He listened for an answer and could hear the sound of Deveraux’s breathing coming down the phone line. Eventually the commodore spoke.
‘Very well, Grebo, I’ll see what I can do. Call my office at ten o’clock. I will give you an address in London. That’s all I can offer at the moment.’
‘Thank you sir, thank you.’ Grebo felt his whole body begin to shake in relief. ‘Ten o’clock.’
He put the phone down and stepped out of the phone booth. It was still early and he wondered what he could do to fill in the next few hours. Ordinarily he would have drawn some money out of an ATM machine and bought himself a breakfast and maybe a wash and brush. Trouble was, though, he wasn’t sure it was a good idea to use his ATM card in case the police were looking out for any transactions he might make so that they could pinpoint his location. He still had a few pounds in his wallet so he decided instead to wander around the department stores in Oxford Street, grab a coffee and a donut (he had enough money for that), and make the call at ten o’clock.
When Grebo made the call, he was given an address in Ealing Broadway. He knew he could get there by tube and using the ATM machine for the fare money wasn’t too big a risk because the police would never know where he was going if indeed they did pick up the transaction.
Grebo arrived at the address he was given about ninety minutes later. The road was a typical pre-war residential area. Fairly run down now, but probably a very up market neighbourhood in its heyday. Grebo didn’t bother to knock at the front door; he simply turned the knob and pushed the door open.
He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. He waited for a moment and then called out. A voice answered.
‘Hi, Danny, come through to the kitchen.’
Grebo walked down the passageway towards the back of the house. He reached the door that he believed would open on to the kitchen. It was partly closed. Gingerly he pushed the door and it swung open. He couldn’t believe what he was looking at first, but the entire kitchen was covered in plastic sheeting. For a brief moment he thought someone was in the process of decorating.
Then he felt a hand push him in the back. The barrel of the gun came up on to the back of his head and Grebo was dead before he hit the deck.
***
James Faulkner and Randolph Hudson were enjoying a beer together at a riverside pub overlooking the River Thames. It wasn’t unusual for the two men in their capacity as security chiefs to share some interdepartmental gossip and swop detail on any joint investigation their relative departments might be undertaking. But this time their conversation had little to do with national security, British or American; it was to do with the disappearance of Marcus Blake and the demise of Danny Grebo.
‘Grebo was a liability anyway,’ Faulkner was saying, ‘such a pity really because he was important to The Chapter.’
‘We had no choice, James,’ Hudson said. ‘Once he’d told Deveraux that he would probably crack and spill the beans.’ He shrugged with a hopeless gesture.
‘At least he was honest,’ Faulkner observed. ‘Too honest for his own good.’ He lifted his beer and took a mouthful. A river cruise boat went by and Faulkner looked down at the tourists with their cameras and colourful outfits. ‘Poor buggers don’t know the half of it,’ he said, putting his glass down. ‘So how are you going to fill the gap left by Grebo?’ he asked the CIA chief.
Hudson reflected on that for a while. ‘It will be difficult, but not impossible. We have to be prepared for people dropping out, so I’m sure we’ll cope.’
‘It shows how quickly a plan can fall to pieces,’ Faulkner lamented. ‘I haven’t been able to figure out where this man Blake fits in, but I think he was largely responsible that things fell apart so rapidly.’
‘Who is he anyway?’ Hudson asked the SOCA chief. ‘We sent a specialist to deal with him but he gave our man the slip.’
Faulkner arched his eyebrows. ‘Hmm, I’ve spoken to Cavendish; asked him if Blake was working for him or doing a bit of freelancing.’
Hudson laughed. ‘Some freelancer; he seems quite a guy.’
Faulkner conceded. ‘Yes, but we’ve underestimated him. If he shows up again we’ll have to make sure we finish the job this time.’
‘Well we know he phoned his father. He was clever enough to realise there was a tap on the old man’s line.’
Faulkner nodded. ‘It’s off now; too bloody risky. His old man has some clout in the city; could cause us some problems.’ He put his hand up and smiled. Hudson looked like he was about to make a suggestion. ‘No, I don’t want it taken care of,’ Faulkner told him. ‘Sir Henry Blake is untouchable, OK?’
Hudson laughed a little too and lifted his beer, and to all the world they were just a couple of guys enjoying a quiet lunch time drink, not two of the most dangerous men in Britain.
***
The Metropolitan Police Commissioner, Andrew Butler did not normally bother too much with crimes committed within the London area that would normally be dealt with by his very able, senior officers. From his lofty position, his daily round was often briefings with politicians, leading journalists, policy groups and often Chief Constables from other divisions. But at the early morning brief with his own senior officers, one name had been mentioned that had drawn his attention away from more administrative matters and focussed it on the recent events that had drawn him into the world of Sir Giles Cavendish. And that name was Blake.
After the meeting he asked his secretary to contact Cavendish, wherever he may be and ask him to phone. It was late that afternoon when Cavendish rang. The Commissioner’s secretary put the call through to Butler.
‘Good afternoon Commissioner, Sir Giles Cavendish here.’
‘Hallo Sir Giles, good of you to call. Something has come up that will probably interest you. It’s not part of your remit, I would think, but I am sure you will want to be kept informed.’
‘Thank you, Andrew.’
‘A body has turned up in a public toilet in one of the main underground stations. It has been identified as a lawyer by the name of Covington. He happens to be Sir Henry Blake’s lawyer. The time of death has been put at about ten thirty yesterday morning. Yesterday afternoon a lawyer by the name of Covington presented release papers at Thetford police station and had Marcus Blake released, four hours after the real Covington was murdered. I’ll keep you informed of any developments in the case, Sir Giles, but my division superintendent will obviously want to keep this in house. If there is any proven link to your investigation, he will almost certainly prefer to hand it on to SOCA. I’m sure Faulkner will want to be kept informed too.’
In his office, Cavendish mouthed an obscenity. Then he composed himself and put a request to the Police Chief.
‘Commissioner, would you try to keep this out of the hands of SOCA? For the time being at least?’
‘Would you like to tell me why, Sir Giles?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t; not yet anyway. And if I did, it would be in private; not over the phone. I hope you’ll understand.’
‘I will do my best,’ Butler promised, ‘but if the superintendent feels he wants to pass this on, I will try to hold it up for forty eight hours.’
‘Thank you Andrew. I’m sure we’ll talk again.’ He put the phone down.
Cavendish was reluctant to have SOCA involved because of something Faulkner had said during the meeting with the Prime Minister. On its own it wasn’t incriminating, but it managed to ring an alarm bell in Cavendish’s mind, and that was all that was needed in his murky world of secret intelligence.
***
Marcus left the Mercedes at the truck stop where he had met up with the two policemen, Blake and Whelan. He then drove the Mondeo that Cavendish had provided and motored back to London. He didn’t go back to his own flat, but found a three star hotel and booked in there for the night. The following morning he put together a plan that he hoped might get him closer to the organisation that sent the bogus Covington to release him from the jail in
Thetford.
Marcus had the hit-man’s wallet and the car keys to the Mercedes. With the car’s documents and the driving licence, he now knew where the guy lived, and decided to go to the man’s address.
Marcus knew the score: not to approach the house until he was convinced it was empty and he wouldn’t be noticed. To that end he needed to spend some time watching the premises without being seen; the watcher being watched.
The house was in Elgin Avenue at Maida Vale. Marcus found somewhere to park his car and walked to the Elgin public house. The pub was situated on the corner of the street. There were tables and chairs on the corner and from there Marcus was able to sit and watch with a soft drink in his hand. He knew he couldn’t sit there all day, but he had to spend as much time as possible until he could be certain it was safe to enter the house. He had bought a daily paper so was able to adopt the classic stance of pretending to read while keeping an eye on the place.
His patience was rewarded when he saw someone leave from the front door. It was a woman who Marcus assumed to be the man’s wife or partner. When she had gone, Marcus got up from the table and walked down to the front entrance. He walked up the short garden path and rang the doorbell. There was no reply, so Marcus tried again. When it was obvious there was nobody in, Marcus walked away and went back to the Elgin pub.
Marcus gambled that there would be nobody watching a house, so he retraced his footsteps and went back, but this time he walked up to the front door and opened it with the key that was on the Mercedes key ring.
He pushed the door open and stepped over the threshold, pulling the door closed behind him. He then waited for at least two minutes, not moving, but listening carefully for any sound that might suggest there was still somebody in the house.
There was a staircase in front of Marcus, which he assumed led up to the bedrooms. He went up as quickly and as quietly as he could and opened the doors that all faced on to the landing running alongside the upper stair well.
There was nobody about so he went back downstairs and into the front room. It was furnished tastefully and expensively, which didn’t surprise Marcus considering the profession of the man who, he believed lived there. He saw a bureau against a far wall. He went over to it and began looking through it, lifting out letters, documents and the odd receipt and bill.
He then went through to the dining room and began searching through the Welsh dresser that was in there. Once again the drawers were haphazardly filled with impedimenta relating to bills, addresses, TV licence and the like. But there was nothing he could see that could link the man to the organisation he knew Cavendish was investigating.
Marcus began to realise it was a reflection of the man’s professionalism that he would leave nothing incriminating that could link him to any organisation involved in anything illegal. It was disappointing to say the least that he could find nothing that he could take to Cavendish.
He closed the drawers and cast around once more before trying the kitchen and the bedrooms. But his search was fruitless there too; nothing. He came down the stairs and went back into the front room for one more look in the bureau. And that was when he came across something he least expected to; something that shook Marcus to the core.
It was a photograph jumbled up with a few others that Marcus had ignored. It was of two men. They were standing in front of what looked like an Indian temple or something of that nature; Marcus couldn’t be sure. But what he could be sure of was that one of the men in the photograph was the bogus Covington who had planned to kill him. The second man in the picture was a Pakistani; of that Marcus had no doubt.
It was Maggot.
***
Susan had settled herself down in front of the television to watch her favourite soap when the doorbell rang. She moaned to herself and went to the front door. When she opened it she saw Marcus standing there.
‘Marcus! What on earth are you doing here?’
Marcus didn’t wait for an invitation but brushed past her and waited for her to close the door, which she did.
‘I’m sorry about this Susan,’ he told her. ‘Are you alone?’
‘And what if I’m not?’ she snapped at him. ‘Haven’t you heard of the telephone?’
He thought about the phone tap on his father’s line but said nothing about that. He thought that might scare her more than she could bear.
‘Please forgive me, Susan, but I have to talk to you.’
Susan pushed past him and went through to her part of the house that she rented as a flat. She stood by the door.
‘Well, are you coming or not?’
Marcus went inside and sat down on one of her armchairs. Susan came in, set the DVD to record and switched the television off.
‘I’m sorry if I’m interrupting something,’ he said.
Susan shrugged and tossed the remote control on to the sofa. ‘It’s nothing,’ she told him. ‘Now, what is it you want?’
‘Why are you angry with me, Susan?’
The question was unexpected. Susan didn’t know what to say for a moment so she settled herself down in an armchair facing Marcus and composed herself.
‘I’m not angry with you Marcus,’ she began, ‘but things happen when you turn up. My life hasn’t been the same since we met. Just when I think I might make some sense out of everything, you somehow manage to, oh I don’t know, break the moment.’
He agreed and was sure Cavendish would agree as well. ‘Fair enough Susan, but hear me out this time and I’ll walk out of your life altogether. Promise.’
She sighed. ‘What do you want, Marcus?’
‘Do you remember the first letter, or writing you received from your brother?’ he asked her.
‘The one that Cavendish brought to me?’
He nodded. ‘Yes. Do you have it?’ When she said she did, Marcus asked her if she would fetch it so he could read it.
She brought the pages to him and he read through them. When he had finished he lowered them on to his lap and closed his eyes.
‘Maggot,’ he whispered softly. ‘I can’t believe it.’
Susan peered at him. ‘What’s the matter?’
He looked over at her and passed the pages back.
‘Maggot would go back to Pakistan from time to time,’ he said softly. ‘Always on family business, so he said. He would never explain; just say, ‘something like that’.
‘Marcus, what are you saying?’ she pressed.
He had been looking at Susan but not seeing her. It was as though he was staring straight through her. He shook his head and drew himself back to the present moment.
‘A man tried to kill me yesterday; a professional.’ Marcus was talking in a matter of fact way, as though it was an everyday occurrence. ‘He didn’t though, obviously. I found out where he lived and went to his house.’ He saw Susan’s mouth open as she began to say something. He put his hand up. ‘There was no-one there. I looked around, found nothing incriminating. Then I came across a photograph. It was the hit man, the guy who tried to kill me, and a Pakistani guy. The picture was taken somewhere in India or Pakistan. They were standing together, smiling. Lovely picture really. Maggot would have been proud of it.’
‘Maggot?’
Marcus nodded. ‘Yes, he was the other man in the photograph. Did you know, Susan, that Maggot has the little finger of his left hand missing?’
‘Yes,’ she answered, looking surprised. ‘I noticed it the other day.’
‘I can remember reading that your brother was shot by a man with his little finger missing. It’s not conclusive, Susan, but when you see a photograph of him with a man who has just tried to kill you, and when you read what happened to your brother, and when you think of how often Maggot goes away.’ He leaned back in the chair. ‘Maggot’s a hit-man; that’s what he does.’
‘He’s also a terrorist,’ Susan said, her voice cracking a little.
Marcus’s eyes widened. ‘What?’
‘He’s a terrorist, Marcus; and the police know
.’
She then told him about her trip to the local police station and what Detective Chief Inspector Rendell had told her.
‘It was Maggot who delivered my brother’s second letter. The police took pictures of him doing it.’
Marcus sagged visibly in the chair. His deductions about Maggot had saddened him immensely, and now he wasn’t sure what he could do about it.
Susan could see that the news of Maggot had affected Marcus. She knew they were both very good friends. Maggot had spoken very warmly of Marcus too.
‘Would you like a drink, Marcus?’ she asked suddenly.
Marcus smiled weakly. ‘I don’t fancy a drink Susan but I will have a coffee, thank you.’
Susan spent ten minutes making coffee and putting some quick snacks on a plate. She brought them through to him and watched as he worked his way through the lot. When he had finished, Susan took his plate from him and set it down on the coffee table beside her.
‘What are you going to do, Marcus?’ she asked.
He shrugged. ‘To be honest Susan, I’m out of my depth. This is a job for the professionals. I was better off where I was before; running my own agency in the way I know best.’
‘Marcus, your agency doesn’t exist anymore.’
‘What do you mean?’
She told him how she had turned up at his office and found it empty.
Marcus was stunned. Then he realised why Cavendish had to have the place cleaned out. He told Susan what had happened.
A look of concern clouded Susan face.
‘You really ought to get out of the country for a while, Marcus. Lie low, as they say.’
He laughed. ‘They’ll have my picture at every departure point in Britain. I wouldn’t even get a foot on a boat or an aeroplane.’ He stood up. ‘But I can do as I promised and get out of your life, Susan.’ He put his empty cup down.
Susan stood up and put her hand on his arm. ‘I don’t want you to get out of my life. Even if it’s only as a friend, I want you in it.’ She reached up and kissed him on the forehead. ‘But I want you in it in one piece. So please try and sort things out. If you stay in this, you never know, we may learn the truth about David.’
A Covert War Page 15