A Covert War

by Michael Parker

He made it into what was left of the house and began searching around for something to help him get his gag off. He came across an old, wooden coat hook and managed to remove his gag by slipping the edge of the hook between his cheek and the gag and pulling down sharply.

  Once the gag was off, David was able to find a container of water. Although it was lying flat on its side and most of the water had dribbled out, he was at least able to get down to it like a dog and fidget with it until he had drank enough to quench his thirst.

  He knew he would find some food because the men would have been preparing supper when the attack came. He came across a cupboard, its door shattered and hanging from its hinges. He found fruit, bread and some meat. But before he attempted to eat anything, he went in search of the man who had been his jailer. If he could find that man’s body, he was sure he would find the keys to his handcuffs.

  It took David about twenty minutes to find the body and another twenty minutes of sheer frustration before he could bring his hands round to the front of his body and get the key to his handcuffs. Once he had removed them he had to rub his wrists gently to restore some life into them. He picked up the dead man’s Kalashnikov machine gun, took a bandolier from the man’s shoulders and went back into the house to eat.

  David woke suddenly as the noise of a diesel engine invaded his sleep. He realised that he must have slept through the night because there was daylight penetrating the cave. He had chosen to stay in the cave because he was afraid of being alone in the shattered house.

  He looked down towards the compound as a Toyota pick-up truck bumped its way across the terrain. He tightened his grip on the Kalashnikov and waited, not really knowing what he would do. He wasn’t sure if the men in the pick-up were hostile or not. It was an irony that didn’t escape him because his kidnappers were hostile by definition, and the previous night’s attackers were not concerned about searching for him, so they obviously had no interest in his predicament. That’s if they even knew he existed.

  So he watched and waited, and what he saw began to convince him that the men who had turned up were friends of those who had died fighting. He could see by their body language the despair that would have been seen on their faces. And that put him on the horns of a dilemma; should he go out to them or remain hidden in the cave?

  Suddenly one of the men barked out some instructions and began sweeping his arm round in a gesture that looked like he was urging them to search for something, or somebody; survivors perhaps?

  It took no more than five minutes before they were back together in a small group. There was a huddled conversation and the one who appeared to be the leader began looking around again. Then he suddenly pointed towards the cave where David was watching, and David realised then that it was over; there was no way he could offer up any resistance to these men because he was outnumbered and, in a sense, defenceless. So he dropped the Kalashnikov to the ground and the bandolier and walked out of the cave with his hands in the air.

  There were five men in the group, and as soon as they spotted David they broke into a run and came rushing across the rocks towards him. David stopped and let them come to him.

  They were all wearing caftans, a traditional, hooded garment but no headgear. Each one had a large leather belt around his waist with a fearsome looking knife and sheath hanging from it. One of them spoke to David in English.

  ‘Ellis. What happened here?’

  David remembered him although he had only seen once since he was taken from the hospital.

  It was Abdul Khaliq.

  David simply gestured towards the compound and the house and explained what happened. His explanation was succinct and left Abdul in no doubt that the attackers were intent on one thing: murder.

  ‘They didn’t find you?’

  David shook his head. ‘They didn’t look. Unfortunately it wasn’t a rescue mission.’

  Abdul considered this for a moment, not taking his eyes off David. Then he said, ‘You will help my men bury these people. We must cover them so the wolves and jackals cannot finish what they started during the night.’ He turned away and began walking off towards the grim scene that lay before him. Then he stopped and turned towards David.

  ‘They may not have come for you, my friend, but this may be the beginning of your freedom.’

  And with that curious statement, he wheeled away and hurried towards the morbid task that awaited them.

  ***

  Susan Ellis had been home from work little more than an hour when the phone rang. She lived on the ground floor of a Victorian house that had been converted into flats, and was in the kitchen at the rear of the house preparing her evening meal. She had no idea who could be calling her. She put the knife down that she had been using and wiped her hands on a paper kitchen towel, pulled off her apron and went through to her front room to answer the phone.

  ‘Susan Ellis.’

  ‘Good evening Susan, this is Marcus Blake.’

  She frowned and did not recognise the name for a moment. Then she realised who it was. ‘Marcus Blake? How did you get my number?’

  ‘With high skill, extreme perseverance and a modicum of luck. Can we talk?’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Well, I would prefer to speak to you face to face.’

  Susan wasn’t keen on inviting a comparative stranger round to her home. ‘Can’t you tell me what it is you want to say over the phone?’

  ‘I could,’ he replied honestly, ‘but I have something I want you to see and I can’t exactly show you that over the phone.’

  ‘Oh, well why not try to explain what it is that you want to show me?’

  Marcus sensed her extreme reluctance, but he was determined to push her until she relented.

  ‘I cannot do that, but what I can do is invite you out to dinner and we can talk. It will be in public and you can leave whenever you wish. How does that suit you?’

  She found herself nodding. ‘Well, that is reasonable, but I was already preparing a meal for myself.’

  ‘It’s no fun dining alone, Susan. I know because I do it so often.’

  ‘Is this about my brother?’ she asked him. Susan felt a little lift in her spirit and her skin tingled in anticipation. It was a momentary thing and passed quite quickly.

  ‘Have dinner with me Susan; there’s something you need to know.’

  ‘Bad news?’

  ‘No, no,’ he said quickly. ‘Sorry, Susan, I didn’t mean that kind of news. Look,’ he urged her, ‘meet me at the Regent Restaurant. It’s at the bottom of your road. Eight o’clock. I’ll see you there.’

  Marcus put the phone down and looked at his watch. One hour; plenty of time to get across to Clapham Common and wait for Susan to turn up, as he was sure she would.

  ***

  James Purdy sat opposite Cavendish in an office in the House of Commons. He looked mortified as the security man spelled out the consequences of his predilection for young girls, particularly those who were brought into the country illegally.

  ‘You want me to resign, is that it?’ Purdy asked.

  Cavendish shook his head. ‘That isn’t for me to say, Minister. But I’m sure you can see the problem; we have here a Minister of State knowingly consorting with illegal immigrants for reasons of sexual perversion. It’s clear that you are laying yourself open to blackmail, and that would, or could jeopardise the security of our nation.’

  ‘How did you get the bloody photographs?’ the minister demanded to know.

  Cavendish shrugged. ‘Well, unless you want a detailed account of how we have been suspicious of you and what you’ve been up to for ages, I’m sure it doesn’t take brains to realise that we do have our ways and means. We usually succeed in the end.’

  Purdy stood up, quite angry and obviously worried. ‘I could deny it all,’ he ranted. ‘Say I’ve been set up, the photos have been doctored. I’m a minister of the crown for God’s sake. And why on earth are MI6 involved in this? Aren’t you supposed to be looking after our
overseas interests?’

  ‘Charity isn’t the only thing that begins at home, Minister,’ Cavendish reminded him. ‘Our overseas responsibilities begin here as well. Something as Secretary of State for International Development you seem to take very lightly.’

  ‘Damn it Cavendish,’ he shouted, slamming his hand down on the desk top. ‘What are you trying to do? A little harmless, private fun and you poke your bloody noses in.’ He stopped. Cavendish was holding up his hand.

  ‘Your harmless, private fun resulted in the death of one of those girls. She was found in a rubbish skip not fifty yards away from where you sodomised and raped her; you and your companions. So don’t talk to me about private, harmless fun, Minister. You are in deep, deep trouble and will go to prison for a very long time.’

  Cavendish was getting angry and it was the last thing he wanted to do. He also wanted the minister to have a clear head and be given an opportunity to redeem himself by cooperating and agreeing to what it was Cavendish had in mind. He wished he’d been lying about the girl being found dead in a rubbish skip; for all the good that men like the Cabinet Minister do for those poor girls, and the life they put them into, they might just as well be dead before they were used and abused.

  ‘But there is a way out for you,’ he told him, ‘for your own peace of mind and for the security of our country.’

  The Minister looked up expectantly, his brow furrowing into deep creases. ‘What are you talking about?’ He snapped the question out, his demeanour now very much like the cornered animal that he was, and no longer the urbane, cabinet minister that was seen so often in the debating chamber of the House.

  Cavendish had no pity for him or his ilk. All he wished to do was get the truth out of the man and then rid the country of the vermin that he was. It galled him to offer the minister a way out.

  ‘First of all Minister, I want the names of the two men who were with you during your little bit of fun, as you so describe it.’

  The minister shook his head vigorously. ‘Out of the question; I don’t even know them.’

  Cavendish looked at his watch. ‘You can begin by telling lies if you wish,’ he said, looking up, ‘but eventually you will tell me what it is I want to know.’

  The minister stretched his hands out across the table; his manner more compliant. ‘Look, it’s the truth; I do not know those men. We have to arrive incognito and remain so, for obvious reasons.’ He dropped his voice a little. ‘But I can get their names for you. Would that be enough?’

  ‘That would depend how long it would take you.’

  The minister drew his hands back and relaxed a little. He thought he recognised the beginning of the bargaining; the dealing that would be done in order to minimise the risk of exposure and subsequent scandal, to say nothing of a stretch in prison. He also thought he could see a way out of the danger he would undoubtedly face once others higher up the chain learned of his own misjudgement.

  ‘I could have the names by midnight,’ he told Cavendish.

  The security man didn’t trust him, but ironically the cards were in the minister’s hands. If Cavendish had him arrested by Special Branch, the news would break immediately and be splashed all over the front pages. The Prime Minister would have no need to sack his Cabinet colleague because the minister would have resigned immediately, and the faceless ones, those who Cavendish was really after, would fade away into the background and put their operation on hold. No, arresting the minister would serve no useful purpose at the moment.

  He looked at his watch again. ‘I will give you until this time tomorrow,’ he told the minister. ‘If you come up with those names and anything else you can tell me about them, I will withhold any action against you.’ He stood up. ‘I’ll be here tomorrow. Oh, and please understand that you will now be under surveillance until then ? just in case you decide to skip the country.’

  The minister didn’t bother to stand. ‘I won’t,’ he said. ‘You have my word on that.’ He watched as Cavendish left the office and immediately began considering the quickest and most effective way of silencing him.

  SIX

  Marcus was seated inside the Regent Restaurant when Susan walked in. He stood up immediately and waved at her from across the room. She half smiled when she saw him and came over to the table. Marcus thought she looked lovely. She had put on a coat to ward off the evening chill, but it was fitted and accentuated her figure. She had a white, beanie hat on, but unlike a lot of people Marcus had seen wearing them, it looked lovely on her and emphasised the brunette shade of her hair that curled from beneath it.

  Susan unbuttoned her coat and pulled off the hat, tossing her head a couple of times to get her hair to fall naturally into place. She was wearing a black, turtle neck sweater which made it all the more difficult for Marcus to take his eyes off her. He took her coat and hung it on a coat stand that was close by.

  Susan was just settling into her chair when Marcus came back. She looked up at him and smiled.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Marcus sat down and asked her what she would like to drink. Susan said she would only have water, which was already on the table. He poured a glass for her and handed her a menu. Five minutes later the waiter had taken their order and they toasted each other’s good health; Susan with her water and Marcus with his small beer.

  ‘So, how did you get my phone number?’ Susan asked him.

  He smiled at her disarmingly. ‘Dead easy; I followed you.’

  Susan looked a little startled. ‘You what?’

  ‘When you left my office, I followed you. Once you reached your house, I went into an internet café and logged on to British Telecom. Simple.’ He couldn’t help looking a little triumphant when he had finished.

  ‘OK, so you got my phone number, but you wouldn’t be the first to have it.’ She sounded a little sharp with him. ‘And what is it you have to show me? The reason you made me come here?’

  Marcus put his hand in his jacket pocket and pulled out a couple of photographs. He passed them over to Susan.

  ‘Recognise this man?’ he asked, pointing at the picture.

  Susan looked through the photographs, then back up at Marcus. ‘This is Cavendish.’ There was surprise in her voice. ‘How did you?’ She stopped in mid sentence, then her shoulders drooped a little. ‘Of course, you went to the Foreign Office, right?’

  Marcus shook his head and had a tight little smile on his face. ‘He doesn’t work at the Foreign Office. They’ve never heard of him.’

  This brought Susan up straight. ‘Then how did you?’ She waved the photos at him. ‘How did you find him? Why did you find him?’

  Marcus reached across the table and took the photographs from her.

  ‘Cavendish works in Intelligence. He is highly placed in MI6 and his name is Sir Giles Cavendish.’

  Susan frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’

  Just then the waiter appeared with the first course of their order. Susan had chosen pâté. Marcus had plumped for soup.

  ‘When you told me how Cavendish had contacted you, how he had met you and all that,’ Marcus said between mouthfuls, ‘it struck me as most odd. You couldn’t call him back because his number was withheld; he knew you as soon as you went into Starbucks, didn’t give you his phone number but gave you a long story about the diplomatic bag.’

  Susan took a bite of toast. ‘You thought of all this while I was talking to you?’

  ‘I wrote it down.’

  ‘You were doodling.’

  ‘Sez you!’

  ‘Well,’ she said through a mouthful of crumbs, ‘you’re crafty.’

  He finished his soup, pushed his plate away and dabbed his mouth with his napkin.

  ‘The question is, Susan; why did he do it?’

  Susan just looked absently across the table and shook her head gently. ‘I don’t know,’ she said softly. ‘I really don’t know.’

  ‘He gave you nothing but a little hope, and then disappeared.’ He leaned into the
table. ‘Susan, men like that do not do this kind of thing unless it’s for a reason.’

  Susan shook her head. ‘Perhaps he wanted me to stir up something. Go to the Press or the television people.’

  ‘And did you?’ he asked.

  She nodded. ‘Didn’t do any good, though; I don’t think me and my brother are newsworthy enough. And I certainly couldn’t afford the agencies, not even you.’ She said pointedly. Marcus ignored the remark.

  He watched her finish her pâté and toast. ‘What are we going to do about it?’ he asked.

  ‘We?’ She nearly choked on a piece of toast and had to take a drink of water to clear it. ‘What do you mean, we? You know I can’t afford to hire you.’

  Marcus could see she was getting a little upset. He reached across the table and put his hand over hers.

  ‘Let’s see how far we can go with this, Susan,’ he suggested. ‘And don’t worry about the fee; I’ll cover it.’

  An expression of unbelief came over Susan’s face. ‘Really?’ she said softly.

  He squeezed her hand. ‘It’s no big deal at the moment. Like I said, let’s see how far we can go with this. Perhaps we can ginger up the newspapers; get them interested.’

  ‘Do you think we can?’ she asked him hopefully.

  Marcus shrugged. ‘I don’t know, but we can try. First things first though; let’s eat, get to know each other and tomorrow we’ll confront Cavendish. How does that sound?’

  Susan’s eyes began to fill with tears. Marcus lifted her napkin off the table and handed it to her.

  ‘Don’t cry, Susan. Somehow, someway we will learn the truth about your brother, and something tells me that Cavendish will have the answers.’

  ***

  It was shortly after eight o’clock in the evening when Marcus and Susan sat down to dine, and it was at precisely the same time that a signal arrived at the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square. It was for the Military Attaché, Commodore John Deveraux. The signal was encrypted, which prompted a phone call to the Commodore’s residence should he wish to come to the Embassy and pick it up. This he chose to do and at nine o’clock that evening, Deveraux was sitting in his office with the signal in front of him on his desk. He had decoded it and was now shaking his head in frustration.