A Covert War

NINE

Susan Ellis was beginning to regret not keeping in touch with Marcus. Although he had frightened the life out of her the night he fought with the two knife wielding thugs, she wondered if she had over-reacted to his show of inherent violence. She had made the decision that night, and told Marcus so, that she did not want to see him again. Marcus had been visibly disappointed, and she thought it was rather sweet of him to show that disappointment. But her mind was made up and she had been determined to display her own feminine character and individuality by refusing to see him again. She had been kind to Marcus and had let him down gently, but he had left her at her front door looking rather disconsolate.

The doubts had set in within twenty four hours. Marcus was such a warm and generous person; a fun guy to be with. And she had been drawn to him the moment she saw him in his office. She had tried to put him out of her mind, trying to add determination to the effort. And then something happened that blew her plans out of the water: she had received a letter from her brother.

She found the letter on the mat as she opened the front door of the house. Normally all mail was sorted by the tenants, there were only four of them, into neat little personal piles that lay on a convenient table in the hallway. But this letter had no stamp, which meant it had been delivered by hand, probably while none of the tenants were in, which was why Susan found it there when she arrived home.

Now Susan was standing at the entrance to Guard Right Security at Oliver’s Yard, the letter from her brother in her handbag, wondering if she should resurrect her brief encounter with Marcus.

She pushed open the door and stepped into the hallway. Immediately she sensed that there was something different about the place. There was no longer the musty smell she had noticed on her first visit to Marcus’s office. Now it was as though a cleaner had been in to clean up and used a lot of disinfectant because there was a hint of it in the air.

She let the door swing closed behind her, its hinges groaning noisily. She stepped on to the first step, which creaked as her weight came to bear on it. Something teased at her senses and she felt a little uncomfortable as she climbed the stairs, one at a time.

She kept looking up towards the opaque window on the door at the top of the stairs. It still bore the legend ‘Guard Right Security’ and naturally, Susan expected no less.

But there was still a sense of something being wrong. Susan told herself to stop being silly and shook herself. Then she breathed in deeply and held herself upright as she reached the top step.

She gripped the handle of the door and pushed it down gently. The door gave to the pressure and swung open. Susan stepped into Marcus’s office and stopped abruptly. There was nothing there.

Susan felt herself going weak at the knees and thought she was going to faint. But what she could see, or couldn’t see for that matter was the fact that Marcus’s office had been completely stripped. There was no furniture, nothing on the floor, nothing on the walls, no grubby tea towel tossed on to a dirty draining board. There were no cups, no kettle, no coffee and no milk; but still the slight odour of disinfectant.

Susan stood perfectly still for several seconds, feeling a little scared. It wasn’t for herself, but for Marcus.

And then a voice said, ‘Who are you?’

Marcus had concealed himself on the edge of a small copse of silver birch trees that overlooked the house. He had been there for three hours now, since dawn, and had kept as still as he could while he peered down at the property through the binoculars he had borrowed from his father, his bird watching binoculars.

Marcus had plagued the life out of his father to come up with another favour, much to his disquiet. What Marcus had asked his father to do was to help him trace the Mercedes that had been used by the men who had tried to kill Cavendish. His father had ruled it out of the question when Marcus had first asked him, but eventually he was able to persuade his dad that he would not ask him for any more favours. He said nothing of what had happened.

Henry Blake still had contacts within the Diplomatic Corps and the Foreign Office, and it wasn’t unusual for people within that clique to ask for favours in return for favours previously rendered. Blake asked one of his ex-colleagues in the Foreign Office to run a check on a licence plate. The description of the car matched that which Marcus had seen, and the address at which it was registered was in Suffolk.

Marcus had travelled up to his father’s home by train and found himself in need of a car, so he had borrowed one of his father’s collection of ‘runabouts’ as his dad liked to call them. But rather than use one of the more upmarket models, Marcus had taken a Ford Focus. He did this deliberately because he wanted to preserve a sense of anonymity.

He located the house on Google search and drove to the village of Elveden, close to Thetford Forest. The house was about a mile or so from the village on the Thetford Road. Marcus drove past it a few times before deciding to drive into Thetford and find a pub where he could have a meal and a room for the night.

The following morning, Marcus drove to a small, supermarket car park and left his car there. Then he used the cover of Elveden forest and walked to the area where he was concealed now, in the copse of Silver Birch trees.

Marcus couldn’t see the Mercedes there, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t; it could have been inside one of the two garages Marcus could see in the grounds of the house. But what intrigued him was the fact that there was a Dodge pick-up truck in USAF colours parked out front. And shortly after making himself comfortable, Marcus had seen an American airman come out of the house and climb into the truck. The airman had driven away from the house and taken the road to Barton Mills, in the direction of the American base at Lakenheath.

Marcus turned his attention back to the front door of the house. It was set deep into a portico type entrance with columns either side. It meant that the main door was set back from the lip of the porch by about five feet. It also meant that anybody who called at the front door would be virtually unseen from the road. He gave it some considerable thought and filed it away in his memory bank.

About an hour after the airman had left the house, one of the garage doors swung open. Marcus focussed his binoculars on to the door as a Volvo Estate was driven out of the garage by a woman. The garage door closed behind her as she swept out of the drive and on to the road to Thetford.

Marcus spent the next three hours monitoring the house, but all that happened was the woman returned, the garage door swung up and over and the Volvo disappeared into the garage. The door closed again and this gave Marcus the beginning of an idea. All he needed was the balls to carry it out, but it meant waiting until he was confident he would be undisturbed, and that his estimation of what he had seen meant he had a good chance of carrying it off.

Susan almost leapt out of her skin when Maggot spoke to her. Because her mind had been drawn to the unexpected emptiness of Marcus’s office, she hadn’t seen him. He was standing by the door that led into a small toilet. He had been on the point of opening it when he heard Susan open the main door. And when he spoke to her she visibly jumped.

‘Oh my goodness,’ Susan cried putting her hand to her mouth. ‘You frightened the life out of me.’

Maggot apologised. ‘I’m sorry, but if I had said nothing, you would still have jumped when you turned round.’

Susan looked at the stranger. She guessed he was from India or Pakistan although he spoke excellent English.

‘What are you doing here?’ she asked him.

Maggot shrugged. ‘I could ask you the same thing,’ he pointed out.

‘I’m a client of Marcus Blake,’ she told him.

Maggot tipped his head back as something dawned on him. ‘I see; you must be Susan Ellis then.’

Susan was surprised that the stranger knew her name. ‘How did you know that?’ she stabbed at him. Doesn’t Marcus understand client confidentiality?’

He smiled at her. ‘Marcus mentioned that you are no longer a client; that is why I know who you are.’

‘Well client or not, I am here to see Marcus.’

He made a sweeping gesture with his hand. ‘But, as you can see, Marcus is no longer here.’

Susan looked round the empty room as though it might make some difference and Marcus would suddenly appear.

‘Are you his business partner or something?’ she asked.

Maggot shook his head. ‘No, I am just a friend. The only one in the whole of London, I think.’

‘Well where is he? Has he moved or something?’ she demanded to know.

He pursed his lips and gave a little shake of his head. ‘I’ve no idea. But why don’t you and I go and find a coffee shop and we can talk about what we know and what we may be able to find out?’

Susan agreed because it seemed so silly the two of them standing there face to face in an empty room. He was still holding his hands out, palms uppermost, and as he relaxed and dropped his hands to his sides, Susan noticed they were heavily calloused, and the little finger on one hand was missing.

That evening Marcus went back to Thetford; different pub, different meal. Before choosing the pub, Marcus bought a Maglite torch in the supermarket where he had parked his car. Once he had fed and watered himself, Marcus drove back to the house and parked his car in a lay-by a short distance away, locked it and made his way through the edge of the forest to continue his watch.

As darkness closed in and the temperature fell, Marcus decided to get closer to the house. He knew he would have to be alert for any kind of alarm system there might be, or even dogs.

There was very little in the way of security around the perimeter; simply a stout wall made from Norfolk stone. It was a little higher than six feet, but it proved no obstacle for Marcus, and as he landed on his feet inside the rear garden, he dropped flat and lay still.

He heard no alarms ringing and no dogs barking, so after five minutes he ventured closer until he was up against the outside wall of the double garage. He was about to edge round the front of the garage when he heard the sound of a car pulling into the drive. Its wheels crunched across the gravel and it stopped outside the front door.

Immediately, the front door opened and the man who Marcus had seen earlier that day in uniform came out of the house. He greeted the man who was climbing out of the driver’s side of the car and they both turned and went inside.

As soon as they had disappeared, Marcus ran across to the car and peered through the windows to make sure the car was empty. He had noticed that the driver hadn’t bothered to lock the car, probably comfortable with the idea that while it was on the premises, it was safe, or he had simply forgot.

He eased the car door open and, using the small Maglite torch he had purchased from the supermarket, began checking through the glove box and under the seats to locate the car’s documents. He pulled out a plastic folder from beneath the passenger seat. Flipping it open he saw the certificate of insurance and other sundry paperwork. He slipped the certificate into his pocket, put the wallet back beneath the passenger seat and went back to the far wall of the garage.

Marcus began to consider his next move. He had no way of knowing if the visitor to the house was simply a family friend or someone who was in league with the American who lived there. At the same time, he still didn’t know if the Mercedes used in the attempted hit on Cavendish was actually in the garage or not, and he had to find out. He did think about following the visitor once he had left the house, but with the man’s car insurance certificate in his pocket, there was no need for that. So he decided to wait until the visitor left and then he would go back to Thetford, stay the night and come back to the little copse of trees in the morning.

Just then Marcus heard the sound of a door closing somewhere. He realised it was coming from inside the garage, so was almost certainly the internal door. He heard the muffled sound of a car starting and then a slight squeal as one of the garage doors began to open.

Marcus hoped it might be the Mercedes, but instead it was the Volvo, and it was the same woman he had seen that morning who was driving. She roared out of the garage and disappeared down the drive. Marcus seized his chance and ran into the garage as the automatic door began its slow drop until it was closed.

He pulled the Maglite out of his pocket and switched it on. The Mercedes was there. He checked the licence plate; it was the same one. He then tried the passenger door and found it was open. He began searching for the car documents and eventually learned that the car was registered to one Danvor Grebo. His occupation was given as ‘Airman, USAF’.

He put the paperwork back and began a cursory check around the garage. His torch beam fell on the internal door, and immediately Marcus thought it might be a good opportunity to get into the house unseen and undetected.

He tried the door, turning the handle very slowly and felt it give until the catch was free of the striker plate. He eased the door open and found he was looking into a utility room. He could see a washing machine, tumble drier and a hot water boiler. There were a lot of boots and shoes lying about around the edges of the floor, golf clubs, a golf trolley and a great deal of impedimenta one would expect to find in a utility room. Hanging up with the other outdoor clothes was also an American Air Force uniform jacket and top coat.

Marcus crossed the room and gently opened the far door, which led into a kitchen. He could now hear voices that sounded like the two men. He walked across the kitchen floor and stopped beside the work surface by a serving hatch. He could hear them quite plainly. The visitor was American.

He stood by the hatch for about ten minutes, listening to what could only be described as desultory conversation. Then he heard the sound of someone getting out of a chair and Marcus immediately went back to the internal door to the garage and pulled it closed behind him. As he did so, the kitchen light came on and he heard someone moving around there, probably getting a drink or something.

He then heard the sound of the kitchen hatch being opened and a voice said, ‘When is the shipment due in?’

A voice from the lounge came back. ‘Couple of days, Kings Lynn Docks. It’s quiet there; not a lot of traffic and we have the right customs man on that night.’

‘What’s the return?’

‘Couple of crate loads; semi automatics, RPG’s. Fairly low grade stuff. Shouldn’t give you too much trouble Danny, shipping that lot out.’

‘Where is it?’

‘In the warehouse at Feltwell.’

Marcus heard the man in the kitchen, who he presumed was Danny Grebo make some kind of comment as he went back to his companion in the lounge.

Marcus crept back into the kitchen. Grebo had left the hatch open.

‘Who’s handling the exchange?’ Marcus heard Grebo ask.

‘Station Chief.’

Marcus peered carefully through the hatch, taking care not to let himself be seen. He kept himself to one side and was able to see the back of Grebo’s visitor.

The two men started laughing at a remark one of the men had made that Marcus had not heard. Grebo stopped suddenly as though he had seen or heard something. Then he shook his head and carried on talking to his visitor.

Marcus decided it was time to get out, but how? The garage was now a cul-de-sac. He looked through the open, kitchen door along the passageway that led to the front door of the house. He could see from his vantage point that the door into the lounge was closed. This meant that Marcus could get to the front door without being seen and, with luck could get out of the house with the two men being none the wiser.

He made his way down to the door that opened on to the entrance lobby. He opened it quietly and stepped into the small area. He then took hold of the front door handle and began to turn it.

Then a man’s voice said, ‘Where the fuck do you think you’re going?’

Marcus swung round and found himself looking down the twin ends of a double barrelled shotgun.

Maggot put a cup of coffee in front of Susan and sat down at the table facing her. He had a coke and took a sip before taking up the subject of Marcus.

‘Let me get this straight,’ he began. ‘You went to Marcus because you thought he could help you find your brother; is that it?’

Susan shook her head. ‘It wasn’t quite like that. I wanted someone who was experienced in security to advise me and keep an eye on me while I went out to Afghanistan. I wanted to find out if David was still alive. I didn’t know if Marcus had the necessary experience; all I knew was that he sounded quite confident on the phone.’

Maggot arched his eyebrows. ‘Hardly a reason for trusting someone,’ he remarked. ‘All Marcus was doing was running a glorified escort agency. He had no- one on his books; did most of the escorting himself.’

Susan’s mouth fell open. ‘He wasn’t a gigolo, was he?’

Maggot laughed out loud. ‘No way; Marcus just needed something to do to relieve his boredom. He’s financially independent, you know.’

‘It’s just a hobby for him then?’ she asked.

He watched her as she stirred the coffee and lifted the cup to her lips. ‘You could say that. He kept threatening to find something ‘in the city’ as he would say, but Marcus is a very impromptu man; very instinctive. He’s had his so called security firm for about a year. Chances are he will give it up before another twelve months has passed. It doesn’t make him any money; just gives him a tag he can hang on himself.’

‘You sound disparaging.’

Maggot shook his head. ‘No, I love the guy. He’s good company and good to have around when there’s an argument going on.’

Susan made a dismissive noise. ‘I can vouch for that,’ she told him.

‘Why, what happened?’

So Susan told him about the muggers and how Marcus changed from a calm, likeable sort of guy into a person she didn’t recognise. ‘He said you would be proud of him.’

Maggot laughed. ‘He said that? Good old Marcus.’ He stopped laughing and became quite solemn. ‘But I wonder where he is now? He’s not answering his mobile, and that’s worrying.’

‘Why would his office have been stripped bare?’ Susan asked him.

Maggot shook his head. He picked up his drink and sat there for a while just looking at the glass.

‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘But Marcus would not have done that without letting me know.’

Susan frowned. ‘Why should he let you know?’

Maggot shrugged. ‘I’m his mate; probably his only mate.’

‘So somebody else did it for him?’ she suggested.

Maggot became very serious. ‘Something has happened to Marcus, and I don’t like what I’m thinking.’

Nor did Susan; as much as she had liked Marcus, she had promised herself that she would not become involved with him. And now she found herself worrying with a complete stranger over Marcus’s fate.

‘Do you think it’s connected with my brother, David?’ she put to him. Susan hadn’t told Maggot about the letter she had just received, thinking it might be wise to err on the side of caution.

Maggot considered the suggestion carefully. ‘If your brother is still alive,’ he said eventually, ‘it’s entirely possible that Marcus has become involved in something that’s way over his head. And if he’s involved in big boys’ games, he’s in serious trouble.’

Marcus knew a lot about shotguns. He had often used them on his father’s estate. He had used them during pheasant shoots while following the beaters, and had proved himself to be a remarkably good shot. He knew what choke size was best for whichever bird or clay you were shooting, and the range and spread of the buckshot when it came rocketing out of the end of the barrel. A full choke would give a ten inch spread over ten yards. Ten inches was about big enough to cover most of his stomach. And if Grebo pulled the trigger now, he wouldn’t have to worry about peppering the doorframe because all of the buckshot would go straight through Marcus and probably through the glass door pane in front of which Marcus was standing.

Grebo stood in the passageway pointing the gun at Marcus. He was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt regaling the Dallas Cowboys. His hair was cut very close to his head and he stood about the same height as Marcus. He was overweight but probably carried a lot of power in his frame. Not that it mattered because he carried the ultimate power in his hands.

Marcus didn’t move, but looked steadily at Grebo. He knew he would not survive if he allowed the American to take him prisoner. There were deep woods behind the house and plenty of places to hide a body.

Marcus was thinking furiously. He knew he was in desperate trouble and couldn’t see a way out of his dilemma. Grebo wasn’t going to shoot him there, but with another man in the house, it wouldn’t take long to gag him and tie him up. The gun would be sufficient to keep Marcus compliant while they tied him.

Grebo’s visitor suddenly appeared in the passageway. ‘What’s up, Danny?’ He stopped when he saw Grebo and Marcus.

At that moment, Grebo turned his head a little to say something over his shoulder. Marcus knew that there would not be another chance. Grebo was standing too far away from him to be brought down with a high kick, but Marcus still had his hand on the door handle of the front door, and in that fraction of a second he knew it was time to either die or fly.

As Grebo turned his head a little, so the twin barrels of the shotgun wavered and pointed away from Marcus. It was only by a small margin but it was all Marcus needed. He whipped the door open, pulling it wide, dived forward and down and rolled to his right as a blast of buckshot roared out of the open door and flew over his tumbling body.

Marcus leapt to his feet and sprinted away towards the forest behind the house, zigzagging as he ran. Another roar of buckshot followed him and he felt some of the small pellets peppering his shoulder. He veered away, hearing Grebo in pursuit.

When Marcus got to the wall he didn’t bother to consider how badly damaged his shoulder was, but took the leap without thinking. He grabbed the top of the wall and hauled himself over. A second gun opened fire and thudded into the wall as Marcus dropped to the other side.

Because it was pitch black behind the wall, Marcus fell awkwardly and turned his ankle. He straightened up and limped away from the wall into the bracken and ferns that edged the dark forest.

A few minutes after limping into the woods he saw a torch beam flicker, its light catching the foliage of the trees. He heard Grebo call out to his visitor, telling him to head the ‘bastard’ off. Another shot echoed into the night air and Marcus guessed Grebo had fired a chance shot, hoping to bring him down.

He could now feel the pain in his ankle worsening and also his left shoulder was beginning to throb and feel sticky. But worse still was the fact that he could feel himself getting a little weaker and nauseous.

He crashed through the undergrowth, not knowing which way to run, and knowing that as he blundered through the forest he was sending out loud signals to Grebo and his visitor.

He heard a voice shout out; ‘He’s over there!’ A torch beam flickered across the trees about six feet above Marcus’s head.

He dropped lower and turned right, crashing into tree trunks and falling over logs that had been cut and were laying there ready for shifting by the Forestry Commission during the working day. Eventually Marcus came out on to a forest track. It was wide enough for articulated lorries to drive along, and it gave Marcus a chance to move further away from his pursuers. But it also gave the two men a chance to get a shot off without the trees getting in the way.

Marcus could feel his strength draining away and he was beginning to stumble now. Each time he fell he knew this gave Grebo an edge. He also knew it wouldn’t be too long before Grebo caught up with him, and it would be there that the American would shoot him.

And as he fell again for probably the tenth time, he almost blacked out. He waited until he could think clearly, but now he could hear footsteps. He scrambled to his feet and collapsed again. This was it, he thought; the end.

He heard the footsteps again. They were hurried and came thudding up beside him. He felt an arm go round his waist and a voice say.

‘Come on son; get your arse in ‘ere.’

He felt the softness of a car seat and heard the door closing behind him. Then the surge of acceleration as the car picked up speed and motored away from the forest.