A Covert War Read online

  Danny Grebo was a naturalized American. His parents were Bosnian immigrants who had moved to America before the civil war broke out in Yugoslavia. Danny’s real name was Danvor, but the kids in his neighbourhood always called him Danny. The name had stuck, even though Danvor was the name he used when he joined the United States Air Force.

  Grebo was in logistics. It was not his choice of employment when he enlisted, but service in some of the hotspots of the world had taught him an invaluable lesson: good logistics was the key to a successful campaign. Whatever the guys up front wanted or needed, the people in logistics had to come up with it. And Grebo was good; so good he had made a substantial living out of supplying what was needed at the right time, legit or not.

  Grebo was a wealthy man, but most of his wealth was secreted in offshore banks in the Caribbean. It wouldn’t do for a non-com to show considerable wealth on a chief’s pay packet. He was due for release within six months and he intended moving up the ladder of the organisation and taking a more proactive role in it. For now he was a small, but important cog in a big chain and part of his role meant acting as a messenger from time to time. And that was his role for the present; to pass on a message to another important cog in the wheel.

  The man waiting for Danny Grebo was propping up the bar, his big fist wrapped round a bottle of Budweiser. He turned as Grebo walked in and straightened up.

  ‘Hey Danny!’

  Grebo winked at him. ‘Hey, Chuck.’

  They shook hands. Grebo asked the bartender for a Budweiser.

  When the bottle had been opened, but not poured because the Yanks couldn’t get used to the quaint idea of having their beer poured into a glass, Grebo and his companion adjourned to a table beside a window. There was a loud speaker above them with soft music burbling from it, mingling with the occasional roar of traffic in the High Street. His friend took a swig of beer and banged the bottle down on the table.

  ‘What’s the panic, Danny?’ he asked.

  His name was Dale Berry, and he and Grebo went back a long way. He was called Chuck after the sixties pop singer, Chuck Berry. He was in transport, but not motor vehicles. Chuck Berry flew; he was a Hercules pilot. He had been an F15 combat pilot, but an accident in the Iraq conflict had meant an enforced change for him and he had converted from single engines to the four engined Hercules.

  ‘We lost a guy,’ Grebo answered, and took a mouthful of beer. He belched and studied the label on the bottle for a moment. ‘I didn’t find out until yesterday.’

  ‘What happened?’

  Grebo glanced around the bar and then at Berry. ‘He disappeared, never came back.’

  ‘Did he do a runner?’

  Grebo shook his head and curled his lips. ‘Not this guy, he was making too good a living out of it.’ He shrugged. ‘I got word that the fucking ragheads have topped him.’

  Berry studied Grebo’s expression for a few seconds. His own was stern and thoughtful. ‘When did this happen?’ he asked.

  Grebo leaned forward and whispered through clenched teeth. ‘Two fucking months ago.’

  Berry knew better than to press Grebo on the details, but it was important to him, for his own sake that he knew why it had taken so long for the news to filter through.

  ‘Why did it take so long?’

  Grebo relaxed. ‘Diplomatic sources,’ he told Berry. It was a euphemism that Berry understood. He didn’t know who Grebo worked for directly, but he did know that Grebo was a small link in a very big chain, and it was these very senior people that Grebo was referring to as the diplomatic sources.

  ‘So what happens now?’

  Grebo took another pull at his beer. ‘They’re gonna try and smoke the raghead out. They’re gonna put a team in and they want you to do the drop.’

  Berry nodded thoughtfully, rolling the Budweiser in his hand and settled back in his chair. ‘What will be my cut?’

  Grebo shrugged. ‘The usual, but there’ll be no pick-up this time. That’s all I can tell you. But listen up; none of the team that go in knows of the connection between the raghead and the diplomats. By using you, we are keeping this in house. The drop has got to be right.’

  ‘What about getting them out?’ Berry asked, knowing that once the team had been parachuted in from the Hercules, they were no longer his responsibility.

  ‘Once the job is done, the team will be brought out by helicopter.’

  Berry understood the reasoning behind the decision to get him to fly the Hercules transport. He was due to begin another tour of duty in Afghanistan the following week at the American military base at Khost, and he was one of the very few men who were part of a highly secret cartel who owed little allegiance to their flag. There had been times before when he had flown a covert mission to extract a live cargo, but the live cargo had always been women and children and he had never flown them to any allied air force base but always to a remote strip somewhere near the Turkmenistan border, in the north west of Afghanistan. For that he had always been paid a handsome sum. And he had never questioned the morals or ethics of what he was doing.

  ***

  Marcus picked up the phone and dialled the Foreign and Commonwealth Office. There was very little delay when a charming, female voice told him that he had reached the Foreign and Commonwealth Office and how could she help him?

  ‘Could you put me through to Mister Cavendish, please?’

  ‘One moment, sir. Who may I say is calling?’

  ‘Marcus Blake.’

  ‘Thank you Mister Blake.’

  Marcus relaxed and gazed around the impoverished walls of his office, rattling the tips of his fingers on the desk top while the music played softly in his earpiece.

  The music stopped and the operator came back on the line.

  ‘Mister Blake, I’m sorry, but there is no-one of that name here at the Foreign Office.’

  Marcus sat upright. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked without thinking.

  ‘Yes sir; I have just checked the computer directory of employees here and there is no-one listed under the name of Cavendish.’

  ‘Oh.’ It was all he could think of saying at that moment. Then, ‘Oh well, thank you anyway.’

  ‘Thank you sir.’ The phone went dead.

  Marcus put the phone back in its cradle. He sat like that for a while, his hand still lying on it and began to think of those points he had written while doodling and listening to Susan Ellis.

  Cavendish. There had been something puzzling him about the man. When Susan Ellis told Marcus about her brief encounter with him, she had told him that she didn’t have Cavendish’s phone number and that she couldn’t call him back because his number had been withheld.

  It was also odd that he seemed to know her the moment she walked into Starbucks, although that in itself was not significant. But the nonsense about the diplomatic bag was stretching things a bit, Marcus thought. His father had worked for the diplomatic Corps all his life and Marcus wondered how much credence he would put in a story like that. He picked up the phone, hit the speed dial and waited. A minute later his father came on the line.

  ‘Sir Henry Blake.’

  Marcus chuckled. His father always answered the phone so that he sounded as though he was looking down his nose at the caller.

  ‘Hallo Dad, its Marcus.’

  He sensed, rather than heard his father pull away from the phone.

  ‘Emily, do we know anybody called Marcus?’

  Marcus rolled his eyes and waited. Then he heard his mother’s shout of joy in the background and the click of the phone extension as she picked it up.

  ‘Marcus, how lovely to hear from you. It’s been ages since you last called.’

  ‘A month, mother.’

  ‘Four months, Marcus.’

  Marcus contested that. ‘Well, maybe three.’

  ‘How are you Marcus? Are you keeping well? When are you going to visit us? Your father and I would love to see you.’ Marcus just kept nodding. ‘And are you still working?’


  ‘Yes to all that, mother,’ Marcus butted in. He loved his mother dearly but she wouldn’t stop if he didn’t say anything. ‘Now, can I speak to Dad, please?’

  ‘I’m still here Marcus, as always.’

  ‘I know, Dad. Now look, I need a favour.’

  His father made some kind of grunting sound down the phone. ‘Trouble with that escort agency of yours, is that it? Not enough Z list clients?’

  Marcus banged his eyes. ‘Dad, I do not run an escort agency. I provide minders for important people.’

  ‘And how many minders do you have on your books?’ his father asked.

  ‘Well, it’s mainly me,’ he admitted. ‘But I do have men I can call on.’

  ‘As I thought; you’re sitting on your backside all day pretending you’re a big operator in the City. Why don’t you come home and get a proper job?’

  ‘I don’t need one, Dad; I’m happy and have enough money to keep my head above water.’

  ‘Your grandmother’s inheritance? Thought you would have blown that by now.’

  Marcus had been left a generous annuity by his grandmother, part of which he had carefully reinvested and was now more than just comfortable.

  ‘So what do you need me for?’ his father asked.

  ‘Do you know anybody by the name of Cavendish?’ Marcus asked him. ‘A guy probably your age, may have gone to public school, University. Might have been in the military. Member of one of your clubs, perhaps?’

  ‘Hmmm. The sound rolled down the phone line. ‘I knew a Cavendish at Westminster. Went into the City, I think.’

  There was silence for a while and Marcus knew his father was thinking. It was a positive sign because his father would never dwell on something that he knew he couldn’t possibly recall, so this was promising.

  ‘Of course,’ he father said suddenly. ‘I met a Cavendish a few years ago in Hong Kong, Something to do with military intelligence. It wasn’t the Cavendish I knew at school, but I do remember when I met this chap I asked him if we were at school together. He must have thought I’d lost my marbles.’

  Marcus clenched a fist and gently punched the air. His father went on.

  ‘So yes, I do know a Cavendish, but if he’s your man, he doesn’t know me. Well, maybe he does. If he’s in Intelligence he’ll know every bloody diplomat going. Does that answer your question dear boy?’

  Marcus nodded. ‘You’re a diamond dad, thanks a million.’

  ‘Wait, wait!’ his father called down the phone. ‘Don’t think I’m letting you off the hook that easy. Now, your mother and I want you to come up for a day or two. Can you pull yourself away from your not so busy schedule to see us?’

  ‘Tell you what, Dad,’ Marcus began, trying to come up with all kinds of imaginative reasons for delaying the inevitable. ‘Let me run this Cavendish bloke down and I’ll get back to you.’

  ‘Marcus.’ This was his mother. ‘Your father is talking about Sir Giles Cavendish. We met him at the handing over ceremony in Hong Kong. I think he was rather taken with me, but your father saw him off. Spoil sport,’ she added with a chuckle.

  ‘Take no notice, Marcus,’ his father urged him. ‘And be sure to come up here and see us.’

  ‘I will, Dad. Promise. Love you both!’ He put the phone down and leapt out of the chair. ‘Yes!’ he shouted. ‘A result.’

  FOUR

  The Mercedes rolled smoothly to a stop outside one of the large residences in a leafy avenue in St. John’s Wood in London. It was almost midnight and the occupants of the car could not be seen through the blackened windows. There were a few lights showing from the windows of other houses in the road, but not enough to deter the man who stepped from the car.

  He was wearing a long, black overcoat with the collar turned up. He had sunglasses on despite the darkness and was also wearing a fedora hat, pulled down low to avoid recognition. The driver of the car had opened the door for the passenger and, now that the man had gone through the pedestrian gate and was striding up the path towards the house, he closed the car door and slipped his baulk effortlessly into the driver’s seat and moved the car away from the kerb.

  The passenger reached the door of the house which was opened for him without the need for him to announce his presence, and he stepped inside where he stood quite still while another man patted him down, searching him for weapons.

  Once the procedure was completed, he was shown through a door into a large drawing room where two other men were seated. The lighting in the room was subdued, but this was used to create shadows in which the two men were sitting and where the third man now joined them.

  Once the trio had nodded there introductions, none of which were necessary or even allowed, another door opened and three young girls were brought in through the open doorway. They were all dressed with very little clothing, and what they were wearing was carefully arranged to leave very little to the imagination.

  A brutish looking man followed the girls into the room and closed the door behind him. He was dressed completely in black and wore no jewellery. He wore his hair close cropped, rather like the style favoured by American servicemen, but he wasn’t anything of the kind; his name was Milan Janov, cousin of Danny Grebo.

  Janov was carrying three folders and he handed one to each of the men sitting in the room. He gave them time to browse through the folders until he was satisfied that they were aware of what they contained. Despite the shadows, the men had no difficulty in picking out the inventory of weapons that were printed therein.

  ‘Do you have any observations?’ he asked the men once they had finished looking through the folders.

  It was the man who had been a passenger in the Mercedes who answered first.

  ‘Do they speak English?’ he asked, nodding towards the girls.

  ‘Simple words,’ he said, shaking his head, ‘but not enough to understand a conversation.’ He looked at the girls who were standing forlornly in the line, and smiled knowingly. ‘But they will soon understand the words you will need to encourage them.’

  ‘Are they virgins?’ the man asked.

  Janov nodded emphatically. ‘Yes. I would not offer you anything less. Once you have finished with them, they can go into the system.’

  ‘If there is anything left of them worth keeping,’ one of the men said. They all laughed; the man who had made the remark was well known for his sadism.

  ‘The list,’ the passenger said, raising the folder. ‘It is comprehensive, but fairly simple. When would you expect delivery?’

  Janov stepped forward so that his face came into the shadows. ‘As always you will be given ample time to get the weapons together. I expect you to deliver within two weeks. They must be in the warehouse by then.’

  ‘What about the other merchandise?’ one of the men asked.

  Janov turned his head away in a quick movement. ‘It is waiting for you and will be handed over once you have confirmed you have the weapons. Agreed?’

  They all nodded their acceptance of what was a very simple contract and made by men of honour; if that was the right word to describe men who held positions of immense power in their respective fields.

  ‘Good,’ Janov said with satisfaction. ‘Now, you can take the girls upstairs. There are drinks in the room and the usual equipment. I will give you two hours. The room is well soundproofed, so go upstairs and enjoy yourselves.’

  The three men stood up with smiles beginning to gather on their faces and followed Janov who was leading the three girls from the room. And at that point, the three young teenagers had no idea exactly what was waiting for them in that room upstairs.

  ***

  Marcus saw the punch coming and turned inside his opponent’s swinging arm, bringing his elbow snapping into the man’s rib cage. But the jab did not affect his opponent because he brought his knee up and drove it into Marcus’s thigh. Marcus yelled and jumped back, then spun and lifted his leg to kick out at the man’s face. All this succeeded in doing was to unbalance him
slightly. This gave his opponent an opportunity to drive forward as Marcus struggled to regain any momentum. The blow to Marcus’s face was not unexpected, but he was able to deflect most of the effect by lifting his forearm and grabbing the man’s wrist. He pushed it away and dived underneath the upraised arm, spun and kicked the man sharply in the rib cage. The man winced and Marcus seized the moment and drove his fist into the man’s side. The man collapsed on to the floor, then spun like a street dancer. His rotating legs caught Marcus across the ankle and whipped his legs from beneath him. Marcus went down, flat on his back. His opponent leapt up and pounced, driving his knee into Marcus’s chest and pushing a hand down hard on to his throat.

  ‘You lose, Marcus,’ he declared triumphantly. ‘Now you’ve got to buy me lunch’

  ‘Sod you, Maggot,’ Marcus cried and tried to wriggle free as his opponent eased the pressure on his throat. ‘You always seem to get the better of me.’

  Maggot laughed and stood up, hauling Marcus up with him. ‘That’s because you don’t try,’ he told him as he slipped off his protective headgear. ‘You know, Marcus, you would be so much better if you bloody concentrated.’

  Marcus got to his feet. ‘I let you win, anyway,’ he joked. ‘It’s the only way to stop you moaning all week.’ He pulled off his headgear and followed Maggot across the gymnasium floor to where their towels were hanging from coat hooks.

  ‘So, where do you want to go for lunch?’ Marcus asked his friend, ‘MacDonald’s?’

  ‘Now, now,’ Maggot complained. ‘You know I’m a vegetarian. I don’t eat meat.’

  ‘That settles it then,’ Marcus answered, ‘we’ll go to Dimitri’s Burger Bar.’

  Maggot flicked him with his towel. ‘Bloody cheek,’ he said. ‘Next time I beat you up; I’ll do it for real.’

  Marcus had known Maggot for years. Nobody knew how he came by the name because his real name was Rafiq Shah. His mother and father were from the remote region of northern Pakistan. They came from the small town of Beraul Bandal, about ten miles from the Afghanistan border and had arrived in England as working doctors when Maggot was an infant. Marcus had met Maggot at University. They struck up an instant friendship and took up martial arts together. Maggot said it was because he wanted to compensate for his naturally slight frame, while Marcus took the sport up because Maggot had persuaded him to.