‘Well, David, that’s my brother,’ she added unnecessarily, ‘worked for an organisation known as The Chapter. He was a journalist.’ She stopped. ‘Sorry, he is a journalist by profession and was working on an assignment for them.’ She hated herself for thinking of David in the past tense, but it was something she had slowly become resigned to. ‘About a year ago David was working at an orphanage in Afghanistan, at Jalalabad. He’s a journalist and was studying the work they do there. Orphan children,’ she explained, then mentally kicked herself for fumbling her words. ‘There was a massacre. Some insurgents attacked the staff and took the children. David was…’ She stopped and held back a sob. ‘I’m sorry.’ Marcus shook his head and made a slight, negative gesture with his hand. Susan continued. ‘David was shot. I was told by The Chapter that the survivors had been taken to a hospital. Some of them weren’t expected to live. I don’t know what happened to David; he just, well, disappeared.’
Marcus stopped doodling. ‘So what is it you want GRS to do?’
Susan, who had been looking down at her hands folded in her lap now looked up at him. ‘GRS?’
‘Guard Right Securities,’ he reminded her. ‘What is it you want us to do?’
‘Oh, yes of course. Well, I want to know where David is. I want to find him.’
‘In Jalalabad?’
Susan shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Wherever he is, I want to find him.’
‘Are you sure your brother is still alive?’ he asked.
Susan nodded vigorously. ‘He must be, otherwise I wouldn’t be here.’
Marcus leaned forward, his elbows on the desk. ‘Miss Ellis, or is it Ms?’
‘Susan, please.’
‘OK, Susan. First of all you must understand that a lot of people who go ‘missing’,’ he emphasised the euphemism, ‘do so because they wish to sever all contact with their current lives and have no wish to be found.’
‘Not David,’ she insisted.
‘Of course not,’ he rejoined, leaned back in his chair and carried on doodling. ‘But how do you know, or why do you think your brother is alive?’
Susan opened her handbag and took out David’s report of what happened at the mission. She passed it across the desk.
‘This,’ she said and handed him the grubby notebook. ‘It came into my possession three days ago.’
Marcus took it from her and frowned as he opened the dirty pages. There was only the one entry there and he read it carefully, his expression darkening as the report changed from a declaration of a man’s love for a woman to an eye witness account of a violent execution. He closed the book slowly and slid it across the desk towards Susan.
‘Have you been to the authorities?’ he asked.
Susan retrieved the book and put it back in her handbag. ‘What authorities?’ she muttered. ‘It was a year ago.’ She looked up. ‘I don’t want retribution; I just want to know where my brother is.’
Marcus looked up towards the ceiling and began swivelling in his chair. He had the aura of a man who had switched his thoughts to something entirely different from the moment in hand.
‘You need a detective agency,’ he said eventually, ‘or the Missing Persons Bureau.’ He lowered his gaze and looked directly at Susan. ‘Why didn’t you ask David’s employers?’
‘The Chapter? I assume they would have searched for David.’
‘Don’t you know?’
Susan shook her head. ‘I didn’t find out about this until a few days ago.’
This drew a guarded response from Marcus. ‘How? What happened?’
Susan told him how Cavendish had phoned and arranged to meet her. She told him that Cavendish had been unable to offer any explanation as to how David’s notes ended up in the diplomatic bag.
‘So you see; I am left with a trail that is probably stone cold now.’ She opened her bag and took a tissue out. She dabbed at her eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘but the more I think of how long it has been, the more I realise how little chance there is of finding my brother.’ She put her hands in her lap. ‘But I have to know.’
‘Have you thought about contacting this chap Cavendish again and asking for his help? After all, he brought you the news of your brother.’
She shook her head. ‘He made it quite clear that he knew nothing. What he was doing was simply a favour.’
‘How did he know about you?’ Marcus pointed towards Susan’s handbag. ‘There’s no mention of you or David’s connection with you in his notes.’
Susan shrugged. ‘I don’t know. To be honest I haven’t given it any thought. He seemed to know me as soon as I walked into Starbucks. Why, is it important?’
Marcus didn’t answer immediately. ‘Perhaps he learned about you through The Chapter,’ he said after a while. ‘Would you have been registered as David’s next of kin, do you think?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, I keep saying no, or I don’t know; but David was away so often on so many different assignments, I rarely saw him. I just don’t know if he would ever have put me down as his next of kin. I expect he must have done, though, wouldn’t you?’
‘I don’t have any siblings, so I wouldn’t know.’
After a few moments of thought and relative silence, Susan asked if they could move on to more pragmatic things. She found the discussion of her brother and whether he was alive or not was becoming distressing.
‘Look,’ she began. ‘I have spoken to other agencies in the City but I’m afraid they are all far too expensive for me. What I want to know is what it would cost me for you to accompany me to Afghanistan while I look for the truth about my brother.’
‘You want a bodyguard,’ he said, ‘a minder, is that it?’
‘Yes, that’s it exactly. I would feel vulnerable if I went on my own.’
Marcus was quiet for some time. It was fairly clear to him that the young woman sitting opposite him was now down to the last noggins; the last scraping of the barrel. She had no money to speak of otherwise she would have taken on one of the bigger agencies. His own expertise extended little further than escorting celebrities, minor ones at that, and doing some courier work for other companies. What Susan Ellis was asking extended beyond his usual limits and would almost certainly end in tears, metaphorically speaking.
‘My fees,’ he said suddenly, ‘are two hundred and fifty pounds a day, plus expenses.’
Susan nodded her head slowly and sadly. ‘I was afraid of that,’ she told him, and stood up. ‘I can’t afford that kind of money, so I’m obviously wasting your time as well as my own.’ She held out her hand. ‘Thank you for listening, Mister Blake, but I can’t do business with you.’
Marcus stood up. ‘So what will you do?’ he asked as he shook her hand.
‘Oh, I shall take a couple of weeks off work and fly out to Afghanistan. Try on my own for a while. I owe that to David,’ she said.
‘Why not give Cavendish a call?’ he suggested. ‘Perhaps he can come up with something.’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t have his number. I tried dialling him back, but the number had been withheld.’
Marcus gave that some thought, then came round the desk and opened the office door for her. ‘I wish you luck,’ he said as she stepped out on to the landing. ‘I wish there was something I could do.’ He shrugged. He meant it too; she was too lovely a woman to have to relinquish so soon.
Susan gave him a brief smile. ‘Thank you again,’ she told him, and went down the stairs.
Marcus closed the door and went quickly to his desk. He tore off the top sheet of the pad on which he had been doodling and then he pulled a pair of sunglasses from his desk drawer and walked out of the office, lifting his beanie hat of its peg as he went out.
When he got down to street level, he checked to see which way Susan had gone, then turned round and locked his outer door. He slipped the Beanie hat over his blond hair and put on the sunglasses. Then he followed Susan up the City Road towards Old Street Tube station.
; TWO
TWO MONTHS EARLIER
Abdul Khaliq glared across the table at the American sitting opposite him. There was no love lost between the two men, particularly when it came to business, and the American was upsetting Abdul because he was demanding a little extra for his pains. The girl Abdul had offered him was little more than a passing bauble between men who had no scruples. The American wanted something with a bit of class; something a little more refined than one of Abdul’s whores who would be passed off as rough trade.
Abdul Khaliq was a product of Afghanistan’s turbulent history; very much like the warlords who held power with an iron grip. But his province extended beyond the vaguely drawn boundaries that defined the tribal fiefdoms of the country, and reached into the very corridors of power in the Western World. Abdul bowed the knee to no man, but many bowed the knee to him.
Abdul’s power lay not in fiefdoms or the merchandise he traded with his Western counterparts, but in the more powerful element of knowledge; knowledge that could be useful as a bargaining chip, and deadly as a means of reprisal. His currency was fear, and men who traded with Abdul were not to be found in the upper echelons of the Taliban or Al Qaeda, but among those who hid behind some of the most powerful leaders in the West. And it was these men who had most to lose, and from that spawned the fear that Abdul used as his ultimate weapon.
But Abdul was becoming unsettled by a subtle change in the way in which his British and American customers wanted to do business. It was almost like a collective change of philosophy; a change so fine it was almost undetectable. But pressure for results was being upped a little, and balancing the scales between his sources and his customers was causing extra friction.
In short, Abdul’s almost inviolable powerbase seemed to be coming under threat; as though some others wanted to move in on his operation and effectively reduce his influence to that of a mere cog in a big wheel. His position as a warlord was becoming increasingly untenable.
Abdul’s ability to sense danger was legendary; he had the awareness of a wild animal. He also understood that his position in the chain of operations between his powerbase and the big hitters in the West could only be undeniable so long as he held the upper hand. And he knew there was a sense of impatience in the demands being made on him, and powerful men were becoming restless.
But the American guy sitting across the table from him was not in that league, and he would often try to extract more from Abdul whenever he negotiated the deals on behalf of his paymasters. Despite his power, Abdul was no mug; he needed to keep the Americans and the British happy. But keeping the big guns happy didn’t mean he had to listen to the inflated ego of a minion. The man was becoming a nuisance and Abdul was losing his patience fast.
‘The girl has been spoken for,’ Abdul told the American. ‘She is part of my next shipment.’ He waved a dismissive hand at the American. ‘It was a mistake that you saw her. Believe me, she is not for you.’
The American persisted. ‘Abdul, my friend, who is to know if the girl has been used?’ He shrugged. ‘And we have been doing business for some time. I think you owe me.’
Abdul put up a restraining hand and stood up. ‘I owe nothing to nobody but to keep my word. And my word is that this girl will be delivered clean and untouched.’ He went to move away from the table when the American reached forward and grabbed his arm. Abdul looked down at the man in surprise. Then that emotion turned to disbelief that the American should have the temerity to lay hands on him.
He pulled his arm away and stepped out from the table. ‘You will not do that again,’ he said quietly, but venomously. Then he walked over to the door of the room and pulled it open.
The American stood up and was about to say something when the two men who had been in the room with them stepped forward and blocked his path. Abdul nodded his head sharply and left the room. If the American was wondering what was happening, he was about to find out. The moment Abdul closed the door a crashing fist sent the American into oblivion.
Fifteen minutes later the two men carried the American’s body out of the farm house and tossed it into the back of a Toyota pick-up truck. There was no sign of Abdul, just the faint trail of dust from his Landcruiser that signalled his departure.
The two heavies climbed into the pick-up. Beyond them was an enormous expanse of wasteland; an enormous expanse in which to dump the dead American.
THREE
Marcus followed Susan into Old Street Underground station. He had put on the sunglasses and zipped his leather jacket, relying on an amateur like Susan to have no idea she was being followed by a professional. Marcus liked that word; it made him feel good. Susan was easy to keep in sight, probably because she had her mind on other things. Marcus was intrigued as well, but not by what she had said; more by what she had unwittingly revealed to him.
He used his Oyster Card to walk through the turnstiles at the station and followed Susan down to the Northern Line platform. She was heading south. He stood about twenty feet away from her, losing himself among the other travellers and listened out for the rush of air that would signal the presence of an oncoming train.
From time to time he would glance at Susan and have little fantasies about her. He wondered what she would be like on a date, and how far he could get with her. Would dinner be sufficient, he wondered? Would he have to impress her with conversation, with his dress sense or with his worldly knowledge? She was certainly an attractive woman, and she hadn’t said anything about having a husband or a boyfriend, or a partner even.
He spun round quickly as Susan turned and looked in his direction, then he turned back after a suitable pause and saw that she was no longer facing him, but was staring directly ahead towards the huge adverts on the far side of the track. He began to fidget with an imaginary object in his pocket, and then cursed himself for being so unprofessional. He had to act normal, cool he told himself. If he was to persuade Susan that he was worth employing, he had to convince himself that it was worth a gamble; after all, it could end terribly for them both.
The train rumbled in and eased to a halt. The doors slid open and the people on the platform crowded on to the train. Marcus sat half a carriage length away from Susan and kept an eye on her as covertly as he could. He tried to remember what he had read in the police training manuals about surveillance techniques. Not that he had been in the police force, but there was an enormous amount of information on the internet and in the public libraries.
During the time he was on the train, he kept amusing himself by imagining all kinds of scenarios that could fit the picture as far as Susan’s brother David was concerned. He came to the conclusion there was no chance of ever finding out, but he did conjure up vivid pictures of himself performing a heroic rescue straight out of the pages of a good, Special Forces novel. And at the end of the epic adventure, Susan would fall into his arms and pledge undying love and devotion for rescuing her brother.
The train jolted a little as it stopped at Clapham Common and woke Marcus just in time to see Susan stepping off the train. He leapt up and made it through the sliding doors as they were about to close. He was the only other passenger to alight at that station, but Susan did not notice because she had disappeared down the exit tunnel before Marcus could compose himself.
He ran to the exit and saw her walking out on to the street, turning right out of the station. He followed and kept a safe and reasonable distance from her until she turned into a road of semi-detached, Victorian style houses.
Marcus was about fifty yards behind Susan when he saw her turn into a gateway. He kept his eye on the opening where she had disappeared and walked past it, glancing at the bay windows and patterned glass door beneath a small arch. He saw the number and continued on until he was well past the house.
The next stage of Marcus’s master plan was to find an internet café and pay for a booth. He found one in the High Street populated by a mixture of ‘gangsta’ rap aficionados covered in ‘bling’. The owner of the café loo
ked like he could have easily gone the distance with the world heavyweight boxing champion, and won.
Once he had logged on Marcus went on to British Telecom and entered Susan Ellis into the search box for residential numbers. He added Clapham and came up with fifteen people named Ellis. Nine of them had the initial ‘S’.
Using the back of the sheet of paper he had been doodling on back in his office, he wrote all the numbers down and then logged off. He paid for his time and then went in search of a public phone box.
Some of the numbers rang and eventually left him with an answering service to talk to. When he did get through to a person on the other end of the line, he pretended he was an Eco representative who could insulate the house and reduce its carbon footprint. He got short shrift for that and Susan Ellis was no different; she certainly wasn’t interested because she lived in a flat. Sorry and all that.
Marcus smiled as he put the phone down and underlined Susan’s number on his scrap of paper. All he had to do now was move on to stage two of his plan and find out more about the mysterious Mister Cavendish.
***
Chief Master Sergeant Danny Grebo drove out of the gates at Royal Air Force Lakenheath in Suffolk and motored the four miles to the town of Brandon with a lot on his mind. The information he had received was not good; it looked like the far end of the operation was experiencing some unexpected difficulty, but it hadn’t come to his attention soon enough. That was part of the reason for having a great deal to think of; the lack of a strong link between his end of the operation and the source. When information came in at such a slow rate, it was difficult to act upon it with any degree of confidence. Everything had to be locked down tight, no gaps. But now a single crack was beginning to show and the organisation was having to act on it.
He pulled into the car park of The Flintknappers in Market Hill and pulled the Buick over to the far side, away from the main road. He knew he was expected and hoped that he wouldn’t be kept waiting.
A Covert War Page 2