A Covert War

by Michael Parker

  Eventually, more by luck than judgement, he ended up some way along the river, and by the time he had dragged himself up on to a small, wooden landing stage he was breathless and soaked through to the skin.

  He had put about a hundred yards between him and the Odessa. There was no obvious sign of pursuit, so Marcus had walked away from the river and out on to a road. He took his bearings and made his way back to the hotel. Fortunately for Marcus his clothes were not in too bad a state when he walked to reception and asked for his room key. The night porter barely glanced up at him.

  He had taken a hot bath, then a shower before slipping into bed. His shoulder was beginning to hurt a little but he ignored it. The flesh wound that Cavendish had dressed at the safe house hurt as well, but he ignored that too.

  He felt a little troubled by them but soon fell asleep. When he woke that morning he showered again, put on a pair of jeans and a check shirt, called Cavendish and then went into the town to buy another change of clothes.

  He had watched an early morning television broadcast on the local news channel carrying reports of an illegal immigrant shooting his way out of a trap on board the M.V. Odessa in the docks. It suited Marcus to see the incident reported that way, and it probably suited the captain of the Odessa too.

  Now he was sitting in his room contemplating his next move. He had been reticent about explaining to Cavendish exactly what had occurred the night before, so kept much of the detail to himself. He was surprised when Cavendish suggested he went back to the docks and tried to identify the illegal cargos once it was on the quayside and find out where it was heading.

  He wondered if the security chief was really concerned about what happened to him; whether he really cared that Marcus was not exactly a trained agent. After all, he had literally been given free rein to follow his own instincts and to come up with some answers. Perhaps Cavendish trusted those instincts to the point where he believed Marcus was more than capable of achieving a satisfactory conclusion to whatever objective he set him.

  Or maybe not; maybe Marcus was a pain in the arse and Cavendish wanted shot of him. The drugs coming into the country through Kings Lynn Docks couldn’t have represented more than a fraction of what was flooding into the country anyway, and there was a National Drugs Squad or something to take care of that. So why him, why Marcus?

  ***

  Susan Ellis sat staring at Chief Inspector Rendell. She found it difficult to believe what he had told her; that Maggot was known to them and was listed as having links with Al-Qaeda, the Muslim terrorist organisation.

  ‘Don’t misunderstand me, Susan,’ Rendell was saying. ‘Just because a person is listed as suspect, it doesn’t mean he or she is guilty of terrorism. A lot of people come up on our radar and we have to investigate them as thoroughly and discreetly as possible.’

  ‘But I was only talking to him a couple of days ago,’ she told Rendell. ‘I didn’t know who he was when I met him. He said he was a friend of Marcus Blake.’

  Rendell looked down at a file in front of him. ‘Who is Marcus Blake?’ he asked, looking up.

  Susan explained who Marcus was, more or less repeating what Maggot had told her without going into detail about her own reason for contacting him in the first place. She thought her description of Marcus as a private detective would be sufficient and left the description at that.

  ‘Marcus and Maggot are good friends. His name is Rafiq Shah, by the way,’ she added.

  Rendell leaned forward and put his elbows on the desk. He rested his chin on the knuckles of his hand.

  ‘Yes, we know him as Rafiq Shah, not Maggot.’

  ‘Is this serious?’ Susan sounded concerned. ‘I don’t want to get involved in any trouble.’

  Rendell shrugged. ‘The devil of it is, you are involved simply by association. It’s a bugger, I know, but that’s the way it is.’ He was being gentle with her because he recognised innocence when he saw it. ‘It might help,’ he continued, ‘if you could let us see what it was Rafiq, or Maggot as you know him, put through your door.’

  Susan blanched and Rendell sensed he had touched a nerve.

  ‘I can tell you what it was,’ she admitted, ‘but you will have to take my word for it; I cannot show it to you.’ Susan did not want David’s letter taken from her because she wanted to go to the national press with it.

  Rendell tipped his head slightly. ‘Why not let me make up my own mind about that?’

  ‘Very well,’ she began reluctantly. ‘Have you ever heard of David Ellis?’

  ***

  Milan Janov would have looked completely out of place had he not adopted the standard Afghan Pakol hat and Chapan jacket, such was his size and east European appearance. But he wanted to appear as inconspicuous as possible in the northern region of Faryab in Afghanistan for his meeting with Abdul Khaliq.

  The two men had met in this way before, but there had never been any obvious tension between them apart from a natural proclivity for sharpened senses and awareness that comes from clandestine meetings. Abdul felt it more than most because he suspected that Janov was trying to muscle in on his operation.

  The two men were seated in the house of a hill farmer at Maymaneh, a small town nestling in the foothills twenty miles from the border with Turkmenistan. With Janov were two very powerful and ugly looking minders. Abdul knew he would have more men stationed outside up on the high ground overlooking the meeting place.

  With Abdul were his own, trusted men and David Ellis. David was under instruction to say nothing and not respond to any questions. Abdul knew that Janov could speak fluent English and wanted to avoid David falling into any traps. David was now easily passed off as an Afghan, providing nobody spoke to him. Abdul had still not explained satisfactorily to David why he was being dragged around like a trophy prisoner. All Abdul would say was that David’s freedom depended on him remaining with him at all times and at all costs.

  The two men sat facing each other with barely disguised hostility.

  ‘I spoke to my cousin in England this morning,’ Janov began. ‘He told me there was a problem in the port when the ship docked.’

  Abdul opened his hands in surprise. ‘So why are you telling me?’

  Janov explained. His voice was steady but full of implication. ‘The authorities in England must have known about the shipment. We need to find who is supplying them with the information. I have no reason to suspect any of my men. So you must make sure you are confident with your men.’

  Abdul would have laughed had he not felt insulted by the suggestion that there was a leak in his organisation. Abdul’s side of the operation meant that he dealt with the Afghanistan farmers when it came to buying up their opium yield, the men who converted the milky sap from the poppy into heroin, and the Taliban warlords who allowed the poppies to be grown on their territory. None of those men had any reason to jeopardise their own part of the operation; they were all well paid and had a virtually guaranteed market.

  Each year the Afghanistan farmers produced about four thousand tons of opium; roughly eighty per cent of the world’s supply. The market in Great Britain alone was worth about six billion pounds, to say nothing of the markets en route from Afghanistan to the points of entry into the United Kingdom.

  Abdul’s part in the drug route covered most of the northern provinces of Afghanistan. Janov’s covered the entire European route once the drugs had entered Turkmenistan. But Janov had another finger in the pie: weapons.

  The Taliban needed weapons and money to support and maintain their so called intifada against the infidel and the great Satan, America. The beauty of it for the Taliban was that they were allowing farmers to grow opium for which the Taliban took a share of the profits, and the money earned from the drugs was used to purchase arms from the British and the Americans to prolong the war in Afghanistan. It was a continuous loop and Janov sat in the middle of it, sending misery into the world and filling his pockets with money and feeding his power hungry aims and ambitions.
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  And Janov was convinced that Abdul was causing him a problem and wanted shot of him.

  And Abdul knew it.

  But Janov could not declare open war on Abdul without alerting their paymasters to a split in the ‘ranks’. As far as Janov was concerned, Abdul’s demise had to be made to look like a dispute that had gone tragically wrong, but Janov needed more time to set something up.

  The reason they had met was routine; money was to exchange hands and deals to be concluded. But because of the problem at the docks in England that Janov had referred to, and the fact that the operation had been closed down for the sake of security, there was to be no money and no deals.

  It made for a very tense meeting between the two men, but they had no reason to blame each other, although that was exactly what Janov was trying to: lay the blame at Abdul’s feet.

  The meeting ended with a lot of angry words between both sides, and left Abdul hoping that the letter David had sent to England would elicit some kind of response. If not, then he and David were dead men.

  TWELVE

  Marcus sat beside an enormous policeman in the back of a nondescript but very powerful Vauxhall Vectra. He had met him when the lorry that he had been following had pulled into a truck stop just outside Brandon in Suffolk. Marcus had contacted Cavendish and asked for instructions. Cavendish told him to wait at the truck stop until he was contacted. Half an hour later the Vectra turned up and pulled into a parking space a few yards from Marcus.

  The two men who climbed out of the car were defying the laws of ergonomics because there was no way the two of them should have been able to get into the car. They were dressed in plain clothes and for a moment Marcus thought the villains had caught up with him. One of them put his hand on the roof of the Mondeo and tapped on the window. Marcus opened it.

  ‘Marcus Blake?’ He pulled a warrant card out of his pocket. ‘Detective Sergeant Whelan,’ he told Marcus with a heavy Irish brogue. He looked across to the passenger door. ‘And that’s Detective Constable Iverson; ‘Yorkie’ to his mates. If you want to speak to me, call me Paddy.’ Whelan straightened up and beckoned Marcus. ‘Now sir, if you’d like to follow me?’

  Marcus got out of the Mondeo and went over to the Vectra with the two policemen. Yorkie Iverson got into the driver’s seat while Whelan and Marcus climbed into the back.

  ‘Is that the truck?’ Whelan asked him.

  Parked among the lorries in the lorry park was a flat-bed articulated lorry stacked with large crates.

  Marcus nodded. ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘Right,’ Whelan began after a short pause. ‘It’s like this: we follow the truck as far as it goes. It will probably be Feltwell according to our sources.’ Marcus didn’t have the heart to tell him who exactly those ‘sources’ were. ‘We’ll make a decision when we get there.’

  ‘Make a decision about what?’ Marcus asked him.

  ‘Whether we bust them or not,’ Whelan replied.

  It was a simple reply, and Marcus could imagine these two huge coppers putting the fear of God into hardened criminals.

  The three of them sat there for well over an hour, saying very little and making small talk. Marcus had tried to encourage them to open up a little, but they were not that forthcoming, so he gave up.

  They all saw the driver come out of the truck stop and walk across to his lorry. Yorkie gunned the motor into life and waited until the lorry was on the move before pulling away from the parking lot.

  Their journey was not too long. The lorry drove away from Brandon a short distance and then turned on to the Weeting road. It headed into the country until it came to a sign pointing to the town of Feltwell.

  None of them spoke as a sense of tension began feeling its way into the car. Marcus was sure it would not affect the two coppers, but he could definitely feel a slight, skin tightening sensation creeping over him.

  They followed the lorry through the small town of Feltwell. It was beginning to get dark and the street lights were flickering into life. Soon the shops and houses began to thin out as they drove a little deeper into the countryside.

  Then the lorry slowed and turned on to a small road. Yorkie pulled the Vectra over and parked.

  ‘Why are we stopping?’ Marcus asked.

  ‘Wouldn’t do to follow him up there,’ Whelan told him. ‘We’ll have to wait until it gets dark.’

  ‘Aren’t you afraid of losing him?’

  Whelan shook his head. ‘No.’ It was all he said.

  So they waited until the darkness was complete. Suddenly Whelan leaned forward and reached over the empty passenger seat. Yorkie put his hand out and opened the glove box. He took a Sig Sauer hand gun from the compartment, and handed it to Whelan who slipped the magazine out, checked it and rammed it back. Then he put the gun into his inside pocket.

  ‘Wait here,’ he said and climbed out of the car.

  Whelan walked carefully along the track, which was in very good condition considering it was probably no more than a farm road. It had a tarmac surface, which surprised him.

  He could see the road curving in the moonlight, but the curve was too sharp for him to see much beyond thirty yards or so. On his right the trees seemed to leap up and hang over him like phantoms. He took the Sig Sauer handgun from his pocket, slipped the safety catch off and held the gun firmly, pointing it down.

  The road began to straighten and he was able to see a chain link fence in the distance. He could also see a wide, metal gate, which was closed. But astonishingly the gateway was flooded in light from arc lamps bearing down from high stanchions above the fence. And just inside the gate was what looked like a sentry post; a security hut. He could see someone sitting at a desk. He was wearing a uniform which Whelan recognised. And then he saw the large, floodlit sign.

  ‘Oh bollocks,’ he said.

  The words on the sign read: United States Air Force. 7th. Logistics Wing. Bonded Warehouse.

  Whelan stopped and slipped the gun back into his pocket. He then retraced his footsteps until he had cleared the curve in the road. He then quickened his pace and eventually broke into a trot. When he reached the car he was slightly breathless.

  Marcus and Yorkie watched him get into the front of the car.

  ‘It’s the fucking Yanks,’ he gasped. ‘A bonded fucking warehouse!’

  ‘What are you talking about, Paddy?’ Iverson asked him.

  ‘It’s a bloody, Yank compound,’ he explained, shaking his head. ‘Can’t go in there asking questions.’

  Suddenly there was a tap on the window. The three of them looked over at the window beside Yorkie. There was an American Military Policeman standing there. Yorkie put the window down.

  ‘Yes officer?’ he asked politely.

  The MP’s hand came into view. He was holding a standard issue M9 handgun

  ‘Get out of the car, sir.’ He stepped back.

  Whelan felt the weight of his own gun in the pocket of his jacket, but before he could make a decision one way or the other, it was made for him: his door was pulled open by a second, armed MP.

  ‘Hands in the air!’ was the command as the three men climbed out of the Vectra.

  As Marcus straightened up he saw the Dodge pick-up truck. It was just rolling to a halt about twenty yards from them. He realised that the MPs must have approached their car on foot, although he had absolutely no idea where they came from.

  The pick-up truck was a long wheel base wagon with a passenger compartment. The MPs frisked the three men, removed the gun from Whelan’s coat pocket and marshalled them to the rear door of the Dodge and made them get in.

  Once they were seated along the bench seat, the doors were locked and the truck motored up the side road to the compound where they knew the contraband had been delivered. The gates were now wide open. The driver took the Dodge up to the large doors of the warehouse and parked in front of them.

  The three of them were made to get out and taken through a pedestrian door which opened into the wareho
use. On one side was an office. The lights were on and sitting there was the man they assumed to be the lorry driver. Facing him from behind the desk was Danny Grebo.

  The Master Sergeant looked at the three men through the glass window of the office. His posture was fairly relaxed and the expression on his face one of authority and control.

  Then it changed: he recognised Marcus.

  Grebo stood up slowly as recognition dawned on him. His eyes darted swiftly to Iverson and Whelan, and then back to Marcus as the two MPs brought them into the office. He said nothing straight away, but Marcus knew he had recognised him. And Marcus was intelligent enough to know that once Grebo discovered that Iverson and Whelan were policemen, he could not afford to let them go.

  Not now.

  ***

  Cavendish was shown into the Prime Minister’s private office. It was almost midnight and the Prime Minister, not one for spending too much time in bed had agreed to the meeting with the Intelligence chief even though it was quite late.

  Cavendish had explained to the Prime Minister that he wanted a private meeting, no notes, no record and no Parliamentary Private Secretaries to sit in on the conversation.

  Cavendish sat down in an armchair to wait for the Prime Minister. He had no qualms about what he would discuss with him, and knew it would certainly give the man a problem. But that was the price of holding down the top job.

  The door opened and the Prime Minister walked in. He was still dressed in his daily attire of bespoke suit and knitted tie. His hair, as usual, was a shambles and his appearance was that of someone who is always in a hurry. But what Cavendish knew of the Prime Minister was that the man had a very keen intellect, a razor sharp mind and did not suffer fools gladly.

  ‘Good evening, Sir Giles,’ he said, holding out his hand.

  Cavendish stood up and shook the Prime Minister’s hand.

  ‘Would you like a drink?’

  ‘No thank you, Prime Minister,’ Cavendish answered. ‘I don’t intend staying long.’

  ‘Very well,’ the PM said and sat down in an armchair that had been placed at a right angle to the one Cavendish had chosen. ‘So, what is it you wish to see me about?’