A Covert War

TWELVE

Marcus sat beside an enormous policeman in the back of a nondescript but very powerful Vauxhall Vectra. He had met him when the lorry that he had been following had pulled into a truck stop just outside Brandon in Suffolk. Marcus had contacted Cavendish and asked for instructions. Cavendish told him to wait at the truck stop until he was contacted. Half an hour later the Vectra turned up and pulled into a parking space a few yards from Marcus.

The two men who climbed out of the car were defying the laws of ergonomics because there was no way the two of them should have been able to get into the car. They were dressed in plain clothes and for a moment Marcus thought the villains had caught up with him. One of them put his hand on the roof of the Mondeo and tapped on the window. Marcus opened it.

‘Marcus Blake?’ He pulled a warrant card out of his pocket. ‘Detective Sergeant Whelan,’ he told Marcus with a heavy Irish brogue. He looked across to the passenger door. ‘And that’s Detective Constable Iverson; ‘Yorkie’ to his mates. If you want to speak to me, call me Paddy.’ Whelan straightened up and beckoned Marcus. ‘Now sir, if you’d like to follow me?’

Marcus got out of the Mondeo and went over to the Vectra with the two policemen. Yorkie Iverson got into the driver’s seat while Whelan and Marcus climbed into the back.

‘Is that the truck?’ Whelan asked him.

Parked among the lorries in the lorry park was a flat-bed articulated lorry stacked with large crates.

Marcus nodded. ‘That’s the one.’

‘Right,’ Whelan began after a short pause. ‘It’s like this: we follow the truck as far as it goes. It will probably be Feltwell according to our sources.’ Marcus didn’t have the heart to tell him who exactly those ‘sources’ were. ‘We’ll make a decision when we get there.’

‘Make a decision about what?’ Marcus asked him.

‘Whether we bust them or not,’ Whelan replied.

It was a simple reply, and Marcus could imagine these two huge coppers putting the fear of God into hardened criminals.

The three of them sat there for well over an hour, saying very little and making small talk. Marcus had tried to encourage them to open up a little, but they were not that forthcoming, so he gave up.

They all saw the driver come out of the truck stop and walk across to his lorry. Yorkie gunned the motor into life and waited until the lorry was on the move before pulling away from the parking lot.

Their journey was not too long. The lorry drove away from Brandon a short distance and then turned on to the Weeting road. It headed into the country until it came to a sign pointing to the town of Feltwell.

None of them spoke as a sense of tension began feeling its way into the car. Marcus was sure it would not affect the two coppers, but he could definitely feel a slight, skin tightening sensation creeping over him.

They followed the lorry through the small town of Feltwell. It was beginning to get dark and the street lights were flickering into life. Soon the shops and houses began to thin out as they drove a little deeper into the countryside.

Then the lorry slowed and turned on to a small road. Yorkie pulled the Vectra over and parked.

‘Why are we stopping?’ Marcus asked.

‘Wouldn’t do to follow him up there,’ Whelan told him. ‘We’ll have to wait until it gets dark.’

‘Aren’t you afraid of losing him?’

Whelan shook his head. ‘No.’ It was all he said.

So they waited until the darkness was complete. Suddenly Whelan leaned forward and reached over the empty passenger seat. Yorkie put his hand out and opened the glove box. He took a Sig Sauer hand gun from the compartment, and handed it to Whelan who slipped the magazine out, checked it and rammed it back. Then he put the gun into his inside pocket.

‘Wait here,’ he said and climbed out of the car.

Whelan walked carefully along the track, which was in very good condition considering it was probably no more than a farm road. It had a tarmac surface, which surprised him.

He could see the road curving in the moonlight, but the curve was too sharp for him to see much beyond thirty yards or so. On his right the trees seemed to leap up and hang over him like phantoms. He took the Sig Sauer handgun from his pocket, slipped the safety catch off and held the gun firmly, pointing it down.

The road began to straighten and he was able to see a chain link fence in the distance. He could also see a wide, metal gate, which was closed. But astonishingly the gateway was flooded in light from arc lamps bearing down from high stanchions above the fence. And just inside the gate was what looked like a sentry post; a security hut. He could see someone sitting at a desk. He was wearing a uniform which Whelan recognised. And then he saw the large, floodlit sign.

‘Oh bollocks,’ he said.

The words on the sign read: United States Air Force. 7th. Logistics Wing. Bonded Warehouse.

Whelan stopped and slipped the gun back into his pocket. He then retraced his footsteps until he had cleared the curve in the road. He then quickened his pace and eventually broke into a trot. When he reached the car he was slightly breathless.

Marcus and Yorkie watched him get into the front of the car.

‘It’s the fucking Yanks,’ he gasped. ‘A bonded fucking warehouse!’

‘What are you talking about, Paddy?’ Iverson asked him.

‘It’s a bloody, Yank compound,’ he explained, shaking his head. ‘Can’t go in there asking questions.’

Suddenly there was a tap on the window. The three of them looked over at the window beside Yorkie. There was an American Military Policeman standing there. Yorkie put the window down.

‘Yes officer?’ he asked politely.

The MP’s hand came into view. He was holding a standard issue M9 handgun

‘Get out of the car, sir.’ He stepped back.

Whelan felt the weight of his own gun in the pocket of his jacket, but before he could make a decision one way or the other, it was made for him: his door was pulled open by a second, armed MP.

‘Hands in the air!’ was the command as the three men climbed out of the Vectra.

As Marcus straightened up he saw the Dodge pick-up truck. It was just rolling to a halt about twenty yards from them. He realised that the MPs must have approached their car on foot, although he had absolutely no idea where they came from.

The pick-up truck was a long wheel base wagon with a passenger compartment. The MPs frisked the three men, removed the gun from Whelan’s coat pocket and marshalled them to the rear door of the Dodge and made them get in.

Once they were seated along the bench seat, the doors were locked and the truck motored up the side road to the compound where they knew the contraband had been delivered. The gates were now wide open. The driver took the Dodge up to the large doors of the warehouse and parked in front of them.

The three of them were made to get out and taken through a pedestrian door which opened into the warehouse. On one side was an office. The lights were on and sitting there was the man they assumed to be the lorry driver. Facing him from behind the desk was Danny Grebo.

The Master Sergeant looked at the three men through the glass window of the office. His posture was fairly relaxed and the expression on his face one of authority and control.

Then it changed: he recognised Marcus.

Grebo stood up slowly as recognition dawned on him. His eyes darted swiftly to Iverson and Whelan, and then back to Marcus as the two MPs brought them into the office. He said nothing straight away, but Marcus knew he had recognised him. And Marcus was intelligent enough to know that once Grebo discovered that Iverson and Whelan were policemen, he could not afford to let them go.

Not now.

Cavendish was shown into the Prime Minister’s private office. It was almost midnight and the Prime Minister, not one for spending too much time in bed had agreed to the meeting with the Intelligence chief even though it was quite late.

Cavendish had explained to the Prime Minister that he wanted a private meeting, no notes, no record and no Parliamentary Private Secretaries to sit in on the conversation.

Cavendish sat down in an armchair to wait for the Prime Minister. He had no qualms about what he would discuss with him, and knew it would certainly give the man a problem. But that was the price of holding down the top job.

The door opened and the Prime Minister walked in. He was still dressed in his daily attire of bespoke suit and knitted tie. His hair, as usual, was a shambles and his appearance was that of someone who is always in a hurry. But what Cavendish knew of the Prime Minister was that the man had a very keen intellect, a razor sharp mind and did not suffer fools gladly.

‘Good evening, Sir Giles,’ he said, holding out his hand.

Cavendish stood up and shook the Prime Minister’s hand.

‘Would you like a drink?’

‘No thank you, Prime Minister,’ Cavendish answered. ‘I don’t intend staying long.’

‘Very well,’ the PM said and sat down in an armchair that had been placed at a right angle to the one Cavendish had chosen. ‘So, what is it you wish to see me about?’

‘It’s about the James Purdy assassination, Prime Minister.’

The PM’s facial expression changed, bringing his eyebrows closer together.

‘Bad business, that,’ he said. ‘The Police Commissioner assures me that he will find the perpetrators. I’ve asked him to keep me informed of course. Do you have anything to add, Sir Giles?’

Cavendish nodded briefly. ‘Purdy’s assassination has uncovered a whole nest of vipers and unfortunately it implicates the minister in a way that could be very damaging to the government, I’m afraid.’

‘Go on.’

‘Some very senior and important people in this country are involved in drugs and pornography.’ He put up a restraining hand. ‘I know; it’s something we all know, but often we shake our heads and tut tut our opinion, and tend to mentally sweep it all under the carpet. But with James Purdy it reached a point where National security could have been threatened.

‘Go on,’ the PM said again.

‘James Purdy was photographed engaging in pornographic, sexual activities with three, under-age girls from Pakistan. One of the girls subsequently died from the injuries she received.’ The Prime Minister gasped out loud but Cavendish continued. ‘The two girls who survived have disappeared and are now most likely to have been sold into a paedophile or prostitution ring.’

The Prime Minister’s face was now almost white.

‘Let me understand this, Sir Giles, you say Purdy was photographed. Does that mean you have seen the photographs?’

Cavendish nodded. ‘Yes, it was my department that took them.’

‘You knew this was going on?’ The Prime Minister seemed shocked.

Cavendish leaned forward to make a point. ‘Prime Minister, it’s my job to make sure no foreign government can blackmail, threaten or intimidate any member of your Cabinet. We had our suspicions about Purdy, but even then we didn’t know just how deep he had got himself. So deep in fact that he was actually working against our interests.’

‘Are you saying, Sir Giles,’ the Prime Minister interrupted, ‘that James Purdy was working for a foreign government?’

Cavendish shook his head. ‘Not exactly a foreign government, Prime Minister, but a group who have a great deal of power and can use that power to influence decisions made by government ministers.’

‘So why was Purdy assassinated?’ the PM asked.

Cavendish shifted in his chair. ‘He was about to tell me who his co-conspirators were; who else was involved in the gang rape of those three young girls and who is responsible for smuggling huge quantities of drugs into this country.’ He almost took a deep breath when he added the next line. ‘And who is responsible for shipping arms out to Al Qaeda and the Taliban in Afghanistan.’

He let it sit there, allowing the Prime Minister to digest the import of his words and the real damage that men like Purdy can do, simply to feather their own nests and indulge their own, misdirected passions.

Eventually the Prime Minister spoke.

‘So you believe that Muslim terrorists assassinated James Purdy because he was about to name names?’

Cavendish shook his head. ‘No, Prime Minister, it wasn’t the Muslims who murdered James Purdy; it was the Americans.’

The police radio in the Vectra had been left on because there had been no reason for Iverson to turn everything off when ordered out of the car by the two American MPs. A metallic voice filled the empty car.

‘Whisky India, come in please.’

Back in the call control centre in Thetford, the call control officer tried several times to raise Iverson and Whelan without luck. He turned to his supervisor and told him he was having trouble raising the two officers.

The supervisor came over to the desk and looked at the controller’s console.

‘They’re not on an incident,’ he muttered as he checked the screen. ‘Where is Whisky India, by the way?’ he asked.

The controller selected a sat nav screen which showed the exact location of the police car. ‘Two miles west of Feltwell.’

‘Who’s closest?’

The controller scanned the screen. ‘Boon and Manning.’

The supervisor straightened up. ‘Get them to check it out.’

The controller pressed the call button on his desk console. ‘Bravo Mike, control, come in please.’

In the bonded warehouse, Grebo continued to stare at Marcus. All Marcus could do was hold the American’s gaze and wait for something to happen. There were seven men in the room. Two of them, the American MPs. were armed. It was unlikely that Grebo would be carrying a weapon but he could have one in his desk draw. Marcus felt confident he could take care of one of the armed policemen, but he wondered who would take care of the other one.

Boon and Manning received the call to investigate why Whisky India was not answering the call from control. They were on their way within seconds of being directed to the sat nav location. Boon switched on the flashing blue warning lights and put the hammer down. Manning estimated it would take about ten minutes in their BMW to reach Whisky India’s Vectra.

It was Whelan who spoke first. ‘Whoever you are,’ he said to Grebo, ‘I think you should know that we are police officers.’ He lifted his hand up, keeping it open. ‘I’m going to get my warrant card out,’ he told Grebo.

Very slowly, Whelan pulled out his warrant card and laid it on the desk in front of the American. ‘Detective Sergeant Whelan. And this,’ he pointed to Iverson, ‘is Detective Constable Iverson.’

Grebo looked away from Whelan to Marcus. ‘And who is this?’ he asked.

Parker, Michael

A Covert War

Whelan turned slowly to Marcus. ‘He is a trainee police community support officer.’

Marcus wondered how Whelan could have come up with such a preposterous idea in such a short time.

‘Is he now,’ Grebo responded acidly. ‘So what are we going to do with you all?’

‘You’re going to do nothing,’ Whelan told him. ‘We are going to walk out of here now.’ He reached forward to pick up his warrant card.

One of the MPs put an arm out to stop him. He had a gun in his other hand.

Whelan stared at him with an iron hard look. ‘You be careful, sonny,’ he warned him and picked up his warrant card.

Grebo flicked a cautionary look at the American. Marcus could see the dilemma: Grebo could not afford a shootout, nor could he afford to let any of them go. There was also something else behind that look: like a rabbit trapped in the headlights.

Boon and Manning came up beside the Vectra. They peered through the windows of their car but could see no-one inside. Manning climbed out of the BMW and checked the police car. He turned round to Boon and showed him a pair of empty hands.

Boon pointed towards the side road and indicated to Manning that he would drive up there. Manning nodded and waved him forward, preferring to walk up behind him.

Boon turned into the side road and cruised slowly towards the curve in the road. Manning kept pace behind him.

Grebo was about to say something when the phone on his desk rang. He looked a little startled as he picked up the phone.

‘Grebo.’

He listened briefly then slammed the phone down. ‘There’s a police unit at the gate,’ he said in disbelief. ‘What the fuck are they doing here?’ For a moment Grebo looked like a man lost. Then suddenly he made up his mind. He pointed at Marcus and the two policemen.

‘Keep them here,’ he ordered and opened a desk drawer. He then pulled out an M9 hand gun and hurried out of the office.

The two MPs immediately waved their guns at Whelan and Iverson, pointing to the far side of the office. They shuffled across to the far wall. Marcus was told to join them. It looked like the execution wall in front of a firing squad and Marcus had no intention of moving over there.

He turned his head suddenly towards the MPs and was about to say something, hoping to distract them so he could get at them, when they all heard several shots ring out. The two MPs automatically turned in the direction of the shots. At that moment Marcus knew he had the window he needed and launched himself at the nearest MP.

He kicked the man’s gun from his hand as the other MP lifted his gun to shoot Marcus. But Marcus dived beneath the first MP and lifted him bodily into the air, holding him on his shoulders in a fireman’s lift. He then spun and dropped the man at his colleague’s feet, intending to knock the man off balance.

The man was still trying to get a shot at Marcus but was hesitating because he was afraid of shooting his colleague. The sudden opening gave him the chance, but at that moment, Iverson had thrown himself forward and lifted the desk, bringing it up as a shield and pushed it at the MP who was about to shoot Marcus.

The man saw it coming and turned and fired at Iverson instead. Now Whelan joined in the fray and came forward with the intention of grappling with the man who had been tossed to the ground by Marcus, but the shot aimed at Iverson caught Whelan on the arm. He cried out and fell on top of the MP, clutching his arm.

Iverson stood up and reached over the desk which was now on its side as the American swung the gun round to fire off another shot. He grabbed the collar of the second MP, swung his arm down on to the man’s gun hand and dragged him over the desk. On the way the MP dropped his gun. Immediately the lorry driver, who until now had been a spectator, picked up the gun and fired a shot into the ceiling.

Everybody stopped. Except Marcus; he gambled on the man not being a gunman and leapt over the top of Whelan who had collapsed and kicked the driver with a classic, straight leg right into the rib cage.

They all heard the sound of the man’s ribs crack, and he dropped into a heap letting the gun fall from his hand.

Iverson picked up the gun and walked round the overturned desk. He picked up the other M9 and handed one to Marcus.

‘Cover them, and try not to shoot anyone,’ he said. ‘I’m going outside to see what’s happened.’

Whelan staggered to his feet. His arm was bleeding from where he had been shot. He looked at the damage caused by the sudden explosion of violence and shook his head.

‘What a fucking mess,’ he muttered to himself. ‘God knows how we’re going to write this one up.’

He then leant down and searched the two MPs until he found his Sig Sauer handgun that had been taken from him outside the compound. He tucked it into his waistband. Using his good arm, he pulled the desk upright and dragged it away from the two MPs and the lorry driver until it was pushed up against the far wall. He then propped himself up against it and looked at the scene in front of him.

The lorry driver was lying on the floor nursing a cracked rib or two. One of the military policemen was lying on the floor too, but he looked as though he had been winded. The other MP was on his knees, but Marcus was standing well clear with the M9 pistol pointing at them.

Whelan took the Sig Sauer from his waistband and held it loosely in his good hand.

‘Marcus, see if you can give Yorkie a hand,’ he asked, ‘I’ll keep an eye on these three.’

Marcus was about to go outside when the door flew open and Iverson burst in. He looked devastated.

‘The bastard’s shot two coppers; one of ours and one of his own.’

‘Where is he now?’ Whelan snapped.

‘Gone,’ Iverson told him. ‘He took the local’s BMW, shot the MP in the gate house. There’s another copper out there, he’s ok though.’

‘Put out an APB,’ Whelan told him.

‘I’m on it,’ Iverson replied, ‘Can you manage here?’

Whelan nodded. ‘Oh yes, we can manage here.’

Thirty minutes later the area around the compound was like a scene from a Hollywood movie; there were several police units, British and American, ambulances from the American base and the local hospital at Thetford, flashing blue lights from stationary police cars and coppers marking off the area with police tape. There were also several American officers of various ranks with very grim looking faces.

The two American MPs who had been involved were in the back of a police wagon along with the driver of the lorry. Grebo was now on the run after shooting Boon and the American MP in the gate house.

Manning had come across the shooting just as Grebo was hauling Boon out of the police car and using it to make his getaway. Boon was not mortally wounded, but the poor unfortunate American in the gate house was dead.

Whelan had been seen by a paramedic and was waiting to be taken to hospital in one of the ambulances. Marcus sat beside him on a chair outside the office which had now been cordoned off as a crime scene.

Inside the bonded warehouse was a team of men, British and American checking the crates, opening each one carefully. It was an unhappy scene, Marcus thought. He knew Grebo had run because he couldn’t see any other way out. In a way that had saved the lives of Marcus, Whelan and Iverson but sadly had cost the life of the poor guy in the gate house. He probably didn’t even know what was going on.

Now the whole world was about to find out as the first of many television vans appeared at the gate; tomorrow it would be on all the front pages and the major news networks worldwide.

And Marcus knew that this time Cavendish would not be able to send a ‘team’ in.