stood up as Cavendish pulled out a chair and sat down. Purdy glanced over at the inconspicuous watcher in black who he knew would be carrying a gun and nodded that his visitor was bona fide.

Cavendish sat down and ordered a cup of English tea with milk. He looked across the table at the Minister and noticed a bruise on the side of his face. Cavendish touched the side of his own cheek.

‘Fall over?’ he asked.

The minister chuckled. ‘Didn’t take enough water with it, old boy.’

Cavendish noticed he had three scratch marks beneath his ear. ‘My, my, you certainly have been in the wars.’

‘Nothing a good nurse can’t handle.’

Cavendish mumbled something and then spotted the waitress walking towards him with his tea. He waited until it was served and the waitress had left before opening up his conversation with the Minister.

‘Thank you for agreeing to meet me here, Minister. I find it useful to have the public around with all the noise and what have you. And I’m sure we can keep this in house as it were.’

The Minister smiled. ‘So long as what you wish to talk about does not fall within the parameters of my role with the Cabinet,’ he replied.

Cavendish shifted slightly, moving his body in such a way that it opened up into a friendly gesture. ‘It has nothing to do with your job, Minister, more to do with you.’