A Covert War (8 page)

A light came on informing him the engine was running. He slipped the gear lever into drive and released the handbrake. The car moved away smoothly and he could barely hear the sound of the tyres on the resin floor of the garage.

He turned towards the ramp out of the garage, lifting a hand in acknowledgement to the security guard and accelerated up the ramp. Beneath the front wing of the Lexus a mercury tilt trigger switch responded to the action as the car’s front end lifted on the ramp and completed a circuit to a compact bomb. The detonator fired causing the bomb to explode.

The car ballooned outwards as the explosion was confined within the walls of the ramp and burst into flames. Immediately the security guard ran to a panic button, one of many fitted around the garage and struck it hard with his hand.

And all hell was let loose.

***

Marcus was just leaving Vauxhall Bridge Tube station when he heard the wail of police sirens screaming through the streets somewhere. He took no notice of it because it was such a familiar sound in central London. He even dismissed the thought again as two fire engines clamoured past. But when the ambulances appeared, he began to think that there might have been another terrorist attack on the city.

He knew that when these atrocities happened, the security forces literally tied London down and closed the entire area around where the attack had occurred. He hoped he wouldn’t be inconvenienced because he had decided that morning to secure an interview with the mysterious Sir Giles Cavendish.

It wasn’t long before Marcus realised that his efforts to get to the headquarters of MI6 were going to be severely hampered. The police had closed off several of the road bridges across the river and brought the centre of London to a grinding halt, although being on the south side of the river he couldn’t foresee a problem. He pulled his mobile phone from his pocket and dialled Maggot’s number for no other reason than he wanted to check if there was any chaos further up the river where his friend had the gymnasium. His phone was dead, so he figured the security people must have put a block on the networks.

He put his phone in his pocket and began walking along the Albert Embankment towards the headquarters of MI6, but when he was within about two hundred yards of it, he knew he would not get in; there were armed police everywhere.

He picked a side street leading away from the river looking for a bar where he would find a television and learn what had happened. He came across a small, public house, walked in and asked for a beer. The television was switched to Sky News and already they were reporting from Parliament Square; the closest the cameras were allowed to get. It soon became clear that a Cabinet Minister had been assassinated, and the attack was already being attributed to Al Qaeda terrorists or Muslim sympathisers. There was also a rumour that it was the Secretary of State for International Development, but details were not being released until the family of whoever it was had been informed.

True to the sensationalist character of the media, a picture of the minister was flashed up on the screen. Marcus sat bolt upright. He was looking at the man whose photograph he had taken in Covent Garden; the man he had seen talking with Cavendish.

Marcus felt numb. It was a weird sensation and only lasted a few seconds, but it was if his entire body had lost all feeling. He shuddered and took a mouthful of beer and little prickles of fear seemed to run up and down his spine. His mind began to consider the implications of what he knew and what had happened. Cavendish had involved Susan Ellis in something that appeared to be generated by a spirit of kindness and generosity. But it was also open ended; there was no answer to the question he had put into Susan’s mind, not at home anyway. No, the answer to her brother’s situation lay abroad somewhere.

Yesterday he saw Cavendish talking with James Purdy. Could there be a connection, he wondered between the grubby booklet Cavendish had handed to Susan and the member of Government that Marcus saw him with?

He looked around the bar. There were several people in there, all watching the television screen as the reporter did his best to keep up the momentum of the sensational event that had taken place at the heart of government. He thought about the best way to handle what could be a potentially dangerous problem. Should he go to the police with a copy of the photograph? Probably not. He decided there was no way the police would consider anything sinister about the photograph of two men taking tea together. At least, they wouldn’t admit it. And they would probably suspect that Marcus had taken the photos for sinister motives. He knew then that if the police saw those pictures, he would be thrown in jail and left to rot.

He pulled his mobile out of his pocket and tried it again but the network was still down. He looked around for a public phone and saw one in the corner. It was reasonably quiet over there, so he picked up his beer and went across to the phone. He lifted the receiver off the rest and put it to his ear. He could hear a buzz. He dialled the number of MI6 after putting a one pound coin in the slot. It rang briefly.

‘Good morning, Intelligence Service. How can I help you?’

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

‘I’m sorry sir, but Sir Giles will not be taking any calls today.’

Marcus could understand why. ‘It’s rather important I speak to him,’ he told the receptionist. ‘I have something he should see.’

‘You could make an appointment if you like, but it wouldn’t be until next week at the earliest. Sir Giles is a very busy man.’

‘I’m sure he is,’ Marcus told her, ‘but it is imperative that he sees what I have to show him.’

‘Perhaps you could post it to Sir Giles, recorded delivery. Or fax it if that’s possible. Would you like to leave your name sir?’

Marcus shook his head. ‘No, I wouldn’t. Goodbye.’ He put the phone down. He was annoyed because he had to find a way to rattle Sir Giles Cavendish’s cage, and maybe find some answers for Susan Ellis.

***

David Ellis was under no illusions; he was still a prisoner despite the fact that he was no longer in chains or confined to a darkened room. He had been bundled into the back of the pick-up truck by the men who had turned up at the compound, but not until he had helped bury their fallen comrades. Their leader, Abdul Khaliq had not taken part in the arduous and grisly task, but had spent a great deal of time in the house and generally wandering about encouraging his men as they worked.

David wondered if he would be taken somewhere else later on, but for the time being he was sitting at a table with a stew of lamb in front of him, a bowl of rice and fruit on the table. The others, who were ignoring him, ate heartily, and he was surprised to see that they were all in good spirits; there seemed to be no remorse or tears over their fallen comrades in arms.

David understood the hearts and minds of these men, and knew that in their self-proclaimed fight against the infidel, they lacked nothing in courage and had an amazing self-belief, not only in themselves but in the rights of their cause and what they believed was the defence of their faith.

David had seen Abdul briefly before the meal had been served, but the man had said nothing to him, especially about the strange remark regarding David’s freedom. Once the men had finished and women appeared to clear the table, the room began to empty until there was only Abdul and David remaining.

Abdul Khaliq cut an imposing and dominating figure. He was an intimidating man and had an aura about him that demanded allegiance from his men. His reputation went before him, and to be in his presence was almost to be subdued.

He carried himself well, having a fine physique, although it was difficult to detect beneath the traditional Arab clothes he was wearing. There was no sign of any weapon on him, not even the pantomime belt and scimitar. And in front of David, who did not have an imposing presence at all, Abdul had no need for a display of weaponry of any sort.

Abdul moved along to the end of the table where David was sitting and took a seat. David waited patiently, having no other option, until Abdul spoke.

‘Your freedom,’ Abdul began, ‘can now be exchanged for something.’

David felt a surge of relief, but he said nothing because he knew that men like Abdul and his kind were always very patient, and their words and arguments could be stretched almost indefinitely.

‘We have kept you with us for a long time because it is always useful to have somebody who may be of use to us in our war against the infidel.’ He stopped there and regarded David with a look that seemed to search deep into his soul. ‘I know you were working for British Intelligence at the Mission.’

David opened his mouth in surprise, but Abdul held his hand up.

‘Please do not try to deny it. Your work for The Chapter was simply a cover, but now that is no longer important. What is important now is how I can use you, and how we can secure your release.’

David waited until he believed he could say something. ‘You mean a hostage exchange, or something like that?’ he asked.

Abdul didn’t answer the question; he simply ignored it.

‘The men who attacked the compound were not soldiers.’ David frowned at that assertion. ‘They were mercenaries employed by the same group who attacked the Mission.’

‘What group?’ David asked immediately.

Abdul shook his head. ‘At the moment, that is not important. But I believe those men were being used by someone within British and American Intelligence to bring discredit on the Taliban.’

‘But you are not Taliban,’ David pointed out.

Abdul put his hand up. ‘That is not important; it was done for other reasons. Your people in the West will believe anything. But there was another reason behind the attack on our compound.’

David waited for an explanation but nothing came for a while. ‘What was the reason then?’ he asked eventually.

‘At the moment it isn’t necessary for you to know or even to understand the reasons why,’ Abdul told him. ‘But what you must understand is that I want you to do something for me that could bring you your freedom.’

David could think of nothing he could do, given the circumstances of his confinement that could help Abdul in any way. But he asked, naturally.

‘What can I do?’ He shrugged his shoulders.

‘You wrote something, a long time ago. Remember?’

David thought back to when he had been taken from the hospital. One of Abdul’s men had given him a notebook and asked him to write down what had happened at the Mission. David needed time to bring himself to recall on paper exactly what he had seen and what had transpired. And when he had written just a couple of pages, the book had been taken away from him. He decided then it was the beginning of their mind games; deprivation: giving something and then taking it away.

While David was thinking, Abdul watched him carefully.

‘We took the book and removed a lot of the empty pages. Then we soiled it, made it looked as though you had written it while being desperately ill.’

‘Why did you do that?’ David asked, frowning.

Abdul smiled. ‘Pretence,’ he said, then he took an apple from the bowl of fruit that was on the table and bit into it. He carried on talking as he was chewing the apple.

‘I want you to write a letter to the man you served in British Intelligence. I will tell you what to write. But first I want to know how much you trusted him, and if you still trust him.’

David lifted his hand and ran his fingers through his hair. He felt some comfort in being able to do that in front of the man who could order his death as easily as ordering a Hookah pipe. It was an absurd notion, but it implied a degree of relative ease within himself.

‘How can I answer that honestly?’ he queried. ‘I was working for a man who held many secrets; someone who has worked in powerful positions in the military. He was my boss and I was his employee. Do your men trust you?’

‘We trust Allah, who knows everything.’

‘That doesn’t answer my question, Abdul. How can I say to you that I trust my boss when I have been your prisoner for...’ He stopped; it occurred to David that he wasn’t really sure just how long he had been in captivity. ‘How long have I been here?’

Abdul shrugged. ‘No matter, you will write the letter and then, one day you might be a free man.’ He stood up. ‘
Inshalla!
’

And with that he walked out of the room leaving David to wonder if this was to be more of the mind games.

***

Marcus found a newspaper shop and bought a packet of envelopes. Then he went looking for a photocopier, finding one in an internet café. He took the photograph of Cavendish from his wallet and copied it a few times. Then he disfigured the face of the minister and wrote the words ‘Covent Garden’ on the top of the picture. Beneath this he wrote the words: “
I will call mid-day for three days
.” Then he slipped the copy into an envelope and wrote “
For the attention of Sir Giles Cavendish only
”.

Satisfied with what he had done, he retraced his footsteps to the Embankment and MI6 headquarters.

EIGHT

Three days after Marcus had delivered his envelope by hand; there was a reception at the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square. John Deveraux, the Military Attaché caught up with Chief Master Sergeant Danny Grebo and parted him from an attractive, female journalist representing CNN. He led Grebo away to a reasonably quiet area in the large reception room.

‘I think it looks less obvious if we talk here rather than in my office, Chief,’ Deveraux told him. ‘But we do need to talk.’

Grebo smiled and tried to look as though he was simply indulging in pleasantries. ‘Yes, I know sir, but it depends what you want to talk about.’

‘Cavendish is getting too close,’ Deveraux admitted. ‘He freaked the English minister out.’

Grebo thought he detected a sense of strain in the attaché’s voice. He hadn’t been involved in the assassination of the British minister, but was fairly confident that Deveraux had called the shots; it had been his decision.