A Covert War (21 page)

‘I won’t be able to do anything if Immigration stops him at Heathrow,’ Faulkner told him. ‘Probably better if they do stop him and send him home.’

Hudson laughed lightly. ‘Well, we’ll let him have his moment if he does get in. But I suspect there’s another reason for his visit.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Look, James, I really have to go. I’ll catch up with you later.’

Faulkner drained his glass and stood up. ‘OK Randy let me know if anything develops.’

Hudson stood up and shook Faulkner’s hand. ‘Deveraux has already had to close the operation down,’ he said, ‘For now anyway. It might mean I’ll have to make a trip back to the States for a while, but I’ll let you know.’

‘Thanks Randy, keep in touch.’

And with that the two men went their separate ways.

***

Cavendish had kept Marcus under virtual house arrest for a couple of days. He had taken him from Susan’s house and made sure there was no way he could disappear again. During that time he did his best to debrief Marcus and find out as much as he could about the events that had happened while Marcus had been operating unofficially.

Marcus had told Cavendish as much as he could, even to the extent that he believed the police would find the gun that killed Covington in the Mercedes he had dumped at the truck stop.

He also told Cavendish about the killer’s house and, most painfully of all, the fact that he now believed Maggot was a hit man for the organisation that were smuggling drugs into Britain.

What Cavendish told Marcus was that there was a growing conviction that the CIA were running the organisation and smuggling arms out to Afghanistan to keep the insurgent war lords happy and to maintain a constant supply of heroin into the West. He told Marcus that the heroin trade world-wide was worth in the region of 120 billion dollars a year, and that a great deal of money was going into the pockets of people in very senior positions of authority.

‘And remember this, Marcus,’ Cavendish added at the end of one of his short lectures. ‘They have killed a Cabinet minister, a high flying lawyer and one of their own, key men in order to maintain a very lucrative business. And they would have killed me if you hadn’t intervened.’

‘And they have tried to kill me,’ Marcus mentioned.

Covington almost smiled. ‘Yes, you annoy them, and they spoil your day anyway, so both of you had better watch out.’

For the moment, Marcus failed to see the rejoinder. He was thinking instead of why he was this far in.

‘Is there going to be any end to this, Sir Giles?’ he asked.

Cavendish nodded firmly. ‘Mark my words, Marcus; it will end. One way or the other,’ he added ominously.

***

Milan Janov flew into London and waltzed through Immigration at Heathrow with his false passport. He was met by an inconsequential looking youth and immediately taken by car to an address in north London. He was dropped off at the house with his overnight bag and left standing at the front door of the house as the car disappeared into the late evening.

Janov waited no more than a few moments before the door was opened and he was taken into a room at the rear of the house. Waiting there for him was Randy Hudson, CIA Station Chief in Britain.

Janov was not used to travelling without minders but his instructions had been explicit, and only by travelling under an assumed name and with a false passport could he be sure of getting into Britain without the security people showing an interest in him and sending him packing.

A meal had been prepared for him, which he ate while discussing events with Hudson.

‘Have you found the people who murdered my cousin?’ Janov asked through a mouthful of food.

‘We’ve no idea who killed your cousin,’ Hudson lied, shaking his head. ‘But we will eventually, I’m sure.’

‘What happened to the arms shipment?’ Janov asked, shovelling another mouthful in. ‘My man has told me that it did not arrive at Felixstowe docks as expected. If I do not get the goods, I cannot do business.’

Hudson explained the predicament that faced the organisation. ‘It was not of our choosing. And I have to say that your cousin acted like a damn fool.’

Janov stopped eating immediately and looked across the table with venom in his eyes. Then he shrugged and carried on eating.

‘He was a damn fool to get himself killed,’ he spluttered through a mouthful of food. ‘But it could happen to any one of us; it is a dangerous business. Now, what about the arms shipment?’

‘There will be no shipment,’ Hudson told him. ‘The United States Air Force has placed the warehouse off limits until their investigation is complete.’

‘Are the goods still in the warehouse?’ Janov asked him.

‘Yes, but they had been sealed by the Customs and Excise at the docks, and for that reason the Air Force investigators have no reason to want to see into them. Yet, he added.’

‘That is good.’ He shoved his plate aside. ‘So what is the reason given for the shooting at the warehouse?’

‘No reason is being given,’ Hudson told him. ‘But the real reason is that a security agent had been following your cousin, and this caused him a problem.’

‘Danny?’

Hudson nodded. ‘Yes.’

Janov gave this some thought for a while. Then he got up from the table and walked over to a worktop and picked up a bottle of
Slivovic
, a plum brandy that Hudson knew Janov was partial to. He poured a generous measure into a glass and drank it down. Then he poured another and came back to the table.

‘I want another team put in to take care of Abdul,’ he told Hudson.

The CIA man was surprised by Janov’s sudden request. ‘Why couldn’t you take care of him yourself?’ he asked reasonably.

Janov swirled a mouthful of
Slivovic
around his gums before swallowing the brandy. ‘It has to look like an American or British action,’ he told Hudson. ‘It is the only way I can persuade the farmers that I am not a threat to them. If I kill Abdul, they will know and this will scare them off; it will drive them into the arms of the Taliban.’ He finished his brandy. ‘And I’m sure the organisation would not want that.’

‘I will need to talk to someone,’ Hudson warned him. ‘It isn’t something I can do at the drop of a hat. And it costs.’

Janov dipped his head sharply. ‘I will pay.’

Hudson looked impressed; it meant that Janov saw the financing of a hit team to take out Abdul Khaliq was a good investment.

‘The Chapter will still have to authorise it,’ Hudson told him.

‘They are good businessmen,’ Janov replied. ‘They understand profit and loss, and who is making too much profit. They will authorise it.’

‘In that case,’ Hudson said, getting to his feet, ‘I will make a few phone calls and see you back here tomorrow. If you want anything, one of my men will be here until you leave. But remember; the operation has been closed down until further notice. Goodnight Janov.’

After Hudson had left the house, Janov had a shower and got into a change of clothes. He then asked Hudson’s man to order a taxi. When it arrived he asked the driver to take him to a club in West London.

The club was a popular meeting place for Slovaks and other Eastern Europeans. There were other clubs scattered around and the air was heavy with the tortured vowel sounds of a mixture of mid European languages. It was one of Janov’s favourite places whenever he visited London; it was here at this particular club where some of the girls that the organisation provided could be found. Janov’s particular passion was for the young, Pakistani girls provided unwittingly by the Mission in Jalalabad.

But before entering the club, Janov found a phone box and made a call. Then he walked back to the club entrance and introduced himself to one of the security guards who took Janov inside and handed him over to another member of the staff.

The call Janov had made was to a member of the organisation who he knew would call the club and ask them to let Janov in.

Janov stepped inside and looked around at the décor that seemed to swamp the interior. It was a mix of red velvet, draped curtains, cord edged sofas and chairs. Heavy, dark tables each with a small lampshade in the centre. The dance floor was carpet free and covered in parquet wood. Screens hid the toilet doors and one other door that led to the rooms upstairs.

He was taken to a small, unoccupied corner table, which he guessed had been cleared for him and asked what he would like to drink. He ordered a Pilsner Urquell; the most widely exported Czech beer and sat back to enjoy the music, the dancing and to think of what he might do later with one of the girls in the upper rooms.

There was an unmistakeable hint of cannabis smoke in the air, which helped to relax Janov. He finished his pilsner and ordered another, checked his watch and wondered how long he would have to wait until the man who he had phoned showed up. Although the CIA chief told Janov he would need to get authorisation from The Chapter to send a small team into Afghanistan to take out Abdul, Janov knew that this man would almost certainly lead it.

The double doors on the opposite side of the club opened and the man Janov had been phoned came in. He spoke to a security guard who pointed across the floor to Janov. The man nodded his head and walked over to Janov’s table. Janov stood up and shook his hand

‘Hallo Janov.’

Janov smiled warmly. ‘Greetings Rafiq, my friend, it is so good to see you.’

It was Maggot.

***

Cavendish sat in the darkened room watching the screen in front of him. He was looking at a film recording of the CIA chief, Hudson meeting with the SOCA chief, Faulkner. They were sitting in the beer garden of the riverside pub where they had met the day before. The camera used to film them had been positioned on the other side of the river, using a high powered, telescopic lens.

Despite the quality of the camera and the reasonable conditions in which the two men had been filmed, the pictures were slightly grainy, and for the man sitting with Cavendish, a little tricky to follow. He was a lip reader, and Cavendish had called him in to interpret what the two men had been talking about.

They had watched the footage once already and were now about to go through it again. One of the problems the lip reader had besides the grainy images was the fact that Faulkner would keep lifting his hand across his mouth and so giving the lip reader nothing to read.

‘…..give you anything new,’ the lip reader began. His words were being recorded as he read what he could understand. ‘…..gunfight at the OK…..,your country….press…..any contingency plan…Milan Janov….tomorrow.’ There was a brief silence. ‘….we are going to replace Grebo…fill that gap.’ Silence again. ‘…I won’t be….immigration stops…..send him home…’ Another pause. ‘…..have to go….. Deveraux to close…..trip back to the states…’ He stopped and sat up.

‘I’m afraid that’s it, Sir Giles,’ the lip reader told Cavendish. ‘Very difficult to follow the patterns: too grainy and too much hand movement.’

Cavendish got up and switched on the lights. ‘That’s fine. I’ll send a copy of what you’ve managed so far and then you can look at the tape a few more times; see if you can fill in any gaps.’

The lip reader stopped the DVD player. ‘I’ll be off then, Sir Giles. Hope there’s enough for you to go on.’

Cavendish nodded. ‘Couple of things,’ he answered non-comittally. ‘And thanks again.’

Cavendish sat alone in his office after the lip reader had left wondering what his next move was going to be. He had little scope to fill the investigation with countless agents working to ferret out information that was more or less well known to him but of which he had no proof, because of limited funding; a burden all governments departments had to live with, and the fact that all avenues out of his office seemed to come up against people in authority who were in the pay of the organisation known as The Chapter.

Cavendish had penetrated The Chapter with an agent working undercover, right in the heart of the organisation’s clearing centre in Jalalabad, in the Mission; but the agent’s identity had been discovered by the organisation.

His second agent David Ellis, who had gathered valuable intelligence, was now in captivity, a hostage, and it was this fact that was beginning to puzzle Cavendish. Ellis had been shot and almost killed, but had been snatched from the hospital, only to resurface almost a year later. Contact had been made with Ellis’s sister from an unknown source. At first Cavendish could not set too much store in that first packet of grubby pages that had turned up. But the second, the letter which was now in Susan Ellis’s possession was the more puzzling; why had it been sent, and by whom?

With today’s internet technology, he knew it wouldn’t be beyond the wit of the kidnappers to put a video on the web and read out their demands with David Ellis sitting forlornly in the foreground. But that wasn’t the case, which led Cavendish to believe that whoever was holding Ellis hostage either wouldn’t or couldn’t resort to that tactic. Why?

Could it be, he wondered, that the kidnapper was afraid of revealing his or her identity? The kidnapper had nothing to fear from the British authorities; rather the opposite; the British would gladly take Ellis off the kidnapper’s hands for nothing. So the kidnapper must have something to fear from his own side.

A picture was beginning to emerge in Cavendish’s mind. The Chapter had proved how ruthless they were when it came to dispatching men who posed a threat to them. People like James Purdy, the Cabinet Minister, or Danvor Grebo; one of their own.

It meant that if the kidnapper was a member of The Chapter, part of the drug and arms smuggling cartel Cavendish was trying to penetrate and smash, he would have every reason to fear for his life.

He wanted to talk! That was it; it had to be the reason Susan had received the second letter. But how on earth was Cavendish supposed to unearth the person who wanted to make contact without advertising the fact, and putting that man or woman’s life in danger, and that of David Ellis?

It was something he had to think about, but an idea began to germinate in his mind and he wondered if he might be able to pull it off.