A Covert War (12 page)

Susan agreed because it seemed so silly the two of them standing there face to face in an empty room. He was still holding his hands out, palms uppermost, and as he relaxed and dropped his hands to his sides, Susan noticed they were heavily calloused, and the little finger on one hand was missing.

***

That evening Marcus went back to Thetford; different pub, different meal. Before choosing the pub, Marcus bought a Maglite torch in the supermarket where he had parked his car. Once he had fed and watered himself, Marcus drove back to the house and parked his car in a lay-by a short distance away, locked it and made his way through the edge of the forest to continue his watch.

As darkness closed in and the temperature fell, Marcus decided to get closer to the house. He knew he would have to be alert for any kind of alarm system there might be, or even dogs.

There was very little in the way of security around the perimeter; simply a stout wall made from Norfolk stone. It was a little higher than six feet, but it proved no obstacle for Marcus, and as he landed on his feet inside the rear garden, he dropped flat and lay still.

He heard no alarms ringing and no dogs barking, so after five minutes he ventured closer until he was up against the outside wall of the double garage. He was about to edge round the front of the garage when he heard the sound of a car pulling into the drive. Its wheels crunched across the gravel and it stopped outside the front door.

Immediately, the front door opened and the man who Marcus had seen earlier that day in uniform came out of the house. He greeted the man who was climbing out of the driver’s side of the car and they both turned and went inside.

As soon as they had disappeared, Marcus ran across to the car and peered through the windows to make sure the car was empty. He had noticed that the driver hadn’t bothered to lock the car, probably comfortable with the idea that while it was on the premises, it was safe, or he had simply forgot.

He eased the car door open and, using the small Maglite torch he had purchased from the supermarket, began checking through the glove box and under the seats to locate the car’s documents. He pulled out a plastic folder from beneath the passenger seat. Flipping it open he saw the certificate of insurance and other sundry paperwork. He slipped the certificate into his pocket, put the wallet back beneath the passenger seat and went back to the far wall of the garage.

Marcus began to consider his next move. He had no way of knowing if the visitor to the house was simply a family friend or someone who was in league with the American who lived there. At the same time, he still didn’t know if the Mercedes used in the attempted hit on Cavendish was actually in the garage or not, and he had to find out. He did think about following the visitor once he had left the house, but with the man’s car insurance certificate in his pocket, there was no need for that. So he decided to wait until the visitor left and then he would go back to Thetford, stay the night and come back to the little copse of trees in the morning.

Just then Marcus heard the sound of a door closing somewhere. He realised it was coming from inside the garage, so was almost certainly the internal door. He heard the muffled sound of a car starting and then a slight squeal as one of the garage doors began to open.

Marcus hoped it might be the Mercedes, but instead it was the Volvo, and it was the same woman he had seen that morning who was driving. She roared out of the garage and disappeared down the drive. Marcus seized his chance and ran into the garage as the automatic door began its slow drop until it was closed.

He pulled the Maglite out of his pocket and switched it on. The Mercedes was there. He checked the licence plate; it was the same one. He then tried the passenger door and found it was open. He began searching for the car documents and eventually learned that the car was registered to one Danvor Grebo. His occupation was given as ‘Airman, USAF’.

He put the paperwork back and began a cursory check around the garage. His torch beam fell on the internal door, and immediately Marcus thought it might be a good opportunity to get into the house unseen and undetected.

He tried the door, turning the handle very slowly and felt it give until the catch was free of the striker plate. He eased the door open and found he was looking into a utility room. He could see a washing machine, tumble drier and a hot water boiler. There were a lot of boots and shoes lying about around the edges of the floor, golf clubs, a golf trolley and a great deal of impedimenta one would expect to find in a utility room. Hanging up with the other outdoor clothes was also an American Air Force uniform jacket and top coat.

Marcus crossed the room and gently opened the far door, which led into a kitchen. He could now hear voices that sounded like the two men. He walked across the kitchen floor and stopped beside the work surface by a serving hatch. He could hear them quite plainly. The visitor was American.

He stood by the hatch for about ten minutes, listening to what could only be described as desultory conversation. Then he heard the sound of someone getting out of a chair and Marcus immediately went back to the internal door to the garage and pulled it closed behind him. As he did so, the kitchen light came on and he heard someone moving around there, probably getting a drink or something.

He then heard the sound of the kitchen hatch being opened and a voice said, ‘When is the shipment due in?’

A voice from the lounge came back. ‘Couple of days, Kings Lynn Docks. It’s quiet there; not a lot of traffic and we have the right customs man on that night.’

‘What’s the return?’

‘Couple of crate loads; semi automatics, RPG’s. Fairly low grade stuff. Shouldn’t give you too much trouble Danny, shipping that lot out.’

‘Where is it?’

‘In the warehouse at Feltwell.’

Marcus heard the man in the kitchen, who he presumed was Danny Grebo make some kind of comment as he went back to his companion in the lounge.

Marcus crept back into the kitchen. Grebo had left the hatch open.

‘Who’s handling the exchange?’ Marcus heard Grebo ask.

‘Station Chief.’

Marcus peered carefully through the hatch, taking care not to let himself be seen. He kept himself to one side and was able to see the back of Grebo’s visitor.

The two men started laughing at a remark one of the men had made that Marcus had not heard. Grebo stopped suddenly as though he had seen or heard something. Then he shook his head and carried on talking to his visitor.

Marcus decided it was time to get out, but how? The garage was now a
cul-de-sac
. He looked through the open, kitchen door along the passageway that led to the front door of the house. He could see from his vantage point that the door into the lounge was closed. This meant that Marcus could get to the front door without being seen and, with luck could get out of the house with the two men being none the wiser.

He made his way down to the door that opened on to the entrance lobby. He opened it quietly and stepped into the small area. He then took hold of the front door handle and began to turn it.

Then a man’s voice said, ‘Where the fuck do you think you’re going?’

Marcus swung round and found himself looking down the twin ends of a double barrelled shotgun.

***

Maggot put a cup of coffee in front of Susan and sat down at the table facing her. He had a coke and took a sip before taking up the subject of Marcus.

‘Let me get this straight,’ he began. ‘You went to Marcus because you thought he could help you find your brother; is that it?’

Susan shook her head. ‘It wasn’t quite like that. I wanted someone who was experienced in security to advise me and keep an eye on me while I went out to Afghanistan. I wanted to find out if David was still alive. I didn’t know if Marcus had the necessary experience; all I knew was that he sounded quite confident on the phone.’

Maggot arched his eyebrows. ‘Hardly a reason for trusting someone,’ he remarked. ‘All Marcus was doing was running a glorified escort agency. He had no- one on his books; did most of the escorting himself.’

Susan’s mouth fell open. ‘He wasn’t a gigolo, was he?’

Maggot laughed out loud. ‘No way; Marcus just needed something to do to relieve his boredom. He’s financially independent, you know.’

‘It’s just a hobby for him then?’ she asked.

He watched her as she stirred the coffee and lifted the cup to her lips. ‘You could say that. He kept threatening to find something ‘in the city’ as he would say, but Marcus is a very impromptu man; very instinctive. He’s had his so called security firm for about a year. Chances are he will give it up before another twelve months has passed. It doesn’t make him any money; just gives him a tag he can hang on himself.’

‘You sound disparaging.’

Maggot shook his head. ‘No, I love the guy. He’s good company and good to have around when there’s an argument going on.’

Susan made a dismissive noise. ‘I can vouch for that,’ she told him.

‘Why, what happened?’

So Susan told him about the muggers and how Marcus changed from a calm, likeable sort of guy into a person she didn’t recognise. ‘He said you would be proud of him.’

Maggot laughed. ‘He said that? Good old Marcus.’ He stopped laughing and became quite solemn. ‘But I wonder where he is now? He’s not answering his mobile, and that’s worrying.’

‘Why would his office have been stripped bare?’ Susan asked him.

Maggot shook his head. He picked up his drink and sat there for a while just looking at the glass.

‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘But Marcus would not have done that without letting me know.’

Susan frowned. ‘Why should he let you know?’

Maggot shrugged. ‘I’m his mate; probably his only mate.’

‘So somebody else did it for him?’ she suggested.

Maggot became very serious. ‘Something has happened to Marcus, and I don’t like what I’m thinking.’

Nor did Susan; as much as she had liked Marcus, she had promised herself that she would not become involved with him. And now she found herself worrying with a complete stranger over Marcus’s fate.

‘Do you think it’s connected with my brother, David?’ she put to him. Susan hadn’t told Maggot about the letter she had just received, thinking it might be wise to err on the side of caution.

Maggot considered the suggestion carefully. ‘If your brother is still alive,’ he said eventually, ‘it’s entirely possible that Marcus has become involved in something that’s way over his head. And if he’s involved in big boys’ games, he’s in serious trouble.’

***

Marcus knew a lot about shotguns. He had often used them on his father’s estate. He had used them during pheasant shoots while following the beaters, and had proved himself to be a remarkably good shot. He knew what choke size was best for whichever bird or clay you were shooting, and the range and spread of the buckshot when it came rocketing out of the end of the barrel. A full choke would give a ten inch spread over ten yards. Ten inches was about big enough to cover most of his stomach. And if Grebo pulled the trigger now, he wouldn’t have to worry about peppering the doorframe because all of the buckshot would go straight through Marcus and probably through the glass door pane in front of which Marcus was standing.

Grebo stood in the passageway pointing the gun at Marcus. He was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt regaling the Dallas Cowboys. His hair was cut very close to his head and he stood about the same height as Marcus. He was overweight but probably carried a lot of power in his frame. Not that it mattered because he carried the ultimate power in his hands.

Marcus didn’t move, but looked steadily at Grebo. He knew he would not survive if he allowed the American to take him prisoner. There were deep woods behind the house and plenty of places to hide a body.

Marcus was thinking furiously. He knew he was in desperate trouble and couldn’t see a way out of his dilemma. Grebo wasn’t going to shoot him there, but with another man in the house, it wouldn’t take long to gag him and tie him up. The gun would be sufficient to keep Marcus compliant while they tied him.

Grebo’s visitor suddenly appeared in the passageway. ‘What’s up, Danny?’ He stopped when he saw Grebo and Marcus.

At that moment, Grebo turned his head a little to say something over his shoulder. Marcus knew that there would not be another chance. Grebo was standing too far away from him to be brought down with a high kick, but Marcus still had his hand on the door handle of the front door, and in that fraction of a second he knew it was time to either die or fly.

As Grebo turned his head a little, so the twin barrels of the shotgun wavered and pointed away from Marcus. It was only by a small margin but it was all Marcus needed. He whipped the door open, pulling it wide, dived forward and down and rolled to his right as a blast of buckshot roared out of the open door and flew over his tumbling body.

Marcus leapt to his feet and sprinted away towards the forest behind the house, zigzagging as he ran. Another roar of buckshot followed him and he felt some of the small pellets peppering his shoulder. He veered away, hearing Grebo in pursuit.

When Marcus got to the wall he didn’t bother to consider how badly damaged his shoulder was, but took the leap without thinking. He grabbed the top of the wall and hauled himself over. A second gun opened fire and thudded into the wall as Marcus dropped to the other side.

Because it was pitch black behind the wall, Marcus fell awkwardly and turned his ankle. He straightened up and limped away from the wall into the bracken and ferns that edged the dark forest.

A few minutes after limping into the woods he saw a torch beam flicker, its light catching the foliage of the trees. He heard Grebo call out to his visitor, telling him to head the ‘bastard’ off. Another shot echoed into the night air and Marcus guessed Grebo had fired a chance shot, hoping to bring him down.

He could now feel the pain in his ankle worsening and also his left shoulder was beginning to throb and feel sticky. But worse still was the fact that he could feel himself getting a little weaker and nauseous.