A Covert War Page 14

  ‘What on earth do you mean?’ Butler asked; his mouth twisted into a grimace.

  Cavendish glanced at him and then back across the table to the Prime Minister.

  ‘This is not a drug cartel that smuggles drugs into our country for the sake of making money,’ he said sharply. ‘This is an organisation that trades under the protection of very powerful men who hold positions of authority in politics, the armed forces and terrorism.’ He was holding their attention now. ‘They bring drugs into our country, sell them on and use the money to buy arms which they ship out to Al Qaeda and the Taliban. They use young girls as ‘sweeteners’ so that these twisted men can use them for their own purposes.’

  ‘Where are they buying the drugs from?’ Faulkner asked. ‘We’ve just about destroyed all the poppy fields in Afghanistan.’

  Cavendish gave him a withering look. ‘The drug harvest in Afghanistan is extremely healthy. The annual crop is worth about one hundred million pounds. A lot of that funds the weapons traffic.’

  ‘I was under the impression, Sir Giles,’ interrupted the Prime Minister, ‘that we had all but secured those provinces where we operate and halted all drug production.’

  Cavendish looked askance at the Prime Minister. ‘Then you sources are unreliable, Prime Minister. Perhaps your information is deliberately false. This continuous rotation of drugs and guns is a fact and is kept going by men in high positions of authority.’

  ‘Preposterous,’ declared Butler. ‘We would know about it immediately. Our men out in Afghanistan are without question the most dependable and reliable.’

  Cavendish looked at Butler, but before replying he stole a quick glance at the Prime Minister. Directing his eyes back to the Police Commissioner, he said, ‘Our soldiers in Afghanistan are underpaid, under- equipped and undermanned. They rely heavily on human intelligence in the field which comes from some Taliban commanders, when it suits them,’ he added, ‘and from local Afghan tribal chiefs. Our soldiers cannot be in several places at once, and they are often led to believe that the poppy field they destroyed a year ago is no longer producing when the fact is the farmer is still growing the poppies and the drug factories are making pure heroin.’

  ‘What you are implying, Cavendish,’ Faulkner said, ‘is that there are corrupt men at the top of the chain. Do you have any proof of this?’

  Cavendish shook his head. ‘Unfortunately I cannot always deal in proof; it’s something that our department sees very little of. Even with facts, we often have to use them in trade-offs; tit for tat exchanges. Promises made by one party to another. Someone wants his name kept out of it so is willing to sell his soul. We can only stop this corrupt practice by getting at the heads of the chain and cutting them off. That is what we were trying to do at the American depot at Feltwell when the whole thing blew up in our faces. And I assure you gentlemen, it was no-one’s fault but mine.’

  ‘There’s no need to fall on your sword, Sir Giles,’ the Prime Minister told him abruptly.

  ‘Why did this have to involve the Americans?’ Butler asked Cavendish.

  ‘Because the Americans are involved,’ he replied simply. ‘It’s really them who are calling the shots.’

  ‘What do you mean the Americans are calling the shots?’

  ‘They have the scope and the size to hide an operation like this within the parameters of their own, legitimate operations,’ Cavendish told him.

  ‘But you’ve no proof.’ It was a simply stated fact, and the Police Commissioner seemed confident now that Cavendish’s explanations were based largely on supposition and wishful thinking. ‘And they could only run a clandestine operation with the knowledge and connivance of some very, well placed men.’

  ‘Precisely.’ It was all Cavendish said because the Police Commissioner had simply reiterated what he had been trying to tell them all along.

  The Commissioner realised what he had just implied and the expression on his face changed. It was like he finally understood the solution to a problem that had been dogging him for some time, only in this case it wasn’t a problem that he alone could solve.

  ‘Sir Giles,’ the Prime Minister said, breaking the slight impasse. ‘I am seeing the American Ambassador later today along with Commodore Deveraux, the Military Attaché. I need something to tell them, but I also need something to ask them. If you cannot furnish me with something positive, it looks like they will be asking the questions and I will have to provide the answers.’

  Cavendish shrugged his shoulders. ‘In that case, Prime Minister I can only ask you to tell them what you know.’

  ‘Which is precisely nothing without facts,’ the Prime Minister commented.

  Cavendish nodded. ‘Exactly, but you could labour the point about Chief Master Sergeant Danvor Grebo going missing after wounding one of our police officers and shooting dead one of his own American comrades.’

  ‘I must say that’s hardly a senior rank to be considered as a man in high authority,’ Faulkner put in. ‘I understood from what you have been saying, Sir Giles that you were looking for men in high places.’

  Cavendish turned to face Faulkner. ‘Chief Grebo is a logistics man. He has attained the highest, non- commissioned rank in the American Air Force. It gives him an element of power and control. Four nights ago Grebo shot and wounded one of my operatives. He is a dangerous man. He is also the cousin of Milan Janov; a man who we believe is heavily involved in drugs and people trafficking. The more we look into the connections between individuals here, the worse it becomes.’ He then spoke to the Prime Minister.

  ‘I would ask you, Prime Minister to be very circumspect during your meeting with the Ambassador and Commodore Deveraux.’

  The Police Commissioner interrupted Cavendish. ‘You’re not suggesting the links with this Grebo go further up the chain of command, are you?’

  ‘I hope I’m wrong,’ Cavendish told him, ‘and I have no proof, but I know I’m right: the Americans are in it up to their necks.’

  ***

  Marcus was lying on his back with his hands behind his head looking up at the ceiling. He had been doing some thinking, and he wasn’t convinced that he was cut out for intelligence work. He seemed to have a habit of attracting violence and being forced to dish it out, when all he really wanted was a quiet life. The events twelve hours earlier had taught him a salutary lesson: people like Danny Grebo and his associates were to be avoided at all costs. But then, he reasoned, the world is full of people like that, and they encroach on your life whether you invite them to or not. In his case, Marcus had to accept that he had been largely responsible for his own demise, and it was this that made him decide to split from Cavendish.

  Marcus had reached that decision earlier, shortly after waking up in the holding cell in Thetford where they were keeping him. He had asked if he could make a phone call. The station officer had agreed, so Marcus phoned his father and asked for a lawyer to get down to the police station to get him out. He was sure there wouldn’t be a problem; not that he understood the law but he was fairly convinced the police couldn’t hold him without charge. He was sure the lawyer would post bail or whatever they do; get a magistrate or judge to sign some release papers. And bugger Cavendish, he thought resolutely, he could play his own silly games.

  He had had a wash and cleaned his teeth; toiletries provided by the station sergeant, and had a fairly decent breakfast. Lunch passed by as well, and so far no- one had come to see Marcus about the events of the night before. It was strange but perhaps there was a conflict between departments, he decided, and neither one had won the argument. He was sure Cavendish would have him out of the nick in two seconds, and he was equally sure that a normal police investigation would have him remanded for some time. So all he could do was wait.

  With nothing to do, Marcus began to think again of his decision to split from Cavendish. He also thought of Susan and her brother, David. Susan wanted nothing more than to see her brother free. When she had come to Marcus she only wondered if Davi
d was still alive. Now she knew because she had received a letter from him. That meant a line had been opened between David and Susan by whoever was keeping David prisoner.

  Marcus also began to think about Grebo and the whole American connection. Just how deep, he wondered were the American military involved. Afghanistan was not really Britain’s bag; more the Yanks. The kind of organisation Grebo was running, if he was running it, had to have some powerful backers. How else could Grebo make use of a bonded warehouse right under the noses of the American military?

  Marcus was reconsidering his options when he heard footsteps in the passageway. He swung his feet off the bed and sat up as a police sergeant, accompanied by a civilian appeared at the door of his cell.

  ‘Time to go, Blake,’ the sergeant sang out as he rattled the keys in the lock.

  Marcus jumped to his feet and stepped through the open door. He presumed it was the lawyer with the sergeant although he didn’t recognise him.

  ‘Hallo Marcus, I’m Covington. Your father sent me to get you out of here.’

  Marcus shook the lawyer’s hand thinking as he did that there was something odd in the way the lawyer had said ‘out of here’. It was more like ‘outta here’. He put it to the back of his mind and followed the lawyer to the desk where he had his personal effects returned and his release papers were signed.

  Marcus followed Covington out to the car park towards a black Mercedes parked in a visitor’s slot. Covington aimed the key fob at it and the hazard lights on the car flashed several times as the door locks were released.

  Covington turned to Marcus and smiled, gesturing to the passenger door on the far side. Marcus did as he was bid and climbed into the soft leather upholstery. Covington settled himself into the driver’s seat and gunned the motor into life.

  Reversing out of the parking slot, Covington swung the wheel effortlessly. Marcus immediately felt a familiar sensation as adrenalin began pumping into his system.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Marcus asked him.

  Covington turned and looked at Marcus. ‘We’re going to meet your father,’ he told him. He accelerated out of the car park and into the main high street. As he did, Covington reached forward and pressed a button on the dash. Marcus heard the sound of the door locks closing.

  They cleared Thetford within twenty minutes or so and were soon heading up the A134, passing through the amusingly named Two Mile Bottom. Marcus had no idea where they were going, but he knew he would have to come up with something if he wanted to see the rest of the day out.

  Suddenly Covington slowed and turned into a side road. About a mile or so later he pulled into a lay-by and stopped.

  He then turned to Marcus and was about to say something when Marcus hit him.

  Marcus knew there would almost certainly be a little preamble; something like ‘This is where you get off’, or ‘Get out of the car because I’m going to blow your brains out’. But whatever Marcus did, he had to make sure he did not give the man who called himself Covington an opportunity to kill him; because he knew that was the man’s intention.

  Marcus hit him again and again, pounding his fist into the side of Covington’s head until the bogus lawyer sagged unconscious into the seat.

  Marcus quickly removed his seat belt, reached forward and pressed the button to release the door locks and then looked out through the windows to see if there was anybody about.

  A car drove by fairly quickly, rocking the Mercedes. Once that had gone, Marcus got out and went round to the driver’s side. He released Covington’s seat belt and pulled him out of the car. Then he checked the road again to make sure it was clear and lifted him on to his shoulder, back heeled the door shut, then carried him into the woods lining the side of the road.

  Once clear of the road and out of sight, Marcus dropped Covington on to the ground and immediately searched through his pockets. He took his wallet and a Walther PPK hand gun. He left him there and went back to the Mercedes and settled himself into the car, switched on the ignition and started the motor. Then he glanced over at the trees where he had dumped Covington.

  ‘Sorry about this, Mister Covington,’ he shouted. ‘But I gotta get outta here!’

  He powered the Merc away. Ten minutes later Marcus pulled up beside a public phone box in the village of Munford and phoned his father.

  Sir Henry Blake answered the phone with little else on his mind other than what he and his wife Emily would be doing later in the day. It was one of the pleasantries of retirement, where one could make plans at one’s leisure. But there were times, naturally where circumstances tended to blunt even the most quiescent moments. And this was to be one.

  ‘Sir Henry Blake,’ he said as he pressed the phone to his ear.

  ‘Hallo Dad, Marcus here.’

  Blake’s eyes lit up as they often did when his son called. ‘Marcus, my dear boy, your free.’

  ‘Yes, but there’s a problem,’ Marcus told his father. ‘The man who came to get me out claimed to be Covington, your lawyer.’

  Blake nodded. ‘Yes, I sent him.’

  ‘It wasn’t your man. The guy who came here was an American, and he had no intention of letting me go free.’

  ‘What do you mean he had no intention of letting you go free? That’s the reason I sent him up there.’

  ‘Look Dad, I’m free, I’m ok, but I have to lie low for a while. I’ll explain later. But I think you need to check up on something.’

  ‘Marcus, you’re not making sense,’ Blake told him sternly. ‘What are you gabbling about?’

  ‘When did you speak to Covington?’ Marcus asked him.

  ‘Shortly after you rang, why?’

  ‘Well somehow, the Yanks intercepted Covington and sent one of their own men. And they could only have done that because they knew you had called him.’

  ‘What are you suggesting, Marcus?’ Blake had a feeling he wasn’t going to like what he was about to hear.

  ‘The Yanks must have a tap on your phone line; it’s the only way they could have known about Covington. I suggest you get in touch with Cavendish and nobody else. Tell him I’ve called and what has happened.’

  ‘I think this is preposterous,’ Blake replied strongly.

  ‘In that case Dad, phone your lawyer. I’ll be in touch.’

  The line went dead and left Blake staring into space. He replaced the handset and flicked open a phone book which lay on the table beside the phone. He found the number of his lawyer and dialled it. It was picked up within seconds.

  ‘Cope’s legal services. How may I help you?’

  ‘Judy, this is Sir Henry Blake. Can you put me in touch with John Covington?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Sir Henry, we have been trying to get in touch with Mister Covington on another matter, but he’s not answering his mobile. It’s most unusual for him not to answer. Perhaps he’s lost it, but we won’t know until he phones in. Is there something Mister Cope can help you with, Sir Henry?’

  Blake didn’t answer for a few seconds; his mind was beginning to move into overdrive.

  ‘Ah, no, no, thank you Judy,’ he said hurriedly. ‘Just ask Mister Covington to ring me as soon as you can. Thank you.’

  He put the phone down and his heart sank. Blake’s gut feeling was that Covington would not be getting in touch with his office or anybody else for that matter.

  Covington was almost certainly dead.

  FOURTEEN

  Danny Grebo had dumped the BMW in north London and walked through the streets until he came to an all-night taxi rank. Grebo’s knowledge of the city was scant so he simply asked the taxi driver to drop him off at Oxford Street. Once there, he made his way round to Grosvenor Square in sight of the American Embassy and located a public phone booth.

  The call he had to make could mean a way out of the jam he had got himself into. Any other option simply didn’t exist. Grebo knew he would be indicted for murder and almost certainly extradited to America because he had killed a serving, American military polic
eman. It meant the electric chair and that just didn’t bear thinking about. He was hoping that the man he was about to ring could get him into the American Embassy in the first instance. This would give him a relatively safe haven, providing none of the American authorities knew he was there, until it could be decided which would be the best way to get him out of the country.

  The ringing phone was answered fairly quickly.

  ‘John Deveraux.’

  ‘This is Grebo. Can you talk?’

  There was no reply for a couple of seconds. Then, ‘I think so; Marjorie is in the shower. What do you want?’

  ‘You know about last night?’

  ‘I didn’t get to bed until four o’clock this morning, thanks to you. Of course I know about last night.’ Deveraux sounded terse.

  ‘I need a way out, Commodore. You’re the only one who can help me.’

  ‘And what makes you think I can help you?’

  ‘The Chapter can,’ Grebo answered desperately. ‘Get them to me; they can get me out.’

  ‘They may not want to, Danny. After all, you’ve messed up big style.’

  ‘They’re my only chance Commodore. You’ve got to help me.’

  ‘You should have thought of that before you murdered one of our own men.’

  ‘I didn’t plan it that way, I swear.’

  ‘Planned or not, Grebo you killed one of our serving airmen. I think The Chapter will probably want to wash its hands of you from now on.’

  ‘Don’t let them do that sir. I need help and I need it bad. I’ve made a lot of money for those guys, including you. They owe me.’

  ‘Nobody owes you anything, Grebo. You’re the one who has come unstuck; nobody else. And why should they owe you?’

  Grebo could feel the sweat gathering round his neck. It was like a noose. ‘If I get picked up, the whole organisation could go to the wall. I know the names, places, everything. How long do you think it would take them to get all of that out of me? I know about rendition, commodore, and it ain’t nice.’