Defender (5 page)

"Sounds like there's a time issue at stake, for someone," observed Morgan.

"Seems that way, and these old Soviet-Bloc weapons have been turning up in the hands of Baptiste's rebel forces for some time - confiscated stuff that the Americans collected in Bosnia and Serbia, intended for issue to the Iraqi security forces."

''I've heard around the traps that the Pentagon's been forced to come clean," said Morgan. "Their bookwork hasn't been up to speed, or something, and they lost thousands of these weapons."

"About 200,000, actually," concurred General Davenport. "Some of which you found on that fishing trawler, transferred from the
Marengo;
God only knows what else has made its way our into the marketplace. Hence, this elusive and, to date, unidentified consortium operating out of the Middle East and Africa that has drawn my attention."

"Well it's got to be someone with an established connection in Iraq who can get their hands on those weapons," Morgan mused. "Especially on that scale. Takes real resources and contacts to move those kinds of numbers around."

"Agreed," Davenport replied. "It's no secret that the rutile mining concessions alone in Malfajiri are worth billions of pounds. Hard to believe that this rock is the basis for the production of titanium, but there you have it. Malfajiri rutile accounts for 65 % of their exports and 30% of the world market, and with a projected mine life of 20 to 30 years, the fortunes to be made are astronomical. When you throw their projected diamond reserves into the mix, there's more than a fleeting incentive to be playing for the right team when the shooting eventually stops."

"So, what happens now, Sir?"

"Well," replied Davenport. "That's where you come in. Two days ago I met with the Chief of SIS, Dame Violet Ashcroft-James." Davenport smiled at the sound of her name. "She came with hat in hand to seek my assistance in tracking down her lost agents. To sweeten the deal she let on that her people have been monitoring a Foreign Office official who's come to their attention as a result of certain unexplained funds making their way through accounts linked to him - conflict of interest as a civil servant and so on. Given that this aspect is very much a British problem, she was reluctant to divulge his name - not keen to air Britain's dirty laundry to INTERPOL, she said. However, she did reveal that this man's position within the Foreign Office immediately raised alarm bells which rang all the way across the Thames to her office at Vauxhall Cross. So, through a series of telephone and computer intercepts - bloody techno gobbledygook to me - SIS identified an association between this Foreign Office man and an unknown person, a Briton, operating in Malfajiri. The information to date is largely circumstantial. Most of the communication was encrypted and, despite all of the state-of-the-art technology at their disposal, SIS apparently haven't had any luck deciphering it. So, they're yet
to
confirm the identity of his contact. Astonishing." Clearly unconvinced, Davenport took a drink. "Fortunately, this Foreign Office person has absolutely no idea that they're interested in him. Or, so I'm told."

"What does he do at the Foreign Office?" probed Morgan.

"Well, it seems he's the man
to
know if you're a private military company and you want a British Government contract," answered the General.

"And you think his contact in Malfajiri is with Chiltonford?" Morgan asked.

"It's highly likely. That said, I doubt Chiltonford are behind it. As you say, they are well regarded and to all intents and purposes, a good outfit. But I've been wrong before, so we can't discount it. Let's say that it would be reasonable to surmise that a couple of the in-country people may be implicated in some way."

"Whoever he is, he'd have to be supported from outside. It'd be impossible to coordinate anything significant inside Malfajiri on your own. Especially now," Morgan hypothesized.

"Indeed," agreed Davenport. "And despite Ashcroft-James's reticence
to
give too much away, I believe she considers Mr. Foreign Office the obvious candidate." Davenport took another pull at his whisky. He was dissatisfied with the information he had been provided by the SIS Chief, old intimacies aside. There was still something important that she hadn't told him. Morgan could see that the General was conflicted.

"You trust Ashcroft-James, Sir?" It was an open question.

"I've no reason to distrust her; known her for years. But there's something going on that she's not disclosing. We must remember that, despite still being incredibly beautiful, she is after all a spook. Promises you the world ..."

"And gives you an atlas," Morgan rejoined. They both laughed.

"Here you go, handsome," came an enticing voice. Davenport looked up to find the pretty girl with the mischievous eyes, who'd taken Morgan's order at the bar, coming towards them juggling plates, knives and forks.

Morgan eased around, with his broad, crooked smile, said "Thanks, darlin'," and retrieved the lunches from her. Her eyes remained locked on him and his on her, before she skillfully negotiated her way back to the bar, swiveling her hips through the Lion's usual assortment of parliamentarians, civil servants and tourists. Davenport noted the girl's obvious interest in Morgan. Morgan averted his eyes as he slid a pasta concoction across their ledge to Davenport, then placed down his own sausages and mash. Davenport smiled and shook his head.

"What's up, Sir?" Morgan asked, noting the smile.

'I'm obviously not keeping you away enough, or we're going to have to find somewhere else to drink."

They began to eat. Davenport continued between mouthfuls.

"It was like drawing blood from a bloody stone, but I did manage to establish some background to the missing agents. SIS planted an agent into Chiltonford when the company was awarded the contract to operate in Malfajiri. Agent named Lundt. Victor Lundt. Former soldier. Served in the Falklands as a young guardsman. Promoted through the ranks, went on
to
become an Officer in the Brigade of Guards. Outstanding record in Northern Ireland, spent many years with 14 Intelligence Company, before being recruited to SIS. Been in the game a long time and served in just about every trouble spot you can think of. But after only a short time in Malfajiri, he disappeared. Communication channels dried up overnight."

"They think he's dead?"

"Possibly. Under pressure, Ashcroft-James reluctantly agreed to the deployment of another agent - a man to replace Lundt. Easy enough done. The Foreign Office had final say over recruitment and experienced soldiers are highly sought after in the top end private military companies. This time they went for a new recruit to SIS - an ex-Special Air Service soldier named Collins. Was a good lad, by all accounts," said the General, his tone somber.

"Collins. Not Sergeant Sean Collins, Sir?"

"Yes, that's right, Alex. Why? Do you know him?"

"Yes, I do. Very well. He's one of my best mates, in fact. We served together in 3PARA before he went off to Hereford. Loves a pint, old Sean." Morgan smiled at some memory then paused abruptly, feeling sick to his stomach. "You said he
was
a good lad?"

There was an icy silence at the end of the line. Emptiness consumed the room, and the sound of his own breathing echoed around him. He immediately regretted the accusatory tone of his last question. Lundt would not like that.

Gregory Cornell scratched nervously at his unkempt hair, patted his pockets for a cigarette and waited for a reply. There was none. He felt compelled to fill the void. 'I'm sorry. I'm not used to all this. You don't understand," said Cornell, his voice trailing off meekly.

"You're the one who doesn't understand. You're supposed to be my link, my finger on the pulse. "
Lundt's voice was deep. It held no emotion, no empathy.
"Do you remember that?"

"For God's sake. There must have been some other way of handling it?

I mean, the man's remains were . . ." Cornell left the sentence unfinished.

"These people don't think like that,"
Lundt stated boldly. Silence again. It extended for some time before Lundt finally added:
"Your fat little friend out here is getting nothing from you lot, which means I've got to risk being compromised and deal with you direct. That makes him and you less than useless. Do you actually have the faintest clue what's going on?"

"I've no idea," Cornell replied, too quickly. But it was true. "Christ! Do you know the trouble you've ..." he uttered awkwardly. He was annoyed that he felt so intimidated by this voice, this man he'd never met, thousands of miles away in a festering scab of Africa. "I've a great deal at stake, you know," he added. "A lot to lose."

"Yes, you do. You and your fat little mate,"
came the disturbing reply from Lundt.
"A lot to lose. So, what are you doing about it?"

"I don't know. I really don't," Cornell assured Lundt. "All I know is that there's a real flap on and everything is being kept to a very select few."

"Ah, we few, we happy few."
Lundt's tone grew darker.
"I suggest you make sure you're one of them. It's time you started delivering. If you're no good to me..."

"It's not that easy. This has gone straight to the top. New people are coming and going. From different departments. Defence? The Army?
Scotland Yard? I can't be sure," stammered the civil servant from his swivel chair in London.

"Find out!"
hissed Lundt.
"This place is about to collapse and I'm in the middle of it. Everything has gone toplan, but now we're sailing too close to the wind and I don't want to be worrying about things that you and your sodding boss should have taken care of. Got it?"

"OK! OK! I'll find out whatever I can."

The line went dead.

'Im sorry to have to tell you this, Alex, but Sergeant Collins is dead." Morgan's expression barely altered, but Davenport knew better. He knew soldiers and news of a friend's death, particularly those still in the business, held a peculiar significance
to
men like Morgan who lived constantly in its shadow. Death always arrived without warning - a stark reminder of mortality and the absolute importance of comradeship and
loyalty.

"After a couple of months in Malfajiri," Davenport continued, "Collins drew a blank. No sign of Lundt or any leads as to how he may have ended up. Collins reported the odd suspicion over some of Chiltonford's in-country people, but nothing that SIS could act on. When I met with Dame Violet and the Defence Minister last week and shared our information about your weapons haul, the silly bastards acted on it almost as soon as I'd left the bloody room. The pillars of the British Government are obviously desperate to distance themselves from any link to supplying guns to Baptiste's rebels. But with nothing to go on, one of their agents missing, and a potential international disaster on their hands, they issued orders for Collins to kill the rebel leader Baptiste immediately, before he had a chance to launch the coup we're all expecting," barked the General with some exasperation.

"What the hell were they thinking?" Morgan said angrily. "Once again, some poor bastard has to stick his neck out to clean up someone else's political mess. I suppose Sean was told they needed to contain the situation so it didn't end up splashed all over BBC World." Morgan was disturbed by the death of his friend. Davenport gave him a moment. "Do you know how he died?" questioned the younger man.

"Yes, and I'll get to that, but you need to prepare yourself. It's not good."

"You don't need to sugarcoat it for me, Sir. I know the score. So did Sean." After a brief silence, Morgan apologised to the General, then said dryly: "It's just that it seems pretty bloody short-sighted."

"How so?" Davenport asked.

"Trying to kill Baptiste like that; I mean, there's no analysis behind it. It was stupid. How could they possibly think that would be the answer - would stop the coup? If you ask me, there's desperation in it. Personal desperation, if that makes any sense." Morgan took a drink. He had known Collins so well, and knew he was a selfless, outstanding soldier driven by duty. Failure was not something Collins was familiar with, nor would he
ever
have considered it an option. No, Collins had been put in an untenable position by his masters in London, and he had no choice but to accept their orders - Queen and Country - with no backup and no chance of success. 'Ready for Anything' - Morgan recalled the Parachute Regiment's motto. That was Sean Collins all over.

"I agree," replied Davenport. "The short version is that the SIS plan failed, your friend is dead and we're no closer to an answer on who's behind Baptiste and his guns. To make matters worse, whoever they are, they've got the jump on us. They know the authorities are after them, but they also know we haven't a damn clue who they are."

Davenport's expression became grave. He rifled through the pockets of his overcoat draped across a stool beside him, and extracted a BlackBerry. He thumbed the keypad and handed it to Morgan. "The first couple are of Lundt. A hard case and difficult to forget. Tall with distinctive features, including one very blue and one very brown eye."

"Heterochromia," Morgan said as he took in the face of the missing British agent. "Can be hereditary or caused by some form of trauma. Um, I read it in a magazine article recently," he added in response to the General's quizzical look. Morgan studied Lundt's face, zooming in on the pictures. Davenport was right.
It
was a face that would be hard to forget. Angular and long, it was a random assortment of misshapen features that despite the irregularity, seemed strangely good-looking. Morgan imagined that the intensity of it all would make Lundt attractive to women. Some women, anyway.