Defender (26 page)

"I see," Davenport said simply. "Where have these other inquiries led you, Violet? And please, don't waste my time with any more two-stepping. The assassination attempt has taken us beyond that."

"I felt that I had given you enough last time," she snapped. "You're not working for the British Government any more, Nobby. I'm not obliged to provide you with any information, and it's unreasonable to expect me to." She stopped.

She remained silent for some time until Davenport said: "How about I tell you what I know and you fill in the blanks or correct the mistakes or whatever?" She nodded, glad of the respite. 'I'm onto something, Violet, with old fashioned, sleeves rolled up, flat-foot detective work. And the only way we're going to get anywhere is if we start laying our cards on the table."

Ashcroft-James was silent. She was studying Davenport's familiar, handsome features, trying to read two minutes ahead in the conversation. She would have to see just how much the wily old fox had uncovered.

Davenport returned to the laptop on the coffee table, tapped its keys and beckoned her to join him. He swivelled the laptop around so that Ashcroft-James had a clear view of the screen.

"Here's Mr. Cornell out and about in London. You'll note there are a number of places he tends to frequent, in and around Westminster, the Strand, near his home in Richmond, and so on." She nodded. "Unbeknownst to him, Cornell has had company these past few weeks.
If
you look carefully, you'll see a number of faces appearing with reasonable regularity in the background of some shots. Evidently, someone else is keeping an eye on Cornell."

Ashcroft-James remained glued to the screen as Davenport guided her through the images, pointing out certain faces and profiles as they appeared. Her expression changed. It was the reaction Davenport had expected.

"Recognise anybody?"

"They're mine, Nobby. SIS agents. But, of course, it seems you knew that already." She reproved. Her eyes turned to him. "Christ!"

"Whatever problem you've got, Violet, tell me all of it. You have my word that I'll work day and night with you to sort this bloody mess out. But if you don't play it straight with me, by God, I'll bring you down for using me to sort out your mess and risking the reputation of this organisation and the lives of my people."

"Before I go on," she began. Her voice, her words and manner, calm and measured. "How did you get these images? Who took them? Your people?"

'I'm afraid not. It was Hutton's people."

"Coppers!" Her eyes closed at the embarrassment of it all. "Why is Scotland Yard following Cornell if you and Sinclair bloody Hutton knew we were onto him?"

"You were only concerned about your own backyard. After the attempt on Namakobo, it was clear that Cornell was the most probable source of the leak," Davenport stated, matter of fact. "My only interest in Cornell is in getting to his associates. I was with Hutton when we received word that the faces in these photographs were your people. You weren't aware of this?"

"No, of course not. I certainly hadn't authorised physical surveillance of him. As far as I was concerned, we were following his bank accounts and got nowhere with the telephone and email intercepts. We were working on the basis that Cornell was somehow connected to a missing agent suspected of going private."

"Yes,'' Davenport ran a tired hand through his beard. "I expect you're referring to Mr. Lundt?"

Ashcroft-James nodded.

"Sorting out whoever's running major operations without your approval is a matter for you, Violet. For now, perhaps you'd be so kind as to tell me all about your man, Lundt. The truth this time." Davenport's tone suddenly took on a distinctly dangerous bite that was legend around Whitehall. "Because I agreed to put a man into the middle of this mess on the understanding that you had lost two good agents, only to find SIS suspected all along that one of them, Lundt, was bent and the other man, Collins, had actually been sent to kill him."

"So, how are you corning along? On the mend?"

"Yes, Sir," Morgan replied, standing familiarly across from the General. "All good. The doctor issued me with a clean bill of health and Torn Rodgers has been putting me through the paces. I seem to be holding up OK."

"Good. That's good news. Sar' Major Rodgers is a good man. Dangerous bugger, too. You served together, didn't you?"

"Yes, Sir. Back in Australia."

It was clear the General was distracted. He was uncharacteristically preoccupied. What the hell was on his mind? They entered an uneasy silence. Davenport hadn't let on what he intended to discuss.

"You've been nominated for a bravery award, by the way." "What for, Sir?"

"Malfajiri. News travels fast through the corridors of Westminster," replied Davenport. "I received word today. And the helicopter pilot, Mason? A similar recommendation will be made to the South African government. Posthumously, of course."

"Mason definitely deserves something. But ... I was a few breaths away from coming home in a box. Fredericks and Garrett, they're the ones who should be getting medals. They fought their way back from the evacuation point, dragged me out."

"Well, apparently it's the Chiltonford management who made the submission to the Foreign Office based on the recommendations of those very men. By all accounts, you handled yourself admirably out there, Alex.
In
the meantime, there's work to be done."

Davenport left it hanging, and took from his desk a file emblazoned with the title DEFENDER: 0129/10. Morgan saw it. All INTREPID operations began with the designator DEFENDER, and 0129/10 was the mission number allocated to the illegal arms supply to the Malfajiri rebel forces. His spirits lifted immediately.

"So, where to from here in the search for the elusive Mr. Lundt?" the General sighed, picking up the file and motioning for Morgan to join
him
at the small table where Mrs. Jolley had laid out coffee.

Davenport collected his thoughts, then began: "Have you ever come across Abraham Johnson?"

"I know the name, Sir. Never met him, though." They sat down.

"Pretty senior guy over at the Foreign Office. Political Directorate, I think. Isn't he the acting boss at present?"

"Yes, that's right. Bill Evans has been out of action for many months. Cancer. Some say he may never return. Good man. What have you heard about Johnson?"

"Not a great deal. I don't get the impression he's very popular. Dictator, constantly looking for an arse to kiss."

"That's the man."

Davenport drank
his
coffee and took a moment to enjoy it as he gathered his thoughts. "Some time ago, I played a hunch, Alex. I sewed a seed with Mr. Johnson."

"How so?" What was the old man up to?

"I stroked his ego. Led him to believe I was taking him into my confidence over this Chiltonford issue. Wanted to see which way he'd play it. The man's driven by self-aggrandisement, has been for years. So, with the sniff of a possible victory over SIS and the chance to cement himself in as Director-General at the Foreign Office permanently, it wasn't hard to get him to take the bait."

"You think Johnson's bent?" Morgan shifted in his seat.

"Johnson is considered competent enough, but," the General continued, "as you have so eloquently put it, he is a renowned sycophant. The opportunity to discredit SIS is serious motivation for him. But it doesn't end there. My suspicions are shared by someone I rate very highly."

"Commissioner Hutton?" Morgan knew of the respect the two men had for each other. Davenport nodded.

"For years, Sinclair Hutton and I speculated about the existence of a group of players within Whitehall entrenched in the illicit arms trade. There have been cases where the evidence screamed a British influence, one requiring the seniority, autonomy and experience to operate beyond the reach of ministerial interference."

"What's made you head for Johnson?" Morgan asked.
If
the General was correct, just how entrenched were these players within the pillars of British government departments? And who among them had set up Collins? Morgan kneaded his hands, stretching and flexing as he listened intently to his Chief.

"To start with, it was purely gut instinct. Recently a number of more compelling issues have drawn us toward him." Davenport smiled.

He took Morgan through his numerous discussions with Ashcroft-James, breaking down the complex sequence of events that had led to the interest in Gregory Cornell, Lundt and now Johnson. Davenport described Scotland Yard's surveillance of Cornell, which had identified quite unexpectedly that SIS agents were also following him. With great discomfiture, Ashcroft-]ames had conceded, and her deposition had confirmed that Lundt was operating outside the wire.

Morgan's frustration at the imbecility of the Government machine was building. How often were departments at war with each other at the expense of their responsibilities?

"None of this would have come to light ifI hadn't been invited to assist SIS in Malfajiri." Davenport leant across and topped up his coffee.

"Jesus," Morgan exclaimed. He dragged an agitated hand through his hair. "Meanwhile, whoever's behind Lundt must have been frothing at the mouth in anticipation of Baptiste seizing power. His first job as their puppet President would no doubt have been to award them exclusivity to Malfajiri's rutile and diamond mines."

"Cornell remains our prime suspect as Lundt's contact here in London.

We follow him to get to Lundt, and the money behind him."

"And you think it's Johnson?" Morgan's mind was racing, processing the reams of information that were now filling in the gaps. He shifted heavily in his seat opposite Davenport.

"Ibelieve Johnson is a key player, yes. Although, he's no mastermind. More of a General Manager, I suspect, answering to a Board of Directors. Confirming that will be for another day. Today our priority is to confirm unequivocally that a link exists between Cornell and Lundt, and then, hopefully, between Cornell, Lundt and Johnson. At this point, we have only a very tenuous link with Cornell as the common thread. Yesterday, Cornell was recorded making a telephone call direct to a number that Hutton's people have managed
to
link
to
Johnson. The message was strange; a plea for help, of sorts, but not the sort of conversation one would expect between two people who are familiar with each other. So, Johnson would easily walk away from any allegation of an illicit involvement with Cornell, if all we had was the recording."

"What about that memory stick I took from Turner? Did the IT squids turn up anything?"

"On the surface it all appeared to be legitimate business-related correspondence between Alga Creek Mining Corporation and its various partners. However, I asked the Chief of Staff to have the analysts trawl through every scrap of information it contained, including cross referencing the membership of the various boards and senior shareholders of Alga Creek's partners. Buried deep within thousands of pieces of general correspondence they found encrypted files containing letters relating to a shadow company called The Renegade Group, of which the wife of a certain Abraham Johnson is a major shareholder."

Davenport saw a thin light of hope flash across Morgan's eyes. But Turner was only a middle man, and he'd disappeared, too. Using him to get to Johnson was out.

"Can't we just pressure Cornell to get to Johnson? He seems to be the patsy in all this, but there must be something we've got on him that we can use as leverage?"

"Cornell is way out of his league. I suspect he was cultivated for some time and was flattered by the notion that his position was of greater value outside the Foreign Office. Of course, he would have been given some incentive: sex, money, drugs. He would only have to have accepted it once, and then they had him."

"Blackmail."

'I'm pretty sure that's the way they would have played him."

"So, we push him some more. Bring him in and shake him up a bit. Shouldn't take much effort to get him to talk. This time, he can do some good. Where is he?"

"Boarded a plane for Australia this morning."

"Damn it!" Morgan exclaimed, exasperated. Then he sized up the expression on Davenport's face. "You're letting him go, expecting he'll lead us to Lundt."

"And flush out Johnson in the process. We need to coax Victor Lundt out from whatever rock he's hiding under. I've convinced Hutton and Ashcroft-James to pull back and let Cornell fly the coop so I can use him."

"Right, Sir," Morgan said emphatically. "When do I leave?"

"You're on the last flight out this evening. Your confederate, Commander Sutherland, is already en route," Davenport gave a conspiratorial smile.

"Left this morning. Same flight as Cornell, I believe. Sutherland's recovering from knee surgery, but can still make himself useful. He'll set up the necessary arrangements and meet you when you arrive."

"I'd best get cracking." Morgan stood to leave.

"Just a moment, Alex." Davenport returned to the file he'd been reading. "There's more."

"Sir?" Morgan resumed his seat.

"During the Scotland Yard surveillance of Cornell, we managed to positively identify the SIS agents who had been following him. However, there was one face we struggled to identify. Violet Ashcroft-James had a look, realised who it was, and thought it to be an important development. Perhaps you may recognise her?" the General said, with a raised eyebrow.

Davenport spun a couple of colour images around. Morgan's heart stopped.

Arena was snapped sitting alone at a table by the window of a pub.
In
another, she was leaving the premises, pulling on a coat. Wearing a beige fitted angora twin-set, a tight black skirt and knee-high black suede boots, Arena's blonde hair and crystal blue eyes were unmistakable. A note below the image said: The Duke, Richmond. The date indicated it was taken two nights ago. She looked lost, troubled, spectacular.