A Covert War (5 page)

‘Do you think he has a connection with the girl’s brother then?’ Maggot asked him.

‘Got to,’ Marcus said sternly. ‘Otherwise it doesn’t make bloody sense. He’s not a do-gooder, is he? I mean, how come he brings her a piddling bit of information about her brother yet lies about who he really is?’

‘You say he’s Secret Service,’ Maggot reminded him. ‘Could be a bit dodgy poking your nose in there, you know.’

Marcus shot him a sideways glance and lifted the glass to his mouth. ‘I haven’t done anything yet,’ he said.

Maggot shifted on his chair. ‘No, but you will, won’t you?’

Marcus took a mouthful of beer before answering. He put his glass down. ‘The way I see it,’ he began, ‘is that I could find out who this Cavendish bloke is and pass that on to Susan Ellis. Then she could go to the Press and maybe stir up a little mischief; find out about her brother that way.’

Maggot leaned forward, his expression taking a more serious tone. ‘You know, Marcus, my mother and father have always loved it here in this country. Always believed it was truly the land of the free and the fair. But now they admit their adopted nation is no longer free and fair; it’s no longer safe. Since we climbed into bed with the Americans after 9/11 we have been forced to submit ourselves to the security forces. We’ve given them
carte
blanche
to decide what the meaning of freedom is for the British people. They blame terrorism, the Muslims, other people, other countries. But they use those reasons as a stick with which to beat us and subdue us.’ He pointed a finger at Marcus. ‘Just be very careful who you get tangled up with, Marcus. Let Susan Ellis find her own way in this. Her brother is probably dead anyway. Don’t add to the body count.’

Marcus tipped his head over to one side and regarded Maggot with a curious expression.

‘You know, Maggot if we all gave in like that, we’d have been under the jackboot years ago. That Cavendish bloke has dumped on Susan Ellis and simply added to her grief and worry. She has no way of ever learning the truth, and if I don’t help her, no other bugger will.’

Maggot smiled at him. ‘You always were a softie, Marcus. That’s why I keep beating you.’

Marcus leaned across the table and lightly punched his friend in the arm. ‘As long as there is breath in my body….’

Maggot leaned back and started laughing. ‘Oh come on, Marcus, don’t give me that bullshit; you just fancy the girl, don’t you?’

‘Well,’ Marcus admitted, ‘she is a bit tasty. Got to get in with her some way, haven’t I?’

Maggot pulled a face. ‘It’s up to you, Galahad, but like I said, don’t add to the body count.’

Marcus laughed. ‘As if I would,’ he said. ‘As if I would.’

***

David Ellis stared at the far wall and thought about a story his father had once told him. During the days of National Service in Britain his father knew a married soldier who spent time lying on his bed staring at the ceiling because he had no money and didn’t want to sponge off his mates. He couldn’t afford to anyway. He said the soldier was able to find all manner of interesting things on the ceiling, providing he let his imagination run away with him.

So David was staring at the far wall and trying desperately to let his imagination run away with him. But all he could think of was why there was no paint on the wall and what he would do if he had to redecorate. Which was silly, anyway because he was imprisoned in a bloody cave and the walls would probably look worse if he tried painting them anyway.

This was where they brought him during the day. He didn’t know why, but it was what they did, and when evening came and the sun had set, he was taken back to a place which was little more than an old farmhouse inside a compound.

He had no recollection of time; it simply passed by and had no impact on him. The days merged, one into the other, and his only joy, if it could be called that, was the walk from the house to the cave in the morning, and the return journey in the evening.

He tried applying the soldier’s mind games to that journey and imagining he was going on a trip. But the trouble was, the trip only lasted about two minutes and there was precious little time to get his mind into gear and let his imagination run away with him.

Each morning, before leaving the house, David was allowed to have a good breakfast. He was also allowed to wash and have clean underwear. The cave was little more than a deep hole in the rock. It had a slight curve so that he couldn’t see outside while he was in there, but at least he did have sufficient light by which to see. He wasn’t allowed to read anything, so his own attempt at playing that soldier’s games was the only distraction he could employ. He was always shackled to an iron ring set into the wall of the cave.

David had overcome his appalling injuries and was now nursing little more than an arthritic shoulder, a deep furrow along the side of his skull and a broken heart because of the loss of Shakira. He had no idea why he had been taken from the hospital, and guessed it might have had something to do with being a hostage and being useful as a negotiating tool. But he had been in the kidnappers’ hands for almost a year now, a time he could only really judge by the seasons, and he was no closer to being released than he was when they first brought him there.

He was still contemplating the wall when he heard the sound of footsteps and realised the light had almost faded away to nothing. He had learned long ago that the sun didn’t set in the Central Asia; it simply fell out of the sky and disappeared within a minute of touching the horizon.

He began struggling to his feet when the Arab appeared brandishing some keys. David had a set of handcuffs hooked on to his belt. The Arab put a gag round David’s mouth and then unlocked the cuffs and put them on David’s wrists, ensuring that his hands were behind his back. Then he unlocked the chain which was attached to the iron ring set in the wall and nodded to David; the unspoken permission for David to leave the cave.

The two of them were halfway to the cave entrance when the sound of gunfire came crashing through the evening air. The Arab immediately pulled David back into the cave and held him there for a while. He then peered cautiously from where he was standing and suddenly darted forward, running from the cave leaving David behind. He was pulling the machine gun from his shoulder as he ran.

David hurried forward and stopped by the cave entrance. He saw men running towards the compound firing their weapons as they ran. Return fire started coming from beyond the wall, but suddenly a rocket propelled grenade hurtled into the wall and blew open a large section. Immediately the attackers ran towards the gaping hole, running through the smoke and dust that had billowed up.

As the sun disappeared completely, so the light dropped to a yellowing gloom. Explosions began coming from the compound as grenades were being lobbed in by the attackers. David could pick out the sounds of rifle fire as the defenders in the house returned volley after volley. Suddenly one side of the house fell away as another grenade launched at it found a weak spot, and the ancient, crumbling walls collapsed into a smoking, dusty heap.

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.

FIVE

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.’